Haunted

3 | force to be reckoned with

One Calming Draught later, and Draco was finally ready to start training. Okay, that was a lie. He took two Calming Draughts. And he still wasn't ready. But he lumbered off his bed, snatched his wand from his desk, and made his way down to the training room.

It hadn't been a training room when he was growing up, but there had been some redecorating since Malfoy Manor had been converted into a military compound. His mother had done her best to keep the spirit of the Manor alive, as she called it, keeping their family's portraits on the walls and Slytherin green everywhere. In all honesty, he wished it would have just been fully turned into a compound, marble floors and chandeliers be damned.

He never much liked the Manor after fourth year when the Dark Lord had crossed the threshold for the first time. His entrance marked the definitive end of Draco's childhood. Lucius, once a fearless and powerful father, whom he could turn to if he needed any problem solved, had shrunk into a version of himself that Draco could barely recognize. No longer would his presence in a room demand respect. Instead, he was just another of Voldemort's groupies vying for the Dark Lord's praise. It almost felt like he stood a few inches shorter, but maybe that was because his spine was bent into a perpetual bow.

His mother had lost that twinkle in her eye that Draco had sought throughout his youth, her eyes fading to a duller shade of what they'd once been. Whenever he needed comfort or someone to vent to, she'd been there, smoothing back his hair and listening, offering advice when she thought he needed it and staying silent when she knew he didn't. Now it seemed like she tried to be invisible and out of sight. Her comforts were limited to a hand squeeze as they passed each other in the halls of the Manor, or a kiss to his forehead when he went to say goodbye before he left for a mission. She was a shell of her former self, just as his father was.

Just as he was.

He was not exempt from this criticism, as much as he wished himself to be. He'd projected airs of confidence and swagger wherever the Dark Lord was concerned in his youth, but only to hide the mind-numbing terror that gripped him whenever Voldemort was nearby. And he was always nearby. Granted, most of the time the Dark Lord simply lived in his head, reminding him of his tasks and what would happen if he did not complete them, but it didn't matter. His presence was everlasting, in the worst way.

Every time Draco had had to see him while he was in Hogwarts, he would be punished with weeks of sleepless nights. He would close his eyes, and Voldemort's red ones would be staring right back at him. So he would chug firewhiskey by the hearth in the Slytherin common room and try to find comfort in Pansy's kisses on his neck. But there was never any comfort to be had.

In the years since, Draco's mind learned to adapt. He practiced Occlumency as often as he could, and before he would go to bed at night, he would tuck Voldemort into a little box and place it outside of his mental bedroom door. Then, for extra security, he would lock the door before he tried to rest. And it worked. For the most part.

He paused just before the doorway to the training room and closed his eyes. She would be in there.

Don't be a wanker, he told himself, the voice in his head harsh and sounding an awful lot like the version of himself that would bully first-years back at Hogwarts. Just act fucking normal. It's not a big deal.

Before he could think about it any further, he strolled the rest of the way into the room, where ten of his memory-wiped schoolmates stood looking around cluelessly. "Line up," he barked at them, and allowed himself a sliver of pleasure at the way they jumped and did as told. There was always a nagging fear in the back of his mind that someone would just say no, would refuse to respect his authority. But they didn't know any better. To them, he was not an ex-classmate; he was a respected Death Eater.