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Chapter Text

Prompt: No. 1

“Please don’t cry” 
Lamb to Slaughter | Ceremony | Beg for Forgiveness

Two weeks from retirement, she scoffed to herself. Her wrists and ankles were bound together so tightly it pinched the skin. There was fabric stuffed in her mouth. It’s just my luck that this happens two weeks from retirement.

The floor was smooth and cold on her face. It was some sort of polished marble. Have I been kidnapped by rich people? That wasn’t a good sign. Rich people didn’t play by the same rules as the rest of them.

“Two years ago, I was surrounded by boys.” A nasally aristocratic voice wafted over Mabel. “Today, I see the men you’ve been moulded into. Tonight is your final challenge and greatest honour. Tonight you dedicate yourselves to our lord. Tonight you take the Mark and become one of His chosen.”

‘Lord’? Is this some sort of Christian cult? Mabel breathed shallowly through her nose, fighting off panic. She was a trussed pig. Her fingers and toes were beginning to tingle. No doubt her nerves were compressed. Every time she moved, it felt like her binds grew tighter. In all her years as a doctor, she’d seen a few such cases. If they didn’t release her soon, she’d face permanent damage. 

“Gregorious Goyle, please step forward.” 

Mabel heard shuffling as someone moved forward. Her ears weren’t as good as they used to be but she could hear someone next to her breathing - shallowly, like her. Were there other captives? 

A shadow fell over her and she clenched her eyes shut. Was this the end? 

Mabel didn’t want to die here. She’d planned a trip to Bora Bora to celebrate her retirement. 

More than that, she had a son. Liam. 

They’d been estranged. She was woman enough to admit that it had been her fault. She’d been too critical. Liam hadn’t been able to take it anymore. It had taken far too long for her to get over her pride but Mabel had done the work. She’d gone to therapy. She’d changed herself. Liam had let her back into his life and she’d been on the way to meet her granddaughter for the first time when she was taken.

Her granddaughter was named Elody after her mother. She’d only seen her in photos. She’d gotten her a small stuffed bear. Mabel felt annoyed with herself because she’d postponed their first meeting. She’d had to show the newly hired Head of Pediatric Neurosurgery the ropes before she left.

“Please don’t cry,” said the shadow. He sounded young - as young as her nephew, Hamish. He couldn’t have been older than 15 or 16. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Goyle,” the man tutted. “Do not talk to the muggle.”

“She looks like my gran,” the boy said weakly. Crack. Mabel’s entire body stiffened like a wire under tension. She had no stomach for violence. 

“There is a reason you are the first to produce a sacrifice, Goyle. You cannot be tender-hearted. You are to be a Death Eater.” 

Mabel was overcome with revulsion at the callousness to which this man spoke to ‘Goyle’. She was afraid, of course, but she was used to fear. There was no greater fear than when you were wrist deep in a child’s skull, when their life was in your hands. 

As terrified as she was, Mabel forced herself to be strong. This boy would have to live with her death for the rest of his life. She didn’t need to make it harder for him than it already was. 

“I, Gregorious Goyle,” the boy stammered, “pledge my unending, um, fealty to the dark lord. Let Him take this sacrifice as evidence and do me the honour of Marking me as His.” Mabel felt a small wooden tip pressed against the bottom of her occipital bone. “Avada kedavra.”

When her mum had said that bad things happened to runaways, this was not what Deana expected. 

Trafficking, drugs, malnutrition, it was obviously a risky choice whatever way you spun it. But Dee had been out of options. Her mum was indifferent to her and her mum’s latest boyfriend was, well, she didn’t really want to think about that.

Safe to say, ending up dead at 17 had not been on her bucket list.

From her observations, it looked like every Cult-Kid was assigned their own personal human sacrifice. 

