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It sounded stupid, now that Draco was saying it out loud.
“I just… didn’t think we’d literally eat death.”
Across the table, Dolohov snorted. “It’s in the fucking name, isn’t it?” He was holding his fork like a spanner. “What did you think we did at these things?”
Truthfully, Draco had always imagined the weekly Death Eater dinners as terribly glamorous. Maybe it was just the air of secrecy around them—his father and Aunt Bellatrix refused to discuss them no matter how much Draco pleaded. But whenever they scurried off every Wednesday evening to the west wing dining room, the doors locked tight and guarded with an impenetrable Muffliato, Draco’s mind was flooded with visions of bacchanalia. Curling opium smoke, the perfume of burnt absinthe. Pale fingers clutching skull-shaped goblets and lips stained purple with elf-wine.
He’d never admit to that, though. They couldn’t Crucio it out of him.
“I don’t know,” he said lamely instead.
He looked up and down the long mahogany table, searching for a sympathetic expression among the faces of his new co-workers. A yes, I remember my first time eating death, I thought there’d be loads more opium involved. But there was none to be found. Just rows of ruddy-faced peasants with their heads bent low, scratching his mother’s china as they tucked into their…
Well. That was the other thing. Draco frowned at the dubious slop in front of him. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. It certainly evoked death—dusky, featureless, and very, very grey. The surrounding bowl and service plate were bathed in a strange penumbra, as if the mysterious sludge had sucked all the light out of its immediate vicinity. Altogether, it was very uninviting. And whatever it was, it hardly seemed appropriate to serve in a consommé bowl.
A sharp elbow to Draco’s ribs startled him from his rumination. “Come, Draco, eat your death. It’s tradition,” Aunt Bellatrix crooned at his side. He’d heard that saccharine voice enough over the past few weeks to discern the shut up or you’ll get us all killed beneath it.
“Look, I’m not complaining,” Draco huffed in defence. “I’m just saying… I thought it was more… you know.” He gestured grandly. “Metaphorical.”
On his other side, Severus looked down his long nose. “The Dark Lord does not deal in metaphors.”
Draco watched as he speared a questionable chunk on his fork. His seemed remarkably less viscous.
“But… I just… It’s not literally death, is it?” he pressed.
“I find it best,” Severus intoned darkly, “not to dwell on such matters.”
Draco would later decide that was the point where he should have let it go. But he was born under a Virgo moon; dwelling on matters was his birthright, for Salazar’s sake.
“Death is an idea,” he went on. “It’s not like a tangible thing, yes? We all agree on this?” he beseeched the others.
There was some mumbling along the length of the table. Mr Goyle cleared his throat.
“I mean, death is sort of a thing, isn’t it?” he mused gormlessly. “Like… a dead rat. That’s a thing.”
It took a considerable amount of Draco’s willpower to suppress an eye roll. “But that’s not Death. That’s a rat that happens to be dead.”
“Seems like semantics,” Jugson mumbled.
“It’s not semantics,” he snapped. “One is a physical object, and one is an abstract concept. Like, okay, for example: Yaxley happens to be nouveau riche. That doesn’t mean he’s the concept of Nouveau Riche.”
Selwyn sniffed. “He sort of is.”
Down the table, Macnair leaned forward. “It's not like Death has never taken a physical form, though.” He rested his elbows on the table like an ill-bred first-year as he picked at his meal. “Didn’t your mum ever read you Beedle the Bard?”
“Sure, but we’re not eating the bloke from the story, are we,” Draco retorted dryly. “I’m not even convinced we’re all eating the same thing. Mine’s like a… a weird demon stew, and Uncle Rod’s just looks like squid ink pasta.”
Rodolphus looked up in alarm with his fork halfway to his mouth, trailing soot-black tendrils. “Don’t bring me into this.”
Abruptly, there was a hand on top of Draco’s. Alecto was leaning across the dining table, nearly barreling into a Louis XVI vase in the process. “Draco, that’s perfectly normal,” she said in the cloying sort of voice typically reserved for small children and Confundus Charm victims. “It’s okay if yours doesn’t look the same as someone else’s. Eating death is a really personal experience. It’s different for everyone!”
