Disclaimer: This is a transformative commentary on Harry Potter, which is the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit or copyright infringement is intended.

Written for Death Eater Fest Prompt: I want to reconcile the violence in your heart / I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask / I want to exorcise the demons from your past / I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

-"Undisclosed Desires" by Muse

This song describes their relationship vividly and to a tee. Thank you for the thought-provoking inspiration, kalina_blue!

I want to reconcile the violence in your heart

A terrible summons seared his left arm as soon as Draco drifted off. He had no time to reflect on the where, when, whys. Questions were for fools. The burn continued unabated as he flung himself upright in the dark, groping for his wand. A quick swipe lit the wand's tip. He made a beeline for the midnight black robes crumpled at the foot of his bed. His mask bright as the sun lay hastily discarded on his dresser.

Ninety seconds later he Apparated into a chilly courtyard, all warmth sapped in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. In another life this had been a place of lessons and reenacted famous Quidditch matches, a place which carried on solely in his mind now. Hogwarts was dead. Taking his place among the widening circle of dark figures, he felt relief at arriving neither first nor last. The steel in his spine unbent a little; tonight he would be safe in mediocrity. The Dark Lord praised the devoted, tolerated the satisfactory and singled out with acid glee the reluctant in his ranks. He suffered no more of Snape or Father's kind in the new world order.

More Death Eater comrades appeared by the second, each glancing sharply around them before trundling to their places. They were all gathered when a streak of black descended from the sky, cratering the ground with meteoric force. When the smoke cleared they saw the kneeling figure of the Dark Lord, his face whiter than bone, floating a clothed bundle beside him. As he stood a huddled girl was revealed squatting in the dirt, suddenly illuminated when the crater became a torch of liquid fire. An imperious flick of his wand and the bundle no longer hovered, crashing into the center of the circle, its weight unrolling the blankets to reveal the gaping mouth of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her eyes reflected the light like the shell of a beetle. A dead beetle.

Sharp breaths echoed around Draco. Shock knitted his ribs together and red dotted his eyes until he wrenched harshly for air. His aunt dead; was the rest of his family next?

"My lord!" cried Rodolphus Lestrange, breaking ranks to fall to his knees at the body.

The Dark Lord's pale hand clawed around the girl's wrist. He flung her atop Bellatrix. "My most faithful servant, murdered," he hissed, his voice so quiet they all leant closer, "by this Mudblood. Who turned on her rightful master!"

Draco stared at the girl struggling to lift her head. Releasing a shout of fury Rodolphus backhanded her, the force of the blow smashing her back into the dirt. She scrambled for a foothold but tripped, the steep incline rolling her downward until she collided with the points of Draco's shoes. The impact flipped her over; she coughed and wiped at the blood streaking from her torn lip. The only source of light was from the Dark Lord but even in the fulsome dark Draco made out the smallest hint of a smile. She peered up at him, scrutinizing brown eyes framed by gnarly brown hair. A slave mark branded her neck, the same tattooed snake that collared the flesh of every Muggle-born witch and wizard.

"Who among you will step forward and claim responsibility for Potter's Mudblood?" roared the Dark Lord. "Who will prove their loyalty by punishing this piece of filth for daring to raise a hand against her betters?"

Contemplative murmurs sounded around Draco, falling silent when Rodolphus hurtled to his feet, a tight madness contorting his face. "I will, my lord! Give me the honor of disposing of her to your every satisfaction!"

The Dark Lord regarded the manic glint in Rodolphus's eyes with amusement. "I know you too well for that. At the first flash of your temper she will be dead. Death," he spat, "is too good for her. I require a lighter and infinitely more fulfilling touch."

"My lord, allow me!" thundered Fenrir Greyback, elbowing aside his fellows. "With your most faithful snatched from us, there is none left more loyal than I!"

"Oh?" sneered the Dark Lord, his thin lips a red gash. "I am to believe you will refrain from devouring her at the next full moon? When no other has survived you so long? I am not such a fool as that, werewolf."

A raspy cough drew Draco's terror-clenched attention to the warmth wrapped around his feet. Granger stared up at him, her eyes scraping the contours of his mask. Slow recognition softened the sharpness of her bleeding mouth. "Malfoy," she whispered.

His heart crashed against his ribcage. How did she know him? As if he'd vocalized his thoughts she tapped her cheek. She knew his mask. Bellatrix must have trained her pet to recognize the visage of her beloved nephew, her protégé. It was too much. This was all too damned much. Draco kicked her in the side, desperate to remove the weight of her body. It only lasted a second before she rolled back with a grunt. Fear singed his veins at the thought that the Dark Lord might single him out because of her. She needed to get off of him. He kicked her again as hard as he could, aiming under her shoulder-blade. Her body flipped back toward the center.

