Log: Pureblood Supremacy
WHO: Draco Malfoy
WHAT: Kidnapped
WHEN: 30 January - 5 February
WHERE: Purely Potions / Undisclosed Location - Draco's Dimension of the HPverse
WITH: Dispair and attempting to be Gryffindory.
Back to his normal self, Draco went back to working in his potions shop, Purely Potions, the following day - having 'let go' the 'young lady' who'd been doing sales recently. It was getting toward the end of the day, when Draco finished brewing some re-stock in one of his healing potions, when the bell on the door sounded. "I'll be with you in a moment!" he called over his shoulder, affecting Damien Bonfoi's French accent - it'd worked for twenty some-odd years, he wasn't about to do away with it now.
It seemed, in recent years, that the wandering across thresholds happened most often within one's own world, with parallels of the same. So much so, that it was easy to be unsure which world one was in, without checking a few key facts first. Draco knew his potions shop was still in the parallel he grew up in. He knew his Manor was as well, just as he knew that HIS Harry's flat was in a past parallel. This should prove to be especially important to remember in the events following.
"You certainly shall, Potions Master Bonfoi," said an unfamiliar, gruff voice - moments before a muttered spell hit Draco between the shoulder blades, toppling him off the ladder. He reached for his wand as he fell, but a second spell tore it from his hand before a spell could cross his mind or lips.
A third had him petrified seconds before his body hit the floor with a crash, stars breaking out behind his eyes. If he could have, he would have groaned in pain, then despair as three faces appeared above him.
"We have need of your talents, Bonfoi - obviously you will have no difficulty in accompanying us."
The second man sniggered, but the third leered. Draco wracked his memory for why that face looked so familiar - but the pain in his head was making it increasingly difficult to think clearly. A heavy boot landed on his chest, knocking the breath from him. "Welcome to the rest of your life. What's left of it."
Three hands grabbed him. "Pureblood Pride" they spoke together, and Draco felt the dreaded tug behind his navel signifying a portkey.
***
Draco landed in a dingy cell. It was cold, musty. The petrification was removed and he was pulled to his feet by his ordinary brown hair. "What do you want, you fools! The war ended years ago - leave off it!"
"Much the pity - a Frenchman like yourself ought not care one way or the other. Your shop is named Purely Potions for a reason, is it not? Of course you will work with us to restore Pureblood Supremacy."
Draco spat at the speaker's feet, only to receive a blow to the head, causing him to see stars once again. He snarled as he struggled to break free of the hands holding him.
"Should anyone come looking for you, we will of course eradicate them - that is, unless you agree to brew a few... special potions in exchange for your life. Once you-"
"I will not be coerced into brewing potions for you ruffians!"
A boot connected with his stomach, causing him to bend over in pain. "As I was about to say," the speaker continued in mock patience, "Once you prove your worth, and continue to do so, you will be allowed your life. Should you refuse, your body will be found hanging from the War Memorial in Diagon Alley as a warning."
"You can't be serious," Draco groaned, shaking his head. "Potter runs the Aurors, they'll eradicate you so quickly, you won't know your head's been blown off until it's hit the ground!"
A sneering grin. "You'll see reason. The French are always accommodating to the preservation of their lives."
"I won't help y-"
"Especially when they're somewhat odd philanthropists, running Orphanages...."
Draco's blood ran cold. "You can't possibly-"
"Oh, but we can. We know you run that Apothecary in order to pay for that Orphanage of yours. It's disgusting how you'll take in even mudbloods and muggle spawn. We'd hate to raze it to the ground because you refused to brew a few... simple potions."
Was he never to escape it? Twenty three years, and still he was being blackmailed into working for the wrong side. First his parents... now the children.
Draco wouldn't risk them, even if it meant selling his soul in the process. He could be brave, if he had to... Founders help him, should he let those children down. He'd worked so hard. So long.
He stood as straight as he could, glamour brown eyes flashing with his hateful decision. "I'll do it."
"Welcome to the cause, Damien Bonfoi," they said, before a crash of magic threw him against the wall, and unconscious.
