A/N: I've found it most frustrating not being able to read a Voldemort/Draco fic that was not a one shot and even those did not end my craving for this pairing. First of all, do not expect Voldemort to be fluffy or to be a changed man regretting his past actions. Voldemort will be Voldemort. And Draco will be Draco. Although most of you would portray Draco as being a sniveling coward, I do not agree with that characterization. In the 2nd year he demonstrated out-of-the-books magical experience when he dueled with Harry and later on Half-Blood Prince extreme cunning and capability of fixing a magical object - the vanishing cabinet. JKR also did demonstrate in the book how Draco had been a loner in performing for Lord Voldemort which required at his tender age of 16 a great deal of introspect. This will be the Draco I will portray here. A pure blooded wizard who had the best access to the best of the best - magical education (which Lucius must have taken great deal of providing him with), social education and material possessions. I am not going to portray Draco as someone who has abilities far above his head without training or effort nor am I going to make him into a supernatural being (although being a wizard already counts as it?) as a creatureDraco nor is Voldemort a creature either. I'm trying to stick to the cannon characters as much as I can but of course they will ooze my individual interpretation.

I understand that some of you might be turned off from Pansy's sexual attraction to Draco, but that is my intention. She has a small role in this story and Draco will be an evolving character. He will not remain the same person, he will grow and shape his personality. Pansy is by no means his girlfriend and will never be.

Have a good reading! That will be the longest author's notes I will ever write in this fic. If you have questions, I will answer them privately.

To be alone is to be different, to be different is to be alone.

- Suzanne Gordon

Chapter 1

Cold grey eyes assessed silently the vivacious atmosphere before them, an opposition to the dark thoughts racing through his mind. Hufflepuffs were chattering brightly, white flashing as students smiled at what he condescendingly thought were humorless jokes entailing unimportant and exaggerated adventures over the summer of 1995. Yet another year… He sneered at their naivety and lack of knowledge on the very dangerous and very real situation outside the walls of Hogwarts.

Death. War.

As Gryffindors' laughter overpowered the other Houses' and students reached for their goblet of pumpkin juice, little did they know that a muggle was being tortured outside the protective barriers of the school. Draco mused the suffering wouldn't be limited to one muggle, but a whole family could be at the Dark Lord's mercy – or lack of it – for his amusement grew higher when mother and father begged and grovelled at his feet to spare their children.

Draco had yet to attend these gatherings filled with gruesome torture. Somehow he was glad he hadn't yet. No, it was not out of… mercy he thought so - he still held contempt for muggles and mudbloods.

His eyes slowly shifted to the left to land upon Granger. His handsome face contorted into a small sneer.

He pictured Granger squirming on the floor in her own blood that had been forced out of her and his cold blue eyes briefly flashed with slight disgust and pity and-

No.

He stopped himself. He would not be weak. And he was not as stupid as the bloody Golden Trio shouted at him in the corridors more times than he cared to take into consideration. The Dark Lord wouldn't allow weakness in his followers and he was sure he was going to be forced by his father to join Him.

He could only hope that day would be postponed in a far, far away future.

The thought of having to submit to a crazed man did not suit his taste. He glanced discreetly at Dumbledore and his eyes burned briefly at the ridiculously neon orange robes the Headmaster was wearing today. Dumbledore's excessive lack of taste in fashion made him wonder momentarily how the man could maintain a perfectly composed exterior at his own reflection in the silver goblet he was eying.

Dolores Umbridge was not further ahead in the matter, with her bright pink straight dress which definitely did not favor her in any way, not like anything would do so... That's what she always wore: pink, pink, pink... He was getting fed up with her.

The horrendous pink toad had been accepted to teach at Hogwarts only with the influence of the Minister of Magic with the pretense to... teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.

During her lessons, Draco had felt as if all his previously acquired knowledge in the subject had vanished.

Well... he wouldn't publicly complain as she never openly reprimanded him for anything. Of course not. He was an aristocratic pure blood. She wouldn't dare.

Else she'd hear from his father. Personally.

He was always amused how she had deemed her life's mission to revolve around degrading Potter in her classes. As a self pointed High Inquisitor she did not restrict herself only to students, no, she made sure that she could subtly question professors. Including Snape.

She had failed once and ever since then she gave up on the Potions' teacher, only mildly taking notes, sometimes daring to incite an argument with her 'hem hem' in the middle of Snape's lecture but a murderous glare behind the hooked nose from him silenced her promptly.

Draco averted his gaze from the teachers' table before being caught by his Head House's gaze.