Her Cult-Kid was platinum blonde like he’d been dunked in peroxide and kept sending pathetic puppy-dog glances to the leader of this little murder ritual: a platinum blonde man who was undoubtedly his dad. Dee was only able to observe because her Cult-Kid had a hard-on for making her watch the other human sacrifices die. It was a precarious balancing act to be upright while hog-tied, not to mention uncomfortable. 

Dee would feel sorry for him if she wasn’t incensed. He kept grabbing at her hair and smirking. Fucking asshole. At least the death would be painless, it looked like. Everyone else mumbled something that sounded like abra cadabra before their sacrifice ragdolled forward like a dispossessed meat puppet.

All around her, people dropped. The demographics were interesting, to say the least. Runaways, sure, and people no one would miss, but also some old people who undoubtedly had families who gave a shit. Dee didn’t know what the methodology for picking sacrifices was, and frankly, at this point she didn’t care.

“Last but not least,” Platinum Sr. said airily, “Draco Malfoy. Please step forward.”

Deana’s Cult-Kid swaggered towards her and waved one of those wooden death-sticks in her face. She glared back. She’d cuss him out if it weren’t for the fabric in her mouth. Unlike the sweet old granny that had been murdered first, it didn’t look like Dee was getting an apology.

Platinum Jr. puffed out his chest. “I, Draconus Malfoy, pledge my undying fealty to the dark lord. Let him take this sacrifice as evidence and do me the honour of Marking me as His.” He trailed the death-stick down her face and towards her neck. He glanced at his dear old deranged daddy. “May I use a different method?”

Platinum Sr. nodded, eyes flashing with pride. The other Cult-Kids watched on silently. 

“How does it feel,” whispered the budding psychopath into her ear, “knowing you’re going to die slowly and painfully?” 

Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest. This was really it. 17 shitty years and she’d go out with a shitty fucking whimper. It’s going to hurt? No one else had died painfully. Why was she always the exception? Why could she never catch a break?

“Aww look,” taunted Platinum Jr. “It’s crying.”

She turned her face away from him. He snatched it back, forcing her to meet his eyes. They were a startling blue-grey. He was a pretty kid. Shame he was evil to his bones. 

“Don’t play with your food, Draco.” Platinum Sr. sniffed. “Yours is not the only ceremony.”

“Yes, Father.” All youthfulness drained from the boy’s face. He whispered, “Crucio.” 

Chapter Text

Prompt No. 2: 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears.”
Prophecy | Sewer | Taking Accountability

“The sewers?” Draco was not impressed. “As in the sewer sewers?”

“Being Marked is not all glitz and glamour,” said the smirking Lestrange. He proffered a pair of rubber nose-plugs.

It was Draco’s first real mission. Mother had ironed his robes and polished his skull-mask. Father had instructed him to make him and the dark lord proud. His siblings had, of course, looked up to him with wide-eyed adoration as was expected. Draco had strutted all the way from his bedroom to the Floo to the manor foyer to meet the dark lord’s right hand man.

Draco had given a great showing at his Marking ceremony. It was no easy feat to crucio a muggle to death. One had to ensure the correct mixture of fear and pacing in order to stress a muggle’s heart without causing premature brain death. 

And this was his reward. His first patrol was in the sewers beneath Riddle Manor. 

“Wipe that disappointment off your face and stick these up your nose,” Lestrange said coolly. 

Draco’s back straightened instinctively at the tone. One mustn’t forget how dangerous a man like Lestrange could be. 

The younger Death Eater held the nose plugs to his face unsurely. “I know the agnosia charm. Is this strictly necessary?”

“Charms fade.” Lestrange scoffed and leant into Draco’s personal space. He shoved the plugs up his nose, causing Draco to splutter indignantly. 

He was Draco Malfoy, scion to the Malfoy lineage, eldest of his siblings, most impressive new recruit! He should not be manhandled! 

“This is for your benefit, boy. I’m only babysitting your callow self as a favour to your father but do not stretch my patience.” Draco held Lestrange’s gaze. One mustn’t show any fear. It was one of the earliest lessons Father taught him. “When your weak agnosia wears off, you won’t have the time nor concentration to recast.” He shoved Draco towards the sewer hole. “Say thank you, Mr. Lestrange.”