*****
It'd been several days - Draco wasn't entirely sure how many - since he was abducted. Surely by now someone had noticed he was missing. He could only hope he'd survive long enough to see these despicable men's lives ended. He'd learned much in his period among them. One main thing he'd learned was that their 'army' was actually quite small. A hundred or so at the most, probably less, were members of this damning cause.
He knew it wasn't likely that Potter, the one of his world, would suffer them to get very far. In fact, as much as Draco knew, they hadn't actually DONE anything just yet. He'd never heard of them until they'd taken him, after all.
The potions he was forced to brew were disgusting. Darker than anything he'd ever done. He thought he might recognise a few from the Death Eater days, but he couldn't be entirely sure. He'd blocked most of his memories of that time, and coupled with the obliviation incident recently, he had difficulty finding them again. He was sure these men must have been Death Eaters - but he never saw their arms to be sure.
Then again, it was more likely that these were the children of those who prowled his home so long ago - sniveling, bowing, scraping before the madman that did so well at destroying all their lives.
Then again, if he made the potions badly, rather than correctly - perhaps he could distract them among themselves long enough to escape? Wandless, he was nearly helpless - there were few things he was able to do. A flicker of flame to light a fire, A small amount of levitation, or healing. He'd never had time, nor taken the effort, to learn to do anything else - and he'd never felt more helpless.
He'd even tried turning into an ermine and slipping out through the drains, something. ANYTHING. However, it was all for naught - they'd charmed his lab... his cell... to repel any magic other than that instinctive to brewing. Somehow they made it impossible to transform - and the moment he figured that out was one which killed his hope.
He would never leave. He would die.
But, perhaps, he could take the lot of them out with him. With renewed grim determination, Draco began sabotaging the potions. A few replaced ingredients here and there - and when they suffered the effects - a stolen wand, and a spell worthy of Finnigan, would end this new war before it could begin.
The chains that allowed him to move about the room, and only about the room, clanked as he walked around his table. Apparently the captors were taking no chances, using both physical and magical means to keep him there.
A grim smile touched his lips as he set down the aconite he was about to add to the potion, and pulled out the belladonna instead.
((...TBC...)
WHAT: Kidnapped
WHEN: 30 January - 5 February
WHERE: Purely Potions / Undisclosed Location - Draco's Dimension of the HPverse
WITH: Dispair and attempting to be Gryffindory.
Back to his normal self, Draco went back to working in his potions shop, Purely Potions, the following day - having 'let go' the 'young lady' who'd been doing sales recently. It was getting toward the end of the day, when Draco finished brewing some re-stock in one of his healing potions, when the bell on the door sounded. "I'll be with you in a moment!" he called over his shoulder, affecting Damien Bonfoi's French accent - it'd worked for twenty some-odd years, he wasn't about to do away with it now.
It seemed, in recent years, that the wandering across thresholds happened most often within one's own world, with parallels of the same. So much so, that it was easy to be unsure which world one was in, without checking a few key facts first. Draco knew his potions shop was still in the parallel he grew up in. He knew his Manor was as well, just as he knew that HIS Harry's flat was in a past parallel. This should prove to be especially important to remember in the events following.
"You certainly shall, Potions Master Bonfoi," said an unfamiliar, gruff voice - moments before a muttered spell hit Draco between the shoulder blades, toppling him off the ladder. He reached for his wand as he fell, but a second spell tore it from his hand before a spell could cross his mind or lips.
A third had him petrified seconds before his body hit the floor with a crash, stars breaking out behind his eyes. If he could have, he would have groaned in pain, then despair as three faces appeared above him.
"We have need of your talents, Bonfoi - obviously you will have no difficulty in accompanying us."
The second man sniggered, but the third leered. Draco wracked his memory for why that face looked so familiar - but the pain in his head was making it increasingly difficult to think clearly. A heavy boot landed on his chest, knocking the breath from him. "Welcome to the rest of your life. What's left of it."
Three hands grabbed him. "Pureblood Pride" they spoke together, and Draco felt the dreaded tug behind his navel signifying a portkey.
***
Draco landed in a dingy cell. It was cold, musty. The petrification was removed and he was pulled to his feet by his ordinary brown hair. "What do you want, you fools! The war ended years ago - leave off it!"