Although he was against putting his faith in the Dark Lord he would definitely never desire to join Dumbledore. Draco was far from being a light wizard, he admitted, his magic craved for the Dark Arts.

It was in his blood for generations and generations. His father, Lucius, proudly related to him once how none of his ancestors had ever been tainted by light magic.

Draco elegantly cut the beef on his plate mentally noting how its quality was far from reaching the standards in the Malfoy Manor. He raised his fork from his plate for a second before bringing it down again and pushing the piece of meat away with his knife.

He was not hungry. Whenever he thought about Vold– the Dark Lord, he inwardly quickly corrected himself – his appetite diminished drastically. He would have liked to believe it was not because of fear of the inevitable, that someday, sooner than he would be comfortable to admit, he would have to face Him.

His father had always shielded him from His presence, coldly 'suggesting' to him that he would do well to study in his bedroom so he would not lack behind the Mudblood who still outshined him in Hogwarts. Draco knew better and took the advice to heart and would always go quickly to his bedroom to hide.

He would always lock the door but that was a secret no one else had to know.

"… was it, Draco?"

He blinked. He looked to his right from where Crabbe's voice had been projected. He quirked one of his perfect dark eyebrows at his chubby 'friend' in a silent question. He did not have friends. He did not share his secrets like Potter did with his two companions. A small pang of jealousy was quickly squashed inside of him.

No, he didn't need friends.

He remained silent. Draco Malfoy would not admit he hadn't been attentive to everything around him even if it was an insignificant conversation his housemates were having. Draco was glad then that Crabbe was not as stupid as he looked and understood the silent question hovering on his sharp aristocratic pale face.

"We were discussing the duel you had with scarface in the second year. I remember you using some out-of-the-book spells then but I don't remember which ones…" Crabbe looked as if someone had grabbed a knife and was drilling a hole in his stomach. Draco knew it was the telltale of him thinking.

He paused for five seconds as he recollected the memory. The Duelling Club with that excuse of a wizard, Lockhart, the duel that he and Potter had, his surprise at finding that he was a parselmouth…

"Serpensortia." he answered Crabbe. The brown of his eyes seemed to brighten as he looked into Draco's grey. He could see reverence and excitement in Crabbe's face. His housemate was about to open his mouth.

"You shouldn't try to cast it. You might just disappoint yourself, Crabbe." He relinquished at the hurtful glance but Draco did not falter. "You are a pure blood, are you not? You see, sometimes I do forget your lineage at the display of your magical incompetence."

He gave him the generic Malfoy cold smirk and was satisfied when Crabbe looked back at his own plate seemingly sulking. What a non Slytherin trait.

Goyle, who had heard Draco's condescending tone, did not say anything and frowned instead Of course he wouldn't say anything. Goyle going against his words? Neither Crabe of him had the audacity to do so. He was Slytherin's Malfoy. His surname was enough to impose respect from his House. Those who were smart at least…

Draco knew that Crabbe was far from being a squib. He had witnessed the wizard casting the cruciatus on a student who was wondering alone at night on one of his patrols. But he wasn't as good as himself. Far from it, certainly.

Draco, being a prefect in his and he sometimes brought his assigned bodyguards with him on night patrols to amuse his boredom.

It had been little over two months since classes had started at Hogwarts. His father had been proud when he had bidden goodbye to his son at the departing platform knowing well that only the best students became prefects.

He admitted to himself that he did seek his father's approval. The man was a brilliant dark wizard, so brilliant in fact that he was Vold– the Dark Lord's – he chastised himself, left hand. He was also his father; he had the same blood running through him. Society would scorn at the thought of the Malfoys sharing a sentimental family bond considering how politely detached they appeared to outsider. Yet, they were still family after all. And no matter the family, blood was blood and it had always been so.

The Malfoys weren't openly affective, no, Draco knew. His mother did show him much more affection than his father did, showering him often with sweets – which he had talked to her about, he was already fifteen, almost a grown man and it would be unsightly for her to continue treating him like an eleven year old – but Lucius had shown his affection in colder ways, a small underlining praise here and there.

He did crave praise. It was one of his weaknesses. He did. He rarely got praised; Snape wasn't exactly the most warming wizard in classes, but his eyes spoke volumes at moments and Draco had involuntarily learned to read them over the years.

He pushed his silverware aside and rose from the table without an explanation. Draco didn't explain himself to others. Others explained themselves to him. And most certainly he did not excuse himself under Crabbe's and Goyle's curious gazes.

His bodyguards – he hated thinking of himself as someone who needed others to protect him – made motion of raising themselves too, even though he did not miss the longing gaze Crabbe eyed his potatoes with, but he stopped them tonight.