The movement caught the Dark Lord's attention, his colorless eyes sweeping from his prisoner to Draco's masked face. "Young Malfoy," he breathed. "Something to say?"

His pulse pounded the insides of his wrists. He stepped forward, bowing as lowly as he could without toppling over. "No, my lord. Only flicking rubbish off my shoe."

A deep chuckle emerged from the Dark Lord's throat as he glided closer. "Young, young Malfoy," he said again. "No older than the Mudblood, yes?"

"No, my lord."

He cocked his head, a predator uncoiling. "You know her?"

"Only of her, my lord." Draco stifled his shiver. "From school."

"Such modesty. Both your aunt and father have told me you considered her your academic rival," said the Dark Lord, the corners of his mouth lifting sadistically. "A pureblood outsmarted by a piece of filth."

It was not a question. He nodded, unable to unlatch the air from his lungs, compressed by the sensation of both too much and too little.

"You knew her as a child. You know her weaknesses, what she fears most," said his Lord and Master. "You are Young Malfoy no longer, I think. Pureblood and last of your line, Draco, you are loyal to me, are you not?"

"Yes, my lord!" Draco bent down on one knee, clutching his kneecap. "I have always served you. I take not after my traitor father but my aunt. Her passing fills me with rage."

The Dark Lord paced around him with striking grace. "I wonder. Bellatrix despaired of making a man of you, Draco."

"I want nothing more than to honor her memory and your glory!"

"Good," he stated. "You will make this Mudblood's life a never-ending misery, and you will do so for my pleasure. Prove to me that your father's cowardice and incompetence ended with him!"

"M-my lord! Yes, my lord," choked out Draco, bile rising in his throat.

Lord Voldemort smiled, anticipation curving his flat and serpentine lips.

By the time he Disapparated to the foyer of the Manor the muscles in his left arm shook uncontrollably. He couldn't bring himself to clamp a hand over it to still the vibrations. His Mark still throbbed, inflamed by the Dark Lord's summons and the new layer of magic swelling beneath his skin. As her new master his Mark was now intertwined with Granger's slave brand. He released the crook of her arm, dumping her limp form onto the marble floor.

"Esther," he snapped. "Take care of this."

His sole remaining house-elf appeared, his primary caretaker since the time he was a child. She was so old she was beginning to resemble something hunters beheaded and stuffed on walls. She was the lone living relic of a different time. "Yes, sir," she squeaked, her ears wobbling on her sunken, wrinkled face.

Draco turned on his heel and took off at a run for his father's study. Even a year after he'd inherited it, he still couldn't think of it as his. No sooner than the door closed behind him he was already tearing off his Death Eater robes and mask. They skidded across the floor, bumping into charred wallpaper that no amount of magic could remove. He activated the safeguards, the strongest barricade his magic could devise. Slumping to the floor he fell onto his side, uncoiling as a spring wound to the breaking point. Make no mistake about it, he was a dead man walking. The moment the Dark Lord spoke to him, he knew this was no test of loyalty, merely a death trap by another name. He wanted a reason to kill Draco that wouldn't unduly rile up his fellow purebloods.

He wasn't satisfied with Father's execution, no—the Dark Lord meant to exterminate every last branch of the Malfoy family tree. One day, one week, one month, it didn't matter. He was dead. All his years of back-buckling, kneel-groveling service for nothing, laid to waste as he was flung aside like a discarded empty container.

Just like Father.

He crushed his eyes shut but the image of Lucius's skintight, starved, dehydrated corpse was a scar written across his eyelids. The Dark Lord tossed him in Azkaban, where nothing breathed and the only movements were your shadow beneath a merciless sun and patrolling Dementors whose icy hunger clawed at your insides. Of course they'd tried to escape England, vanish in the everlasting stream of refugees. Only there were lies beneath lies, spies stacked atop spies. Draco, a child his aunt had gleefully pronounced, now orphaned, alone, crawled across craggy stone to kiss the Dark Lord's ring. Forgiven, for now. And what had his subservience bought him? A parole of mere months.

It was all her fault.

He flung himself upright and surged back into the hall. He was going to strangle Granger with his bare hands until she told him why she'd done such a monumentally, unforgivably stupid thing as killing Bellatrix. If she wanted to commit suicide she should've bloody well done it. But she hadn't and now Draco was collateral damage. What was sniggering and calling her names compared to the noose strung around their necks? She'd dragged him a palm-span from death for no fucking reason. That was what made it unforgivable. He'd spent all his formative years unloading his troubles through his fists and privilege, and he could still taste the remembrance of it on his tongue, the bleeding satisfaction of unleashing Crabbe and Goyle for a pummeling well-deserved. If it was the last thing he did he was going to make her viciously, irreparably sorry.

