I have done much for the Dark Lord. I have killed for him, fought for him in duels and with words, rhetoric, argument. I have won, and enjoyed the winning; have lost, and coped with the sting.

Yet this burden…is almost too much to bear willingly.

In here, you see, I have no choice. But if I had a choice - would I take it?
Run, as Karakoff does? He knows that, one day, his heart and mind and the body that houses both will be ripped to unforgiven shreds. There is no mercy with the Dark Lord, no redemption; only retribution.

It was how I wanted it, since I believed that I would never fall. Fail the Dark Lord? Never. Devotion, and fear, in the last instance - first and last, really - would assure me of that. His was the world and everything in it; his was the Truth.

What the world calls arrogance is a necessity for Voldemort, the seasoning and flavour of his followers. You will not get to him without it. Malfoy arrogance is of an excellent and nurtured vintage; the Dark Lord loved it in me. His hands would sort delicately through my mind until he came across a particularly rich seam: my prowess in bed, perhaps, or my shrewd investments, or my endless ingenuity in deceit. Then he would sit in it, imbibing rapturously as he took me, cock making controlled, lazy long strokes that felt like lightning in my brain. His very power was a source of ecstasy almost too great for me to bear. Though I held up better than many others. For that reason he took me to his bed. He had attempted the same with others previous, and the next morning they had been witless wrecks, throats bled dry with raving, fit only for a little enjoyable torture before death.

But I flourished as I lay under him, spreading my legs eagerly; only with him was I so open. Narcissa was ousted from my heart a long time ago by this Lord, this terrible and gentle Darkness that saw into my soul daily, and both twisted it in careful fingers, and left it dirty and cleansed with his approbation. He would never crash through my mind as he did with others, those he hated or despised. I was - am - his creature, must own myself his creation, since he has shaped me, and so he treated me with care. I was valuable to him, and he enjoyed me. All the feelings are gone now, but I still have dull pictures in my head of us writhing together, my wrists above my head in obedience, my mind a series of clear images of proud moments, while Tom accessed them and arched into me again and again and again and again… He fucked me sore - I think it felt wonderful, though I don't *know* that, of course.

It is arduous, to reassemble the impossible memories of a life ago. I see myself; I lounged at his side, sucking him, languorous in the morning sunlight. Tom liked sun. Why should he not? Dark creatures do not need dark around them. We carry it within ourselves.

Together in the darkness, he held back my release as a matter of course. We would be in the rhythm, I moaning into his mouth, at last stripped of my dignity by the rubs and strokes and hard jerks to my cock, he above me as always, as it should be. Wandering through my memories, sifting and sipping and drinking in my experience… my hips would start to rise further, to impale me harder, more insistent on his cock, and my groans would become cries; he thrust into me without mercy. The true cruelty would come when I neared the edge, cringing with the expectation. He would suddenly rake his nails through the images, flick to one of distaste and despair, or a humiliation, and force me to relive it. One of Draco's constant failures…(am I a bad father?) Or perhaps of my inability to get a certain Death Eater to co-operate with my, ah, desires.

Oh, you may as well know, I suppose... Very well - I wanted Severus Snape. God only knows why, he's no great catch, is he? Especially not to one such as myself. But try as I might, I could never ensnare him these past years. It puzzled and infuriated me. It humiliated me. The Dark Lord knew this, as he knows all our weakness, and delighted in it. He would habitually pick at the sore wound and bring up the rebuffs, the sneers, the armour with which Severus surrounds himself. My cock would nobly try to revive, but in the main I was finished. My shame, my frustration, my leashed orgasm with nowhere to go, amused Voldemort intensely.

Yet I never left, of course. We continued as we were, he master to my slave, as sure as if I were manacled to him. Which, in a sense, I was. The Mark sang when he touched it, shivered when he licked it, sighed and echoed with the reverberations of his plunges into my stretched anus as I bucked back against him. As it mourned when he did not have contact with it.

It mourns now. My hand is useless, cupping around it. Only Tom can attune that piece of himself on me to the harmony of his Darkness.

Tom is a passionate man, a relentlessly superb Lord. His virtuosity of the Dark Magics is breathtaking. He creates Black Art for which there are no words; new forms are called into being by his will. He shimmers with magics, obliquely. I believe that, more than any wizard before or since, he moves *inside* magic. Most wizards have their own pitiful little wellspring; Tom, however, is submerged in power. He has control so nice that it is invisible to the uninvited eye. His visions pull on you, draw you after him.

He is worthy of being served to the utmost.

But in here, at the mercy of his creatures - who have no will with which to be merciful - I could nearly doubt it. What do I care now for Muggles or their destruction? For the reorganisation of society, the eradication of bad blood from the wizarding line, for all those great and noble works we wished to accomplish? What do I care for anything but my empty stomach, my continual chill in damp darkness; for a cessation of this misery that attacks and corrodes the rotting wooden posts that shore up my sanity? My sense of perspective is sliding. A world, of which I have no proof, exists only in a handful of memories. The colour is leaving them. The sound and smell of them is being leeched away, now a slow sieving, then a quick gulp. All my mind's contents are dependent on the creatures' hunger.

Once I would have observed this destruction with cold interest, or perhaps hot glee. Tom and I would have celebrated later, with reminiscences of the gasps of a dying man, as the Dementor slowly sucked his soul from its moorings. I know the sound it makes when it swallows. On one occasion, Tom came to that sound. I relished his slick cock in my mouth; received, with pleasure in my compliance.

Now I am that dying man, and the site of my moorings is slipping into quicksand. I wonder whether it will sink first, or when the day or night will come - what time will it be? - when their lips close over mine. I, who have kissed Voldemort - something that many would shiver at - though I cannot, even now. The Dementors have none of *his* fire.

I am afraid. I will admit it, I am. I am so afraid. Partly because I feel fear, an unaccustomed enemy. But even that I could ignore, if it were not for the unwelcome side-effect. My grip on reality slips. I begin to question. I begin, for the first time, to doubt.
Was I wrong?
Was…he?

End.