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "No need. Stay. I wish to be alone."

Crabbe's eyes flashed in pleasure as he dug again into his plate.

Draco walked away from the Great Hall, no one paying attention to the blond haired Slytherin prefect as he passed the two tall doors towards the stairs that would lead him away from the chatter and clanking of silverware on plates.

His polished shoes barely made any sound as he had been trained to walk properly, dignified and worthy of a pureblood of his status. The corridors lead him to the Slytherin Common Room.

Some portraits glanced at him as he crossed the cold pavement until he reached the dungeons of Hogwarts. His posture and his appearance did demand attention, he mused to himself.

"Salazar" he whispered under his breath and the portrait allowed him entrance into the exquisite common room. Dark green leather sofas adjoined near the walls and were centered on a luscious black carpet. Some Slytherins were sitting on them, silently talking between themselves about politics and subjects that went above their little heads. He mentally sneered at the prude display of clashing egos as two conversed about the Ministry. Or attempted to.

Draco was glad his father had hired private tutors to educate him in the art of polite speech. He was able to hold a decent conversation with an adult on matters that were above his age but not above himself.

He did not stop to sit on the inviting recliners. He walked straight to where the door to his rooms was and opened it. He inhaled deeply at the impeccably clean scent that clung to his rooms.

A prefect did not usually get private rooms but his father's influence spoke more in volumes. And there he was, finally with a bedroom for himself after all those 4 years. He did not have to tolerate Crabbe's midnight gases anymore or Goyle's snoring. Although they never went unpunished for their poor display of manners.

Draco smirked as he neared the four poster bed in the middle of the room. His desk was near the window to his right, his private bathrooms, oh yes, private bathrooms, to his left. He eyed the porcelain of the room, the tiles, the faucets, the toilet, the tub. His father had exceeded his expectations at the beginning of the school year. He got a tub. One that was enough to engulf his full body in warm water even if he stood proudly at 1.78 meters at the age of fifteen.

Draco was about to let hot water run in the tub, which was built at ground floor level, when he heard a tap on a window.

His mind reeled with thoughts.

It could only be an owl.

And he was proved right when he saw the familiar eagle owl tapping patiently on his window. He opened the window, welcoming the chilly breeze and the majestic owl inside. He unattached the letter from its thin leg.

He saw the elegant sharp writing of his father's name on the back of the letter.

What would his father want? Sending an owl in the middle the night instead at the usual breakfast time was something out of his character, almost stating his urgency in him receiving the envelope, and his father was rarely out of character.

He glanced at the eagle owl which spread its wings and flew away moments later.

He closed the windows back and with slight eagerness he broke the black Malfoy seal and started reading the letter quickly.

Draco,

I will expect your presence these winter holidays at the Manor.

Be sure to come prepared.

- Your father.

Draco stared at the letter. Cold, short and sharp.

But not straight to the point.

Why would his father need to send him a letter about the incoming holidays when it was only normal that he would return to the Manor?

The true message lied behind the scribbled words, that much was obvious as a naked Hagrid.

He grimaced at the thought.

So his father wanted to tell him that he should be home at the beginning of the holidays. But his father already knew that Draco would be there. Unless… unless it was not Draco that was to come at the Manor. Maybe someone else… 'Come prepared?'

Prepared for what? Every holiday was the same, only him, his mother and his father. Why wouldn't he be prepared? Was this possible person who'd come at the Manor someone he'd need to take caution of? Bellatrix? No, she was no threat to the family, they were blood, although more distant, but blood, and the Blacks always valued blood relations above all. Maybe even above the Dark Lord's authority–

Draco's eyes widened.

The Dark Lord!

'Be sure to come prepared.'

The sentence echoed in his head countless times. A small horrified expression plastered itself on his face. He was not prepared. He had never interacted with the Dark Lord in his life. Everything he knew about him was from his father's experience, not his own.

The Lord Voldemort was going to spend the holidays at his own house? Unbelievable!

His white unmarred hands trembled slightly. He was not ready, he couldn't possibly be. The Dark Lord had been living in a body of his own since the last task of the Tri Wizard Tournament. Potter had witnessed to that and Draco had been made aware of the news from his father's personal witness.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, steadying his irrational small panic. Lucius Malfoy was his most loyal Death Eater. He would not harm his wife or his own son. At least he wished to believe that, even if he had denied any allegiance to the Dark Lord when inquired by the Ministry.

He mentally chastised himself for how foolish he had been an instance ago. No, there was nothing to fear. His father would have told him he needed to only be proud that the greatest dark wizard in history had chosen their home to be graced by his presence.