Draco glared at Lestrange. The man cackled unsettlingly. “Don’t pout, jejune. This is going to be fun.”

The two Death Eaters skirted along the small walkable edge that bordered the sewer’s central channel. Draco wished that he had not worn his best shoes for this patrol.

“Now, the real reason we are patrolling here is that we are searching for lost property.” Lestrange led them forward through the dark. He had forbidden Draco from using a lumos. 

“Lost property?” Draco scoffed. Did someone flush their valuables down the toilet?

“Bloodsuckers lost a few of their blood-bags,” Lestrange said airily.

“What does that mean?” Draco wished that Lestrange would speak more plainly.

The further they got from the manhole that led into the sewer, the harder it was to see. Partly, this was a blessing, as it meant Draco didn’t have to witness what made a squelch under his custom-fit tailored leathers.

“It means our mission is to prevent said blood-bags from reaching the surface and informing the rest of the blood-bags about our operation.” He couldn’t see Lestrange’s expression at this point but Draco knew he was smirking.

“We’re hunting muggles?” Draco couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. Hunting muggles for his first patrol! He truly was favoured! It felt like fate that he’d been chosen for this. “Wait, why did we keep them alive? How did they escape?” 

“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Lestrange informed him, “and you don’t need to know.” Suddenly the older Death Eater stopped. “Do you hear that?”

Draco shook his head. Then, feeling foolish as he realised he wasn’t visible, whispered, “No, sir.”

“Listen closely.” Lestrange told him. Draco held his breath and focused his ears on the sounds around him. There was the sound of running water. The sound of his breath. His heartbeat thudding in his ears. And… Music? No, wind chimes? But there was no wind down here in the sewer.

“Chimes,” Draco whispered.

“Good lad.” When Lestrange clapped him on the back, he felt both uncomfortable and proud. “These blood-bags have their own sort of mark,” he chuckled. “It’s an old seer’s trick. One of the only good things to have come out of Hogwarts.”

“What’s Hogwarts?”

“Nothing important, an old relic.” Lestrange then said, “Now, when the vermin realise they’ve been caught, they’ll panic. They’ll act out like all animals do.”

“I’m familiar.” Draco hated that he was being talked down to. This wasn’t his first time dealing with muggles. He wasn’t twelve, for Merlin’s sake! 

“Don’t take a tone with me,” warned Lestrange, reminding him of their respective positions of power. “Now, the intel is that five of them have escaped. One’s the ring leader - we can kill that one - but the others need to be returned alive with all limbs intact.”

That certainly made the mission trickier. Draco was familiar with killing muggles but hadn’t had much experience catching them alive. 

“How will we know which is the ring leader?” 

“Simple.” Lestrange’s voice oozed sadism. “We’ll ask nicely.”

The sound of wind chimes grew louder as they progressed through the tunnel. Two men with silenced shoes travelled through a wall of darkness. Sight gone, they guided themselves using the slick wall to their right. 

“They’ll never believe us,” said one of the muggles. “We’ll get sent to an asylum.”

“We have to try and warn them!” said another. 

“No, we don’t have to do anything. We don’t owe them anything.” A female muggle was speaking. “Society has never done anything for me. I say we hurry the fuck up and get out.”

“You do know the way out, right?”

“Electrica Maxima!” A ball of sparks exploded out of Lestrange’s wand and headed straight towards the muggles. Lit up in the gloom, Draco watched in satisfaction as the youngest of the lot froze in place a second before it was engulfed. The others began to run but the flashing heat was too swift on their heels. “You see how it’s done, kid.”

Draco wanted to say I’m not a kid but realised that would only make him sound more childish. As he used all his restraint to refrain, he took the opportunity to prove himself. 

