Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore--the name sent shivers down her spine. She remembered clearly, from the collection of Chocolate Frog Wizard Cards she’d stashed upstairs, the serene, bespectacled gentleman that occasionally blinked at her curiously. The name had been shouted through the halls of the manor more times than she could count, had been cursed with raised fists, had been besmirched in every imaginable way, yet despite this predestined hatred, Lysandra could hardly imagine satisfaction at the life fading from his brilliant blue eyes.
“Death?” she repeated blankly. “We are responsible for the death of Dumbledore?”
“You are not a simpleton, Lysandra,” the Dark Lord returned brusquely. “You heard me.”
“But, my Lord--” She was thrown backwards by a red jet of light before argument could rise to her lips. On the damp, cold ground she lay, wave after wave of agony crashing over her shuddering form. She clenched her jaw, but a scream was wrenched from her throat before she could hold it back. And the pain continued, unabated.
It was excruciating beyond imagination, beyond comprehension. Through the black haze, a pair of red rimmed eyes stared coldly down at Lysandra’s shuddering form, sending innumerable multitudes of searing blades to pierce her flesh.
“Get up,” a voice hissed from somewhere above. The pain had ceased, but she remained huddled on the ground.
“Crucio,” Voldemort repeated. Again, her body was tossed unceremoniously into the air, and she landed hard on her back, barely noticing the force of impact as it muddled with the anguishing ripples that tore through her.
For how long this continued, she did not know. In one of the brief respites between this torture, however, Lysandra forced herself to her knees, struggling to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged. She was shuddering as she got to her feet, every nerve in her body still screaming in the aftereffects.
“Stop it,” she panted, her voice raspy. Voldemort’s thin lips curled into a smirk at her shivering frame, but he lowered his wand.
“The Death Eaters are gathering tomorrow evening. I will instruct you further then.”
Fury rose in her throat like bile, but she swallowed it down as best she could, fixing him with the coldest glare she could muster.
“And if I refuse?” she spat.
“I would hate to illustrate the consequences,” he returned silkily. “Suffice it to say, if young Master Malfoy’s life means anything to you, you’ll have very little choice, won’t you?”
Lysandra knew what he expected--begging, pleading for the boy’s life, but she did not stir to acquiesce. Her defiance seemed to amuse the Dark Lord, for his eyes flickered momentarily and something of a smirk played around his lips.
“I await tomorrow’s instructions with bated breath,” she finally snapped sarcastically. Voldemort brushed past her silently. Watching him go, Lysandra bit her lip, contemplating. In a quiet voice, she added in a gentler tone, “Goodnight, father.”
At this, the Dark Lord turned, scarlet eyes staring at her coldly, unreadable in the darkness. He retraced the distance between them in a few gliding strides, and his suddenness made Lysandra regret her words. His expression, as he drew nearer, seemed contemplative rather than homicidal, but she fell back a step at his sharp gaze.
A claw-like hand reached from within the folds of his cloak, seizing her arm as if in a vise. Her mouth parted in a startled cry as he bent down, brushing his lips to her forehead.
And he was gone.
Quickly as he’d appeared in the foyer, he’d disappeared, leaving Lysandra trembling and alone in the darkness of the Malfoy grounds. Her body ached from the Cruciatus Curse, and a slow trickle of warmth was dripping from the back of her head, where she’d doubtless smacked it against the pavement.
Beyond the bumps and bruises however, her forehead burned, seared with the kiss of Lord Voldemort. She turned back towards the Manor, contemplative.
It occurred to her, on the long traipse back towards the flickering lights in the distance, that he’d meant not to demonstrate an act of affection, but one of possession. The mark now burning into Lysandra’s forehead was to remind her of her true master--as if she could forget.
She was cold, a chill that couldn’t be staved off by her woolen cloak. Comparable to the effect of Dementors, it felt as if every happy memory had dissolved; erased by the mission that had been set ahead of her. It was little consolation, if any, that she’d be working with Draco. She could already see the horrified look in his eyes when he was informed--she would wait until she didn’t have to break the news to him.
“What happened?” Draco demanded before she’d crossed the threshold. “You’re covered in blood.” Rather than muttering the simplest cleaning spell, he helped ease her out of her robes, offering a damp cloth to sponge away the grime from a gash hidden by her hair.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she muttered, exhausted. “I need rest. And perhaps a spot of tea…”
“You heard her,” Draco snapped, doubtless to a house-elf, but Lysandra kept her eyes closed against the lights of the parlor room. There was a thump, most likely a well-aimed kick, and a small grunt of pain as the creature scurried away.
“Be nice to them,” she muttered with a yawn, curling against a pillow. “I’ve told you a million times--”
“Rest,” Draco interrupted. “You’re still shaking. And what the bloody hell happened to your forehead? You keep rubbing it, it’s really mental.”
“He kissed me.” Her voice slurred with exhaustion, and she felt her lids close heavily. “Voldemort kissed me.”
Dark Lord's Bane by katjak
Chapter Endnotes: Please, please, please give me your thoughts.