That line of thought did not bode well with him for whatever reason, though.

He needed to prepare himself, he knew the Dark Lord was powerful, very powerful. Before his demise at the hands of baby Potter, he had felt the man's alluring dark magic floating into his bedroom even though he had been on the second floor of the manor and the Dark Lord bellow his room. He remembered shamefully how the magic seemed to lull him into a light trance as it licked his skin and aroused his mind with feelings a boy his age should not have. Draco, now more mature had understood those feelings were not physical, but magical since Dark magic seduced any wizard at any age.

If the Dark Lord had had that much impact on him without even being near him, Draco could only imagine he would feel premature when facing him.

And that was when his father's words' alternative meaning sunk in.

He did not want to be disgraced by his son in front of his Lord. So Draco was to prepare himself mentally not to stutter or do anything remotely of Pansy Parkinson with a crush.

The door creaked open.

Speaking of the Devil…

Pansy Parkinson entered his room almost disgustingly in a shy manner. He frowned at her. She was anything but innocent. Her advances had always been too obvious. Even in class when he had borrowed a quill from her, her gaze and her hand would always linger more than necessary.

She had acted on her desires at the start of this year and Draco had graced her with his generosity. Although it should have bonded them somehow, for Draco it did not. He was still emotionally indifferent to her.

"Good evening, Draco." She whispered in what she thought was a seductive tone.

It wasn't.

He had had sex with her once, for he had been quite curious at his age about sex. Afterwards, he had lost interest and it had been over a month since he had indulged in any sexual activities. Yet, why deny it when he knew that Pansy was loyal to him, seeking only his bed? She was somehow… pure in that aspect. He smirked. Pure and Pansy Parkinson in the same sentence sounded like profanity.

And this would be their last, as if a parting gift he bestowed upon her faithfulness.

She mistook Draco's smirk as him leering at her and in the next step she put her arms around his neck and examined his face closely, clearly pleased by what she saw.

"Good evening." He delivered promptly. He was sure she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. Her eyes had closed and her lips neared his.

He allowed her to kiss him. She immediately started the kiss deep, tongue sensually gliding over his and he did have to give it to her that she was a good kisser. A reminder that she had snogged people previous to him.
He knew that she was not involved with anyone anymore, not since she had had a taste of him. He knew she was obsessed with him.

He put his arms around her waist and even though she was very fit, he couldn't bother to appreciate her figure, and directed her back onto the bed. She forced him to go down with her as her arms were still around his neck and he did not protest.

She swiftly took off his necktie without breaking the sinuous clashing of lips and tongues, her expert fingers taking off his uniform's pullover, messing his platinum blond hair in the process. He scowled at her actions.

Pansy seemed to like his dishevelled look for she ran one of her hands through his hair while the other somehow managed to unbutton his white dress shirt without breaking pace.

He felt Pansy arching her back slightly as she started to rotate her hips against his erection. His reaction was human.

He decided to grace her with his participation this time for it was the last, after all. He kissed her back while silencing her moan as he sharply thrust against her clothed pelvis. It was more of a signal for her to hurry up so this ordeal would be over with as efficiently as possible. He didn't need preliminaries.

"Draco…" she breathed against his neck.

He felt sharp kisses on his neck and heard her inhaling slowly and deeply. He knew Parkinson enjoyed the scent of his cologne, it was high quality after all.

Thoughts left him behind as she started biting him, no doubt leaving marks on his neck, and his erection twitched at the slight pain. He gently pushed her away as an indication of his dissatisfaction of her marking him.

He absent-mindedly flicked his hand in the door's direction and locked it, and he climbed on the bed and higher up on Pansy's more than willing body which was still fully clothed.

As if on cue, Pansy efficiently unbuttoned the upper part of her uniform and pushed Draco's firm chest on hers, teasing his skin with her bra.

He let himself fall to the side and locked his arms around Pansy dragging her with him as he put her on top of him. Shamelessly she rubbed herself against his aching erection.

"Oh God, Draco, you're so hard" she moaned above him and he smirked as her eyes fluttered closed.

"Enjoying yourself, Parkinson?"

He noticed with satisfaction that his voice came out calm and collected, almost uninterested in the aroused woman moving her hips over the length of him.

He saw a small blush creep up her face and neck.

He felt unsteady fingers pushing his zipper down, slowly, almost teasingly, and he hissed as his erection was allowed to breathe.

He was pumped a few times and he allowed another hiss of pleasure to encourage her to proceed further.