A couple of the muggles jumped into the sewer stream to evade the thunderbolt that mowed down the others. 

“Glacius.” Dipping his wand into the water, an icy finger of death cut through. Draco’s spell froze everything it touched and eventually reached the desperate muggles who were slowed down due to running through the slop. Their bodies stiffened, their faces cemented into expressions of fear and anguish.

“Now, now, now,” tutted Lestrange, kicking the singed muggles onto their backs. “We’re not done yet, darlings.” 

Draco followed suit, casting the levitation charm to drag the muggle-pops out of the now half-melted sewerage slush. With the five of them accounted for, it was now safe to cast a lumos. He peered curiously at the markings on the inner elbows and thighs of the rag-wearing muggles. Whatever he was dragging them back to, it was sure to be awful. Brilliant.

“Now my partner and I have a few questions to ask of you regarding this escape attempt.” Lestrange squatted down low next to the smallest one. It flinched back from him despite the burns on its skin. “We need one of you to take accountability.”

“Who is responsible? Hm, no one feels up to being a leader? Then I’ll start with this precious little one…” Lestrange dragged a finger down its face tenderly. Draco didn’t know how he could stand to touch a muggle with an ungloved hand but said nothing.

The two frozen muggles began to thaw. Draco was pleased to note that they hadn’t died. He would’ve hated to disappoint his father. 

“I-i-it was me,” said the old one with grey hair, teeth chattering. “P-p-please don’t h-hurt her.”

Lestrange chuckled. “Well, that was easy. Avada kedavra.”

When Draco returned to Malfoy Manor that night, he was pleased with himself. He was tired, of course, from his extended use of the levitation spell to bring the live ones back. He smelt horrid, no doubt, as anyone would after spending half a day in the sewers.

But he had passed his first patrol with flying colours. Draco Malfoy was officially a Death Eater.

Chapter Text

Prompt No. 3:

“I look in people’s windows, transfixed by rose golden glows.”
Isolation | Candlelight | Found Family

It was just him and Mother tonight. 

“Was it everything you hoped it would be, darling?” Mother dapped at the side of her mouth with a monogrammed napkin. She hadn’t spilt any of her soup - of course - but there is no worse a crime than wearing one’s dinner. She was cautious in that sense. Mother always made sure to keep up appearances.

“We went muggle-hunting!” Draco grinned. “For my very first patrol! I expect they’re training me to follow in Father’s footsteps.” He would be the talk of all the new recruits, no doubt. Draco always was. He was exceptional. It was in his blood. 

He turned in his seat to smirk victoriously at his younger brother, only to remember that most of the family was nowhere to be found. “Why must Julian be punished also?” He inquired, quietly.

Draco understood why his sisters were being punished but Julian had likely been dragged into it all. 

“It is your father’s decision,” Mother reminded him sternly. “It is not our place to question him.”

Of course she doesn’t have an opinion, he thought snidely. “Not your place,” Draco corrected her. “I’m almost at majority, Mother. Soon I will be consulted on such matters.”

“Soon,” she deferred gently. “But not yet, my little dragon.”

Sensing Draco’s dismay, Mother snapped her fingers and summoned one of their house elves. 

“You called Dobby, Mrs. Malfoys?”

“Pour a glass of our finest red for Draco and myself,” she instructed the elf coolly.

“Yes, Mrs. Malfoys!” The grubby creature disappeared, splitting the air with a crack. 

The presence of the foul thing made Draco think of the muggles that had been returned to Riddle Manor alive and with all their limbs.

“Why aren’t muggles used as servants, Mother?” He frowned in dismay as the long-eared, pallid and wrinkly house elf shakily poured him a glass of wine. Draco liked wine. He did appreciate the gesture. Yet he also hated how frightened the creatures always were. There was no greater way to ruin a pleasant ambiance than introduce a trembling house elf to the mix! “Surely they would be more appealing to look at…”

“It is our lord’s decision,” Mother said simply. She raised her glass and urged him to raise his own. “To my talented son!”

