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Draco walked into Defense Against the Dark Arts late to see every desk shoved up against the walls. The rest of the Slytherins were shifting apprehensively.
“Honored you could join us, Malfoy,” Moody growled. “Today’s lesson is going to be on the Imperious Curse. I’m going to be placing it on each of you to see how well you hold up—”
“That’s illegal.” He blurted it out without really meaning to. A few heads nodded rapidly. “Using the Imperious Curse on a human being is a life sentence in Azkaban.”
In theory.
Moody’s good eye narrowed. The crazy, spinning one stared right at Draco for a minute before rolling towards the back of Moody’s head.
“This is the lesson, Malfoy. It’s one that every student ought to learn, in my opinion. But if you’d rather not, the door is right behind you.”
There’s no way Dumbledore approved this. But Draco wasn’t supposed to cite Dumbledore’s opinions. Besides, he wasn’t sure the old codger wouldn’t decide using illegal curses as ‘teaching methods’ was a good idea.
He almost turned and walked right back out of the room. The only thing stopping him was the vague, desperate hope that Moody might have some trick or advice or something that would help Draco to next time not be a spineless puppet. So he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, scowling.
Parkinson danced an exhausting ballet routine she’d never have the grace for on her own. Crabbe recited a poem of staggering length that he had almost definitely never read. Nott impersonated Filch, so accurately that the class burst out laughing.
Draco did not. He grit his teeth, scowl growing darker, as each student was called up, cursed, and made to entertain. It was better than some things Moody could have forced them to do, perhaps, but Draco could see the slight shift behind their eyes, that tiny part of their minds that was not pleasantly complacent, not miraculously talented. The part that knew I shouldn’t be doing this. My body isn’t mine.
Zabini was released from one-armed pushups (he would no doubt feel his muscles burn soon), and then Moody rounded on Draco.
“Malfoy, how about you.”
It wasn’t a question, but Draco tried anyway. “I’d rather not, thanks.”
Moody just glared and pointed his wand. “Imperio!”
Draco flinched. He felt the spell rush over him. Most of him relaxed, filled with a warm, artificial contentment. The rest of his conscious mind was shunted into a cage, where it screamed for freedom, for autonomy, for everything to please, just stop!
I’m not doing it! That tiny part insisted. Whatever it is, I won’t.
Sing, a voice cooed. Sing something, no harm in that.
No.
It didn’t matter that the voice sounded like himself, Moody, and his father all at once. It didn’t matter that there was no harm he could cause here and now. Didn’t matter that the edges of his vision were starting to blur.
Sing. No.
The false peacefulness became aggressive, plastering safe-ok-obey over the caged voice shrieking danger-wrong-no.
Draco clenched his jaw, refusing to give in to the urge. He could vaguely hear chatter around him, but it came from the end of a long tunnel underwater. His vision was so clouded now he could distinguish no more than shadows or light.
Sing!
A strangled gasping sound escaped. His mouth opened.
Draco bit down on his lip so hard he could taste iron. Inside his head something seemed to snap and the world rushed back in full definition, heady complacency destroyed.
I did it. I actually…
The world went dark.