“And highly mandatory,” Severus added sourly.
“Can I at least ask why? Like, what is this accomplishing?”
Mr Nott and Mr Crabbe exchanged vexed glances. But Goyle spoke up again, this time through a hearty mouthful of slop.
“I think,” he began, then decided he could be arsed to pause and swallow. “I think eating the death is what lets us do... you know. The Dark Arts, ‘n that.”
Several of the dimmest of the flock nodded their agreement. “Makes sense, yeah,” Avery grunted.
“No, it doesn’t,” Draco snorted. “Dark is largely an arbitrary distinction that’s applied inconsistently to various magics designated as ‘unsavoury’ via the cultural hegemony of the Light,” he recited.
“Yeah,” Macnair chimed in. “One of those social constructs, isn’t it?”
Draco smiled at the moustached man. “Thank you, Macnair. Finally, someone talking sense.”
“Call me Walden.” Macnair winked.
Alecto grimaced. “Ew.”
“Walden, no.”
“Try it and perish,” Severus snarled.
“Look, even if dark was a coherent category—which it’s not,” Draco persisted, “isn’t the whole point of our ideology that the Dark Arts are unfairly stigmatised? If we can’t even do them without eating death—which, let’s be honest, objectively sounds quite evil—then… I don’t know. Maybe they should be stigm—Ow!”
Bellatrix was squeezing his chin. Hard. “Draco, dear.” Her long nails dug into his cheeks. “Do you remember when we discussed how some thoughts are for sharing, and others need to go in your mind fortress?”
There was something desperate in her gaze, and she was using the Voice again. Draco nodded as best he could without lacerating his skin.
“This,” she beamed, “is one for the mind fortress.” She gave him a pat on the cheek that felt more like a slap.
Draco sunk back into his seat. Complaining about the not-death hadn’t reduced the amount of it in his bowl; if anything, it seemed like it was growing, somehow. He prodded it tentatively with his bouillon spoon, and he could swear it prodded back.
No absinthe—that was one thing. This was untenable. Draco primly set down his spoon and addressed his comrades.
“Listen, I’m not trying to disrespect the proud tradition of death eating, if that’s what we’re calling this,” he sneered at Dolohov before turning back to his aunt. “I’m not trying to… to jeopardise the sanctity of my mind fortress. I’m just saying… This seems like more of a symbolic gesture, than anything. Which is fine!” he added hastily, ignoring a glare from Severus and scattered groans.
“It wouldn’t be a bad thing, if it was a metaphor. You know that, right? Like, if this is just… ratatouille with a bit of activated charcoal, that would be fine. Probably quite nice, actually, with something earthy like a Syrah, or a particularly robust Bandol…”
Dolohov rolled his eyes, but Yaxley restrained him with a firm clap to the shoulder.
“The point is, it would be alright. Good, even. Because the alternative is, if it’s not symbolism or whatever… it just sort of seems like the Dark Lord is making us all do a really vile and humiliating thing for no discernable reason.”
A tense silence followed. It was broken by the clatter of Dolohov’s fork on the table.
“I’m sorry, princess, is being a Death Eater not the breezy little garden party you expected?” he sneered. “Is there not enough symbolism and wine pairings for you? Look around. No one else gives a toss. We’ve lost half our men, got the Ministry breathing down our necks. No one’s got time to babysit a spoiled brat whose biggest problem in life is his daddy bought him the wrong colour flying Mercedes.”
Draco felt his cheeks burning. “It was a Bentley,” he mumbled. And it was perfect.
“Give it a rest, Antonin,” Rowle grunted. “The kid can’t help it, can he? Not his fault his old man is a feckless cunt who never taught him any better.”
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Listen, boy. Let me give you a bit of advice, man to man, eh?” Rowle went on. “You seem like… well, not a good kid. You’re a little dickhead, if I’m honest. But it’d be a shame to see you end up on the wrong end of an Entrail-Expelling Curse over this, all the same.”