“To me!” Draco cheered, chest filling with a roaring pride. He swirled the wine in his cabernet glass and took in the woody aromas. Only then did he take a sip, his lips now blood-red. Delicious. 

Painted in the soft hues of a lit candelabra, Mother daintily drank from her own glass. Her face was soft and fond. “It is not so bad to be away from the rest of our lost family, is it not? Just you and me?” She squeezed his hand across the table. 

“It is not so bad,” he agreed.

Draco was old enough to get married. He was old enough to hold one of the highest honours, a position as one of the dark lord’s Marked. Draco was old enough to go to war.

He would never be old enough to stand up to his father.

He knocked quietly on the door to the study. Draco checked himself: shoulders back, chin up, expression smooth. Never show fear. Always show poise. Malfoys were the cream - they always rose to the top.

The door swung open inwards. Father did not look up from his desk. Official business, most likely.

Draco strode inside. He stood with a straight spine that concealed his rabbit-quick heartbeat. He waited for four minutes for Father to address him.

“I take it you enjoyed your celebratory dinner.” It wasn’t a question. Father glanced at him. There was something in his eyes. This was a test.

“Not as much as I enjoyed showing those muggles their place.” Draco sniffed haughtily. Father showed a glimpse of a smile. Draco’s shoulders relaxed.

His father paused meaningfully. Draco paid attention. “And yet, we must keep our wives and mothers happy.”

“Of course.” It was an easy sentiment to agree to.

“I take it you are not here for pleasantries, Draco.” Father’s eyes did not waver from his expression. “Although I suppose you might expect congratulations are in order. You have impressed Rabastan.”

Draco thought on his feet. Father never said anything for no reason. He hadn’t said he was impressed. “It is our lord whose opinion matters most.” 

Father’s lips thinned. Draco’s heart sank. He’d thought that was an appropriately politic answer but perhaps it came off sycophantic. Malfoys weren’t cattle. Malfoys were leaders.

You’re not a woman, he told himself scathingly. You can think for yourself. 

It was funny that thinking for himself mostly meant trying to work out what Father wanted him to think. Draco shelved the thought. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Father, how fares Julian?” 

The man behind the desk steepled his fingers. “You mustn’t coddle that boy,” he scolded him. “You only ruin him by doing that.”

“I am simply inquiring over his wellbeing.” It was an abrasive statement but Draco needed to recover from his prior feeble showing. He was a Malfoy and thus he would strut like one. 

It appeared to both annoy and reassure Father. That was a best case scenario.

“Very well. Perhaps you will have better luck getting through to him. He has refused to see sense.” Father pursed his lips. “He is in the cellars with Demeter and Ligeia. Under no circumstances may you talk to your sisters.”

Draco hated the cellars. 

He’d spent his own fair amount of time there before he’d learnt how to behave in a way befitting of a Malfoy. Draco had put up more trouble than Julian ever had. That’s why this most recent development was so concerning.

He strode past his sisters’ cells without a second thought. They got what they deserved.

Julian’s cell was at the end. 

“What were you thinking?” Draco scowled at the boy shackled to the wall. The tips of his toes were touching the ground and Draco knew from experience that the longer the position was held the more painful it would get. His wrists would be red raw by the end of this punishment. “Ligeia, I understand, but you, Julian! Do you have no sense?”

Julian was the youngest of the four Malfoy siblings. He had stark white hair and a small button nose. Right now, he had a blossoming bruise on his left arm in the shape of fingerprints. Did he resist? Draco thought, aghast. Just what has possessed this boy?

“She doesn’t want to get married,” Julian mumbled. 

“And?”

Was that all he had to say for himself? It was hardly news that Demeter was rebelling against her upcoming marriage. She had more irrepressible spirit than the rest of them combined.