"You are so hot, Draco." Her voice whispered in his left ear and he groaned as she shifted her skirt and quickly removed her panties, which he noted, were white tonight. What a puritan colour for her. How very wrong.

His cock was suddenly being engulfed by warmth and wetness and he stifled a moan as Pansy took him in deeply.

He clenched his teeth together as she began to move on him slowly at first, maddeningly slowly…

Without caring, he grabbed her hips hard and thrust deeply into her and he was rewarded with a high pitched moan and praises on his exceedingly pleasing girth.

His neck was again ravished and he let out a throaty moan at the doubled pleasure. He buried himself inside her as his seed flowed freely into the warm and willing body.

Pansy moaned and he felt her insides constrict rapidly against him.

He panted as he slowly withdrew from her, a light sheen of sweat on his pale forehead betraying the effort of his fast thrusts.

Pansy rolled to the side and gave him a peck on his lips. He snorted lightly at the too loving gesture and rose from the bed to head to the bathroom to clean himself, not before casting a quick socorgify on Pansy. Her eyes softened in appreciation at him.

He did not like her but he had been raised with manners.

He closed his eyes as he stood in the middle of the bathroom, hearing the water running in the tub. Parkinson knew not to be there when he returned to his bed. He had squashed the hope for them to snuggle – he scoffed at the mere idea – when he had stated that they were not dating and neither were they to be considered lovers of any kind. Pansy always came to him, not the other way around.

She knew she had no chances of him ever proclaiming love over her.

He heard the door to his bathroom open quietly as he lowered his naked form in the tub. He sighed pleasurably as the warmth seeped into his pores.

His pleasure was interrupted immediately when Parkinson spoke.

"I… I can't open the door…" She trailed off a bit embarrassed at her seemingly magical failure.

Draco frowned. "Are you serious?"

She nodded. He sighed and pulled himself out of the bath much too earlier for his pleasure, noticing the faint reddening of his housemate's cheeks as her eyes raked over his naked form. He didn't blame her, he was fit from his Quidditch practices; his body hinted at muscles and was lithe to match his need of quick reflexes.

He guided her wordlessly to his door and he flicked his wand lazily at it as he thought Alohomora. The door responded with a click and he turned to her with an eyebrow raised.

She looked at the door and then at him with a surprised expression. "You can perform wordless magic? That's really impressive!"

He rolled his eyes at her. "Honestly Parkinson, just because your limits do not reach Flitwick's height it does not mean others cannot exceed your expectations." He sneered at her offended expression.

"H-how can you… after we've just…" She wisely let the imply hover in the air.

Draco sighed as pinched the bridge of his nose, more for the effect the gesture would imply than the need to do it. "Parkinson, this was our last meeting. You have become too attached to me even though we've both agreed on remaining neutral, have we not? If you would kindly leave, I would appreciate it."

"…I" Parkinson stared at him for a second, her gaze roaming over his body and the flash in her eyes indicating to him that she was remembering the feel of him inside of her. Her eyes snapped back to his own.

"Goodnight, Draco." She said coolly.

He opened the door for her but didn't wait to see her retreating back. He sauntered naked over to his bathroom, sighing as he eyed the crystal clear water waiting for him, waves of heat inviting him into the hot water.

Draco lowered himself into the warm embrace of the tub and sighed contentedly. He stretched his body at its full length, enjoying the stretch of his muscles. This needed to stop. It had been only twice, but he was not about to feed Parkinson any ideas of marriage or a long term relationship.

Would people suspect him and Pansy had been shagging? Maybe… Slytherins weren't the brightest but they were decent at reading sings from people. They'd notice Pansy's going into his room tonight, staying for half an hour – he didn't spend much time on foreplay, not like she needed.

It was not as if any of the Slytherins had demanded from him any sort of explanation. Him and Parkinson were prefects. They could have spent time chatting away, passing information on their duties. And Parkinson was close to Crabbe and Goyle. No questions would arise from the majority, no proof would befall in any of their hands.

He lay on his bed somehow still awake thinking about the letter and the veiled words his father had written and for the first time since he could remember, he hoped his judgement was wrong.

He closed his eyes and imagined how the Dark Lord would look. How would his new body be? The same as before? But he didn't even remember how he looked like before. He had sometimes adventured at the top of the stairs leading to the entrance hall to sneak a look over the Dark Lord when he was small, but his memory was failing him.

He didn't know why but… red. He thought red would belong to his eyes. It was a strange feeling, almost as if knowing it out of instinct yet not knowing truly why.

Not knowing was… annoying… bothersome and…

… Unpleasant and-….