Draco wrinkled his nose. “Sure.”
“You wanna make it in this line of work with all your innards intact?” Rowle jabbed with his glass of port. “Stop whinging, keep your head down, and eat the bloody death. Cheers.” He clinked glasses with Yaxley, who grumbled, “Hear, hear.”
The chorus of titters that followed made Draco’s face feel numb. No one, not even Macnair, spoke up in his defence. He turned to Bella, who was occupied with pretending they weren’t related, then Severus, who only spared him a glance of contempt.
“Fine. Fine!” Draco huffed, surprising even himself with how petulant he sounded. “Since evidently it’s verboten to ask questions.” He picked up his spoon again and threw a glare at Rodolphus, who was still tittering treacherously. “Pretty sure that’s just fettuccine. But whatever.”
He gagged on the first bite.
Given a thousand tries, Draco could never find the words to describe the taste of it, but he was pretty sure he’d never eat bœuf bourguignon again. In the haze of his nausea, or perhaps because some god took pity on him, Draco bowed his head, and his gaze fell serendipitously on a flicker of movement under the cuff of his left sleeve.
The snake was moving. It writhed across his pale skin, chasing its tail as it weaved restlessly through the eyes of the skull. It—she, Draco decided arbitrarily, spotted a freckle on his wrist and darted for it, fangs bared. She only succeeded in bonking her tiny snout. Something about the way she recoiled in irritation and nosed the tendon of Draco’s forearm stirred something unwelcome and paternal in his chest. He flexed his fingers, drawing out the long line of sinew running from his wrist, and she nuzzled it happily. It tickled.
“Poor dear,” Draco whispered to her, more tenderly than he’d meant to. “Were you trying to hunt?”
She looked at him expectantly, flicking her little black tongue. Surely a tattoo couldn’t get hungry? It hadn’t exactly come with a pamphlet.
Mercifully, once he’d stopped talking, everyone seemed to ignore Draco entirely. So it was easy enough to sneak a spoonful of slop under the table. “Here you are, darling. Just between us,” he whispered as he pressed the cool metal to his skin.
There was a singular moment in which it occurred to him that maybe this was a terrible idea. That tattoos couldn’t eat, and even if they could, it was utterly stupid to gamble his innards like this. But when a solid lump pressed against his skin and abruptly vanished, so did any of his qualms. The little snake inhaled chunk after chunk, drawing them into her inky throat with ease. It was slimy and frigid, but she ate enthusiastically, and soon, all that was left was a thin grey slurry.
At first Draco simply held a spoonful of it to her snout, and they stared at each other lamely. He’s not sure why he expected her to lap it up like a dog.
“Go on, my love.” He nudged her with it gently, and a bit dribbled down his arm, soaking through his serviette and into his trousers. “Little cow,” he hissed. “These are Gucci.”
She flicked her tongue cheekily. He squinted at her.
“... Can you understand me?”
“Understand what?” Bellatrix asked.
Draco clapped a hand over his arm. “Nothing!” he sputtered. “Just I… understand, now, why… you all love eating death.” He nodded at his bowl, which was noticeably less full than it had been a few minutes ago. “I could… really go for some Dark Arts right about now.”
Dolohov narrowed his eyes over his drink, but Bella seemed to buy it.
“That’s lovely, Draco,” she said vacantly. He exhaled in relief when she turned back to Alecto and reimmersed herself in their debate over flaying methods.
Things became markedly easier once Draco managed to Transfigure his fountain pen into a makeshift syringe. Mouthful by tiny mouthful, the grey nightmare disappeared into Draco’s forearm. Before long, he was smirking triumphantly at an empty bowl, while Dolohov and the rest of the credulous twats dutifully slurped their gruel.
Draco always found there was something immensely satisfying about besting his lessers. Probably not as satisfying as opium, but it was enough to redeem the evening.
“Good girl,” he cooed softly to the snake as she coiled on top of the skull, digesting her grim meal. “We won’t tell anyone, will we, petal?”