“I didn’t help her escape, Draco!” Julian lifted his head. Draco gave him the dignity of ignoring the tear streaks on his face. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly.” Draco shook his head, a facsimile of his father’s disappointment. Julian flinched. “You did nothing. You should have told Father.”

“I couldn’t betray her.” Julian’s nose wrinkled up. “I’m not you.”

Julian would be honoured to have an iota of Draco’s charm and grace! And to think he cared that the brat was strung up!

“Don’t say I didn’t try to help you out of this mess.” Draco scowled. He turned on his heel and left.

Father was right. Time alone would sort Julian out better than reasoning ever could.

Chapter Text

Prompt No. 4:

“Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before.”
Non-Human Whumper | Iron Rod | Loss of Powers

Evening was Beowulf’s favourite time of day. 

The sun cast long shadows over the structures of the Kennels. The day of work was complete. The adult packmates returned home from their missions. The elderly who had been responsible for tending to the pups could greet them. The adolescents were back from their training.

The whole pack was together again. Beowulf felt whole.

“Beowulf!” The blonde Adolpha raced around him excitedly in her human form. Beowulf nipped at her playfully. “Beowulf, you’re glowing!”

Having been so focused on the evening sun, Beowulf hadn’t realised that he himself was emanating a warm glow. It could only mean one thing! He'd received a Blessing from Lady Magic. Not every wolf did - he was lucky.

Beowulf looked around at his pack as they reacted to Adolpha’s commotion. His chest puffed out in pride.

The biggest wolf of their pack, Raul, made his way over to Beowulf. His scent smelt off. “You must see Fenrir at once.”

Beowulf felt his tail tuck itself away between his legs. Fenrir? The pack leader did not like to be disturbed. 

Sensing his unease, Adolpha changed into her wolf form and licked him across the face. Beowulf whined pitifully.

“Now, whelp.” Raul growled and led him away from the knowing glances of the pack.

Fenrir’s tent was the biggest of the Kennels and stunk heavily of urine and sex. Raul muscled him inside and then blocked Beowulf’s exit. Fenrir was a grey wolf, scarred and always mean. 

Beowulf had been warned by his mother as soon as he could understand to never cross him. However, the violence he had witnessed Fenrir inflict over the years was a far more convincing warning.

He rolled onto his stomach in front of Fenrir. It didn't matter that he was currently in his human form. He was still the more dangerous wolf.

“What’s this? A Blessing on one so meek.” Fenrir scowled jealously. He glanced at Raul. “Any idea what it is?”

Raul shook his head. “Just found out, boss.”

“Those moon-worshipping bitches refused to help me out,” Fenrir said with a toothy smirk, “so there’s none left to sniff out his Blessing.” The grey wolf’s brow furrowed. “The wizards will have ways of finding out,” Fenrir reasoned. “Send the whelp to the manor.”

Beowulf wet himself in fear. Wolves sent to the manor rarely came back.

Raul laughed meanly, reaching out to grab Beowulf by the scruff of his neck. “C’mon then. Let’s go on a little trip.” 

This time when he whined, there was no Adolpha to soothe him. There was only scorn and derision to wound him.

The table was cold and stainless steel.

Beowulf cringed as Raul strapped his ankles and wrists down. Are the rumours true that the wizards cut out lychanthrope’s hearts for their potions? Beowulf had never met a wizard before. How many eyes did they have? Were they truly covered in boils from head to toe?

The older wolf tapped him on the head twice in a mockery of affection and then left him to his fate. Beowulf lay on the table for a long time. He began to wonder if he had been forgotten. What was the worst fate - organ theft or a slow death from dehydration?

After a very long time, his ears pricked. There were people outside. Beowulf closed his eyes and blocked everything else out, honing in on the sounds beyond the barred iron door.

“Make sure to say you’ve done this before,” a man’s voice advised. His heart was steady and slow. “It puts them at ease.”

“Of course, Healer Crouch.” The other voice was younger and boyish. His heart was beating quickly.