Draco was going to break and break and break her until the Dark Lord spared him. His parents hadn't sacrificed their lives so his could be undone by a fucking Mudblood. Most of the Manor still lay in a smoldering heap. With no notion of where Esther took Granger, he ran upstairs to the one remaining habitable wing, anticipation ticking in his chest and crowding his ribcage until he felt sick. Stalking down hallway after hallway, he kicked every door open until he found one illuminated by candles. In the well-lit room, there was ripped and dirty clothing strewn across the floor. The faint noise of splashing water turned him to the loo. He gritted his teeth and tried to swallow the bile rising his throat. It didn't work.

He wrenched the door open. Gasping, Esther dropped the plate containing a sandwich and tipped over a glass of water, splashing the teacloth she wore. She'd been standing by, holding them while waiting for Granger to finish bathing. Bathing.

Draco barely heard the shatter of glass on porcelain tiles because all he could see was Granger in the bathtub, hot soapy water lapping up to her chin. His prisoner, his slave, lay there enjoying a bubble bath while he was busy losing his mind. Glass crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he pushed his house-elf aside and yanked Granger out of the bath by her throat. A suddenly racing pulse collided with his palms and he nearly lost his grip, so slippery was her skin. The lids of her eyes flickered open and she gasped from the sudden chill. Tightening his grasp, he turned on his heel and flung her as far away from him as he could. The backs of her knees hit the bed frame and she fell, sprawling over the bed. Wincing from the bruises and scars that crisscrossed her skin she pushed up on her elbows to face him, every stitch of skin tensed. Her arm lifted, unconsciously mimicking a dueling stance.

Then recognition dawned and Granger's shoulders sagged. She fell back onto her palms, her posture softening statuesque marble into liquid weariness. She swiped at her hair. Even soaked, the curls danced maddeningly over her forehead and cheeks. Her mouth formed a wordless "oh," as though maybe she had words for him, words he wouldn't mind ice skating in hell to hear. She looked relieved to see him.

The Dark Lord could go hang because Draco was going to kill her.

She started as he seized her upper arms, digging his nails in to emphasize every word. He shook her violently. "What—is—wrong—with—you?"

Her teeth clicked violently at the motion. He had a moment's warning from her mulish glare before she launched herself forward. The momentum of her unexpected weight flung him backwards onto the carpet. As they fell she collided with his chest, and they both gasped, the unexpected force of it winding them both. While he clutched his ribs, bent over and wheezing, Granger recovered first. She scrambled over him and crawled to her feet, every stitch of her tightly pulled skin screaming flee. No, she wasn't going to run from him so easily! Ignoring the imprint of her body he still felt strapped across his chest, he rolled over and yanked at her ankle. That brought her crashing back down over his legs.

"The fuck, Granger!" he rasped.

"Where is he?" she whispered, her gaze a flickering dance to capture all the shadows in the room.

"He's not here." Instinct told him exactly who she meant.

Granger glanced down at him, slightly awed. "It's just you?"

Her tone chafed, the same voice which had dismissed him daily for six years. He kicked her feet out from under her. As she sprawled unbecomingly, he leapt over and knelt on her legs. He wrapped his hands around her neck. "You killed Bellatrix, you crazy bitch. Why?" he demanded.

She clawed at his hands until he squeezed in warning. Then she went for his eyes. Rearing back, he hauled her up and cracked the back of her skull on the wall. "She deserved it," gasped Granger.

"That's it?" he said, disbelieving. "That's why you decided to kill us both?"

"Bellatrix is Voldemort's right hand. Why else would I let her capture me?"

He flinched at the name. "You what?"

"It was the only way!" She set her palms over his wrists and gave an experimental tug; he tightened his grip until she stilled. "She had to be stopped."

"So this, right here, you planned this? Getting me killed is part of your idiotic plan?" Spite sharpened his every word into a dagger. "I could kill you—I should kill you."

"Do it," said Granger, her voice soft. "Go right on ahead if you never want to see your mother again."

Shafts of white lanced his vision. "What?"

"How do you think I finally got to Bellatrix?" she taunted. "I had help."

"My mother is dead," he gritted.

"No, she's not. She's safe. She's been with us since Voldemort killed Lu—your father."

It was a trick. It had to be. The alternative, that his mother still lived, needing him, needing them both while he skulked and cowered all these months, was unthinkable. "She's dead. They're both dead. He told them to run before he hunted them down like animals."

"And who told you that?" she asked, rolling her eyes at his gullibility. "Voldemort?"

Hope thrummed through him, his pulse thudding against her tightening fingers. "How do I know you're not lying?"

She met his eyes, straight and unerring. "Your mother gave me a message. I won't pretend to know what it means but I assume it's some kind of code. She told me to say, 'I should have let you keep Ben.'"

The words tipped him off balance. Draco released her and sat back on his haunches, the image of a wet, soppy, mewling cat spearing his sight, his first and only pet, graceless and missing a paw, unfit to follow an heir of his stature. Hope could no longer be denied; it erupted like a geyser within him, spilling warmth down his limbs. "Where is she?"

