A Slow Cruel Descent

Draco Malfoy followed Corban Yaxley slowly down a long, darkened hallway.

He had been summoned.

He couldn't even recall the last time the Dark Lord had asked for him specifically. Ever since Draco's failure to kill Dumbledore, he'd been shafted to the outer rings of Voldemort's circle. Too purebred to kill, but not useful enough to bring in for any further special assignments.

Draco hadn't minded.

War, he'd decided, did not suit him. At this point he didn't really care who won, as long as it would be over.

But years since Dumbledore's death, the war still carried on. The Death Eaters held most of wizarding Europe, but the Order proved impossible to fully stamp out. The guerrilla warfare they employed was precise and devastating. Even as the Order's numbers dwindled, their power and abilities only seemed to increase. Potter was a walking war machine, brought out only occasionally for dramatic effect.

The war continued.

Money and numbers were on Death Eater's side, along with Voldemort's own considerable and slowly cemented power. But Voldemort refused to go out and deal with Potter when he could instead send out his followers to gradually winnow away Harry's friends. Presumably until the-boy-who-lived had no one left to live for.

The two sides were constantly checking each other. There was never any clear progress in any direction.

And the war kept dragging on.

Draco had been content on the sidelines; staying beneath everyone's interest. Surviving.

Now the Dark Lord had summoned him.

Arriving in the large hall filled with only a few others, Draco knelt before Voldemort's seat and proceeded to prostrate himself.

"My Lord," he said, "you called for me."

"Draco Malfoy." Voldemort stood and approached him. "Take off your mask."

Draco cringed at the undivided attention he was currently receiving, but he obediently raise himself to his knees and reached up to pull off his Death Eater mask.

"I have found a use for you, my young follower," Voldemort said, peering down at Draco's face.

"I live to serve you, my Lord," Draco said automatically, in an even tone despite the utter panic he was currently experiencing.

"What do you know of the potion Amortentia?" the Dark Lord asked.

"My Lord?" Draco was dumbfounded by the question.

"My own mother used it on my father," Voldemort said casually. "An interesting potion, manipulating one of the greatest powers in magic. Not a power I have found useful, but I am not a fool. I see the potential weapon that love can be."

Voldemort reached out and, with a quick tug, pulled a few hairs from Draco's scalp. He turned and dropped them into a chalice that was sitting on a nearby table.

"The trouble with Amortentia is that it fades with time. Re-dosage is necessary. Dangerous for a weapon during a war. So, I have had it perfected. You recall Damocles? He has been at work on it for some time, and has brought me the finished product at a most opportune moment."

Turning toward a Death Eater standing near the door, Voldemort ordered, "Bring her in."

Voldemort looked back down at Draco, who was still kneeling on the stones, shaking, his anxiety no longer concealed.

"The Order of the Phoenix has been a thorn in my side for too long. Do you know why?"

"Their—strategies?" Draco said, bracing himself to be cursed in the highly likely event that it was the wrong answer.