The hefty door yawned open. Two men entered. The slighter of the two smelt young and fearful like prey. The other was stocky and balding. He smelt like a predator.

Beowulf whined nervously as they took positions on either side of him.

“Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before,” lied the young one with a smile.

“Now, Draco, it is important to have them in their human form for their examinations,” lectured the older one called Healer Crouch. He did not have the bearing of a healer. Quite the opposite, in fact. He reeked of stale blood and anguish. “To do this we have a special rod that is placed parallel to the spine. It is important to reassure them that it is not silver.”

“This isn’t silver,” said the young one in a placating tone before he placed an iron rod along Beowulf’s back. His fur stood up on end at the feeling. A wrongness emanated from the rod. No doubt it was bewitched. 

“Then we activate the rod.” Casually, Crouch leant over Beowulf as if he was nothing important and tapped his wand against the iron rod. It sprang to life. Searing heat pressed against Beowulf’s back, singing his fur. He howled. 

The change had always come easily for Beowulf. He had never felt any pain when he switched between his wolf and human form. Now, it was a monstrous experience. His bones cracked apart and snapped back together harshly. His fur daggered its way into his skin. His jaw ached as his canines shrank. 

Naked, frightened, in his human form, Beowulf pulled anxiously at his bindings. 

“Now, now,” said Crouch in a soothing voice. “No need to struggle.” He then turned to the one he’d called Draco. “It is time to inspect the mutt.”

The younger one took a few minutes to appraise Beowulf’s human form before he discovered his moonmark. It was the mark associated with his Blessing. Beowulf had not seen it before now as it had been covered by his wolf form’s fur. He looked down at his ankle where the mark glowed proudly. It was a crescent moon.

In this moment, the moonmark gave him comfort. Mother Magic was with him.

“What is that?” Draco said with a cruel sort of disgust. “A birthmark?”

“It’s associated with a werewolf’s blessing,” Crouch explained. “It’s integral to it, in fact.” The old man dragged a finger over Beowulf’s mark causing his skin to crawl. He snapped his jaws at the man. “Do not snap at me, mutt,” he said lowly. There was an undercurrent of threat.

“Luna revelio,” he said, tapping at his mark with the end of his wand. This time Beowulf refrained from snapping but he couldn’t help his instinctual growl. “Ah, it’s a useless Blessing.”

“What is it?” 

“It’s a true mate mark,” sneered Crouch. 

A true mate? Beowulf’s heart soared. Every wolf could only wish to be blessed with a true mate. It would be difficult to find them but now that he had his mark, he could begin his search. From the stories, he knew they would complete him. They would be his perfect match in every way. It was fate foretold.

“Remove it.”

What? 

Beowulf reared back in fury. “You can’t,” he rasped. “It’s my mark!” It may not be a powerful Blessing but it was the most honoured a wolf could receive. Did these men have no hearts? Had theirs already been taken for potions?

“It’s useless,” Crouch said, again. He turned to Draco, purposefully ignoring the wolf strapped to his table. “True mate marks create disloyalty. He’ll try to leave the pack to find his mate. It’s easy enough to remove with the right equipment.”

“I’ll do anything,” Beowulf begged. “Please.” He turned to the boy. He was young - younger than Beowulf. Surely he had compassion even if the older one was hardened by his years of service. “Please, Draco. Don’t take this from me.”

“Do not say my name, mutt.” Draco looked perturbed, as if Beowulf had pissed in his tea. “Can’t we put it to sleep?” The boy complained. “Its begging is giving me a headache.”

Crouch looked unimpressed.

Draco backtracked quickly. “Apologies, sir. Where were we?”

Crouch’s expression eased off. “To begin with, we must sanitise the area.”

Beowulf despaired at how easily the younger one was controlled. Did he not know that the opinions of your seniors mattered less than the contents of your heart? Beowulf could only pray to Magic that his cruelty was young naivety. He could only pray that none of his kin would undergo the same fate.