"Much the pity - a Frenchman like yourself ought not care one way or the other. Your shop is named Purely Potions for a reason, is it not? Of course you will work with us to restore Pureblood Supremacy."
Draco spat at the speaker's feet, only to receive a blow to the head, causing him to see stars once again. He snarled as he struggled to break free of the hands holding him.
"Should anyone come looking for you, we will of course eradicate them - that is, unless you agree to brew a few... special potions in exchange for your life. Once you-"
"I will not be coerced into brewing potions for you ruffians!"
A boot connected with his stomach, causing him to bend over in pain. "As I was about to say," the speaker continued in mock patience, "Once you prove your worth, and continue to do so, you will be allowed your life. Should you refuse, your body will be found hanging from the War Memorial in Diagon Alley as a warning."
"You can't be serious," Draco groaned, shaking his head. "Potter runs the Aurors, they'll eradicate you so quickly, you won't know your head's been blown off until it's hit the ground!"
A sneering grin. "You'll see reason. The French are always accommodating to the preservation of their lives."
"I won't help y-"
"Especially when they're somewhat odd philanthropists, running Orphanages...."
Draco's blood ran cold. "You can't possibly-"
"Oh, but we can. We know you run that Apothecary in order to pay for that Orphanage of yours. It's disgusting how you'll take in even mudbloods and muggle spawn. We'd hate to raze it to the ground because you refused to brew a few... simple potions."
Was he never to escape it? Twenty three years, and still he was being blackmailed into working for the wrong side. First his parents... now the children.
Draco wouldn't risk them, even if it meant selling his soul in the process. He could be brave, if he had to... Founders help him, should he let those children down. He'd worked so hard. So long.
He stood as straight as he could, glamour brown eyes flashing with his hateful decision. "I'll do it."
"Welcome to the cause, Damien Bonfoi," they said, before a crash of magic threw him against the wall, and unconscious.
*****
It'd been several days - Draco wasn't entirely sure how many - since he was abducted. Surely by now someone had noticed he was missing. He could only hope he'd survive long enough to see these despicable men's lives ended. He'd learned much in his period among them. One main thing he'd learned was that their 'army' was actually quite small. A hundred or so at the most, probably less, were members of this damning cause.
He knew it wasn't likely that Potter, the one of his world, would suffer them to get very far. In fact, as much as Draco knew, they hadn't actually DONE anything just yet. He'd never heard of them until they'd taken him, after all.
The potions he was forced to brew were disgusting. Darker than anything he'd ever done. He thought he might recognise a few from the Death Eater days, but he couldn't be entirely sure. He'd blocked most of his memories of that time, and coupled with the obliviation incident recently, he had difficulty finding them again. He was sure these men must have been Death Eaters - but he never saw their arms to be sure.
Then again, it was more likely that these were the children of those who prowled his home so long ago - sniveling, bowing, scraping before the madman that did so well at destroying all their lives.
Then again, if he made the potions badly, rather than correctly - perhaps he could distract them among themselves long enough to escape? Wandless, he was nearly helpless - there were few things he was able to do. A flicker of flame to light a fire, A small amount of levitation, or healing. He'd never had time, nor taken the effort, to learn to do anything else - and he'd never felt more helpless.
He'd even tried turning into an ermine and slipping out through the drains, something. ANYTHING. However, it was all for naught - they'd charmed his lab... his cell... to repel any magic other than that instinctive to brewing. Somehow they made it impossible to transform - and the moment he figured that out was one which killed his hope.
He would never leave. He would die.
But, perhaps, he could take the lot of them out with him. With renewed grim determination, Draco began sabotaging the potions. A few replaced ingredients here and there - and when they suffered the effects - a stolen wand, and a spell worthy of Finnigan, would end this new war before it could begin.
The chains that allowed him to move about the room, and only about the room, clanked as he walked around his table. Apparently the captors were taking no chances, using both physical and magical means to keep him there.
A grim smile touched his lips as he set down the aconite he was about to add to the potion, and pulled out the belladonna instead.
((...TBC...)