The first sign that Draco had done something horribly wrong was the itching. He dismissed it at first as a side effect of the Dark Lord’s proximity. But as the meeting went on, what started as a tickle grew into a persistent, nagging sense that something was inside his skin.
Could magical tattoos become infected? They really should have given out pamphlets.
The hissing started not long after. It was more of a huff, really, like she was trying to… can snakes hiccup? Surely not. The Dark Lord wouldn’t have based his aesthetic around an animal that can hiccup. A particularly loud puff drew a bemused look from Mr Nott, and Draco found himself pondering Rowle’s warning about his innards.
He wrapped his fingers around his forearm. It was cold to the touch.
If there’s anything Draco had gleaned from years of living in a boy’s dormitory, it's that you can’t stop a determined bit of wind. You can only really delay it and ensure that it’s very, very loud when it finally breaks free. So it shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was when a puff of air trumpeted violently through his sweaty fingers, and all eyes in the room were suddenly, painfully, on him.
“Draco.”
He gulped. His name sounded like poison in the Dark Lord’s mouth.
“Is there something you wish to add?”
He couldn’t feel his face. What had they even been talking about? The membership drive, maybe. Something about the flaying committee…
“No,” Draco managed to croak. Bellatrix elbowed him in the ribs. “M-my lord.” For good measure, he added, “Must have been Crabbe, my lord.”
That got a laugh, thank Merlin and all the saints, and the meeting droned on.
But the itching didn’t stop. Soon it was accompanied by a strange, mounting pressure that was at once less annoying and much more terrifying. He scratched it surreptitiously under his sleeve.
“Draco,” Bellatrix hissed at his side.
He continued staring unblinkingly at the back of Selwyn’s head. Still scratching.
“Draco!” she repeated more insistently, and that time he made the mistake of sparing her a sidelong glance. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” is what Draco had meant to say, but he heard himself whisper, “I fed it.”
“I knew it!” she snarled. “... The entire bowl?”
“I didn’t think it mattered!”
“We told you it did!”
Foolishly he peeked under his sleeve. The snake was twisting violently. Her throat bulged, protruding from his arm in a tumorlike lump beneath the skin. “I thought it was a metaphor,” he murmured queasily.
“You’re making a scene.” Bellatrix swatted at him. “Stop messing with it!”
“I can’t,” Draco gritted through clenched teeth. “She hisses when I stop!”
“Who’s she!?” Bella demanded, but Draco was already yanking down his sleeve. The snake’s jaws were pried open by something large and round and very, very grey.
“Shit,” Bella faltered. “Shit! Do something, fool!”
“Forgive me, petal,” he whispered, then threw his arms behind his back and squeezed his wrist as tightly as he could.
There was a quiet, blissful second where he thought it had worked.
Then, a wet hack.
He shrieked from the pain of it, and every soul in the room turned just in time to witness a smooth, grey pebble plummet from Draco’s robes, trundle across the floor, and roll to a stop at the Dark Lord’s feet.
Harry bolted upright with a gasp. “What the fuck.”
He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, and the world began to return to him. He was in Ron’s bedroom. Not… wherever that had been.
“What the fuck,” he repeated under his breath.
There was a rustle of sheets beside him. Ron was squinting at him over his shoulder. “Alright, Haz?”
“Yeah… yeah, I think so.” He ran a hand over his face and dragged his fingers through his dishevelled hair. “Just another… dream.”
Ron tumbled over. He propped himself up on an elbow, suddenly very awake as he peered at Harry with obvious concern. “What, like… the ones about You-Know-Who?”
Harry grimaced. “No. No, er, not… quite like the others.” He slumped back onto his pillow and stared up at the ceiling as he waited for his heartbeat to slow.
“Ron… d’you think…” No. Maybe he’d just misheard… He swallowed hard. “Do you reckon the Death Eaters literally eat death?”
Ron snorted and answered very sensibly, “Don’t be stupid. It’s just a metaphor.”