Shuffling backwards on her elbows until her back hit the wall she looked faintly surprised at his reaction, as though she'd never expected this last-ditch gambit to work. She crossed one leg over the other to hide her nakedness, which he suddenly noticed as if someone had flicked off the fight-or-flight switch in his brain and he could finally focus on something besides immediate survival.

Now that she was no longer wrapped in warm water her nipples hardened in the cold air. She slung her arms across her chest to cover her breasts. Her expression became defiant. "I can't tell you."

Panic filed his voice into something rusty and small. "Can't or won't?"

"Won't," she acknowledged, biting her lip. "I can tell you she's safe. We found her a year ago after, well . . . you know that part. She was half-dead and in a coma. She didn't wake up for months. But when she did and told us what happened, we made a deal."

"What deal?"

"If she helped us—helped me kill Bellatrix we'd get you out from under Voldemort's thumb."

"Stop saying his name," snapped Draco.

"No," she shot back. "Fear of a name increases fear of—"

"Shut up!" he snarled, moving to cover her mouth. "Are you stupid? He's probably listening in right now!"

She turned her head to free her voice. "Hardly. The Taboo's gone. It took too much power and too many people to keep up. And he can't hear us unless you're stupid enough to leave his eavesdropping spells alone." At Draco's glare, she sniffed. "That's what I thought."

He withdrew his hand, balling his fingers into a fist to diminish the wet imprint of her mouth. The feel of it stung more permanently than mere skin and saliva. He forced himself to ignore it. "So that's your grand plan? Kill Bellatrix, get yourself enslaved to me and then what? We waltz off merrily to paranoid exile and perpetual flight for the rest of our miserable lives?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Which differs from your current life how?"

"At least I'll see it coming! I'm not too keen," he bit out, "on being captured then tortured as an example."

"We have safehouses. Haven't you lot ever wondered why you haven't found or killed any Order members lately? When Hogwarts fell, we went underground. The resistance hasn't been quiet because you defeated us. We've been gathering our resources, planning our next move."

"You still haven't said where."

"And I won't. Not until after."

"After what?"

"After you help me find Harry."

"Are you mad?" he chortled. "You're still on about Potter after all this time? He's dead, Granger. He's been dead for three years!"

"That's what Voldemort wants you to believe. It's what he needs you to believe. You can stop looking at me like that. I know Harry's dead," she admitted, "but part of him is still alive. It's what kept Voldemort alive even after we killed his snake."

"What?"

Granger gave an impatient sigh. "Harry was a Horcrux. Like the diadem in the Room of Requirement, like Riddle's journal that your father gave Ginny, remember? Voldemort thought he made seven but he really made eight. That's why Harry was a Parseltongue, why he and Voldemort's wand shared cores—don't you get it? When he cast the Killing Curse that day in the Forbidden Forest there were two souls in his body and he only killed one."

"How do you even know this?" he said roughly.

"I didn't, not at first," she acknowledged. "Not until Harry's body disappeared and I started to wonder why Voldemort didn't keep it as a trophy. It's more his style to flaunt Harry in front of the wizarding world, isn't it? He was obsessed with Harry for years. It didn't make sense until I realized it's because he couldn't risk it. We destroyed all his other Horcruxes. There's only whatever lives in Harry's body left. He can't be killed while there's still another piece of his soul existing in the world."

"So what? So what if half of Potter or whatever is still alive? What does any of it have to do with me?"

"You still don't get it?" Her eyes bore into his face, unrelenting. "You're going to help me find him."

Her words slapped his skin, flotsam flushed down a waterfall into oblivion. He laughed so hard red splashed his cheeks. "You really have lost your mind, Granger. I'm not going to help you with shit—"

Her expression hardened. "Then you'll never see your mother again."

He shook his head, still awash in desperate mirth. "You're the one who doesn't get it, Granger. Whatever Bellatrix did to you, it's nothing compared to what I'll do to see my mother again. You're my property. You think you can hold out against the Cruciatus forever? Think again."

She watched him with disdain. "You've no idea what your aunt did to me yet here you are shooting your mouth off like you have a clue. Haven't changed at all, have you, Malfoy?"

He rose slowly to his feet, dusting off his slacks with forced nonchalance. "You'll wish I hadn't by the time we're finished. That I can promise."

They glared at each other, a silent battle of wills, until Draco broke the impasse and came to a decision. He glanced into the loo where broken porcelain unfailingly occupied Esther's attention, the house-elf long inured to scenes. "Do something about this," he said curtly then turned away, dismissing Granger without another glance.

After the door slammed behind him, he wordlessly Summoned his wand from the study and engaged the lock. Granger needed to be taught that she was at his mercy. He would follow the Dark Lord's Instructions to the letter. He would revel in it.