Title: A Very Slytherin Christmas
Author: Jinni (druscilla@cox.net)
Rating: R
Warning: Dark Fic.
Pairing: W/Draco Malfoy
Genre: BtVS/HP Crossover
Disclaimer: All things BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, et al. All things Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling, et al.
Distribution: WLS, WLF, NHA, BMP, Aislin, Serena.
Author’s Notes: Holiday Quickie #10. Pairing #24 at The Quickie Challenge:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WitchsLoveFanfic/files/quick.html
Notes2: To everyone who wrote me icky flaming, hate mail b/c they thought "Twas the Night Before Christmas" was too dark, or as one idiot put it – ‘Yuck’ – really, guys, get over it. I write dark fic sometimes. Just because the title denoted a Christmas theme doesn’t mean that it was fluff. The Quickie Challenge is to write short pieces that can be dark, fluffy, PWP, etc  - anything!!! And to the person who said I needed to put a warning for character death – um. . . I didn’t count it as dying since they were TURNING her. . . ya know? The kind of dead where you don’t actually stay dead? Hmmm?
Notes3: Willow and Draco are about seventeen years of age in this fic.

~*~

Winter.

The time when nature sleeps, quiet in its cycle of life and stasis. A time of waiting for new life to come.

It was a time of death.

The red head stared straight ahead of her, not even noticing the coldness though she stood ankle deep in snow. Snow so white and pure. It had just fallen, this snow; only a few hours before the ground had still been brown and patchy. Now it was white and pristine, hiding the ugliness of winter beneath it. She could feel the wind whipping about her slight frame; could see that same breeze pick up the fluffy snow from the ground and throw it about, like a snowglobe being shaken by an overeager tourist in some dollar store back home.

But this wasn’t a snowglobe. And she wasn’t ‘back home’.

The young woman looked around covertly, taking in all that she was here to experience. This was her night. A night of new beginnings. A night when she would take her place where she belonged. This night, Christmas night, when she was supposed to be off visiting her friends back home. Tonight she was doing something far different from associating with those people back in Sunnydale. Those ‘friends’ of hers that never seemed to really have the proper amount of time to pay to her nor the respect to show her when she did something for them. They were ungrateful and undeserving of her attentions, she had come to believe. Tonight she was doing something that went against everything she had ever fought for, everything she had been raised to believe.

And it felt good to no longer feel beholden to ideals and morals that had been thrust on her before she was old enough to really understand them. It was brainwashing of the worst sort.

She was in the center of a circle made entirely of people. They had their robes on, hoods pulled up. Black robes, with little bits of green trim at the cuffs, the bottom. Some wore gloves, some didn’t. They all had on those silvery masks that made them impossible to tell apart. Her sponsor was out there somewhere, waiting to take her before the One that would decide her worth once and for all. She couldn’t see him, her sponsor, amidst all of the other hooded, masked members of this elite little group. But he was there. And he would come when called.

She fought down a shiver, convincing herself mentally that she wasn’t cold was easier than it sounded, in reality. All she had to do was concentrate on that little ball of warmth in her stomach – the one that was fueled by nervous desire. If she just held tight to that, she didn’t even worry that she was out here, in the snow, in slippers that hardly covered her heel, and a flimsy black dress that, while long, was more for show than for covering.

There were others there, as well. Others that were in the same state of dress, or undress as it were, that she was. They were waiting for their moment to come. Their moment of decision. One of those others was very special to her, though she dare not look around for him. He wasn’t to her left or right, that she could see out of the corner of her eyes; but that only meant that he was probably in one of the rows behind her.

There were fifteen standing for Initiation tonight.

Or so she had been told, though the number meant nothing to her. As far as she was concerned there were only two that stood tonight for their Time. Only two that would be judged as worthy. And she was one of them. The other was her lover, the one that had introduced her to all of this. To power and ambition. To a different side of reality from the black and white she had grown up believing to be anything and everything.

The world wasn’t black and white.

It was made up of many shades of gray, with the ‘whiteness’ of the world being just as equal in its morality to the ‘blackness’. Right and wrong were decided by the victors of struggles, both minor and major.

And she was determined to be a victor this time around.

"Willow Rosenberg."

The red head stepped forward then, her eyes fixated firmly on the man at the head of the circle. He wasn’t really a man. Not anymore. A boy child, the same Harry Potter that was in her own House, had taken away his human form years before. The Boy-Who-Lived, who was celebrated for doing nothing more than living while his mother died. It was tragic, really, that the whole of the wizarding world placed their entire salvation on one boy who really had no special qualities or traits other than the scar he had been given That Night.

She stopped before him, dropping to her knees in the snow. The wetness quickly sank through the thin fabric of her dress, but she didn’t dwell on it. This was the moment she had been waiting for; for all of her life, it seemed. To belong, to feel a purpose. And what a grand purpose this was. He, too, was ankle deep in the snow, though she doubted he felt it. Warming charms were easy to do, and he had many loyal subjects here that would be willing to cast them for him if he didn’t feel like it.

"Who will vouch for her tonight?"

Again the hissing voice rang out through the clearing. There was some shuffling and then –

"I do."

"Very well, Lucius. Step forward to hold her? By taking this Mark, child, you pledge yourself to me, body and soul, for the rest of time. Do you agree to this?"

"Yes, my Lord." She whispered, feeling the cold hands of her sponsor land on her shoulders, holding her firmly to her knees though she had never thought about rising. Not even knowing what was coming next. She held out her left arm without a word, her eyes stuck to the ground.

‘It will only hurt for a moment. . .’ She whispered to herself, internally, keeping her doubts and fears to herself. Now was not the time for indecision. She wanted this. More than anything. And Lucius had told her all about the pain. . . he said it wouldn’t last forever and she believed him.

And so she held to that thought, as her Lord’s wand came down on the soft flesh of her forearm. He began to trace a pattern, chanting under his breath. The incantation was not unfamiliar to her, nor did she care to remember it. Almost immediately the pain began. Like a red hot poker burning into her flesh, his wand bit into her skin. Not literally, of course. It was more like the pain she would expect from a tattoo done with hot needles. She bit her lip, yet a whimper still escaped from lips that were chapped from the cold.

But she did not scream.

It seemed to drag on for eternity, that pain that felt as though it were driving straight home to her soul. Maybe it was; it was a binding spell from what she understood. Perhaps it bound soul to soul? Hers to her Lord’s.

Though, few dared to accuse that He had a soul.

And then it was over, and Lucius was helping her to her feet. The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile and she knew he was pleased. Moments later he had draped a warm, black robe over her shoulders.

"Thank you, my Lord." Willow murmured.

"Thank me by your actions, my child."

The red head nodded, allowing Lucius to lead her away.

"You did well." He whispered. "I only hope that – "

"He will." Willow assured her sponsor, pulling her robe closed as she took her place at his side, in the circle. She watched, impassively, as other initiates were called forth to receive their Marks. And then the moment came, and she held her breath for the one that would go forward next.

"Draco Malfoy."

She watched as her lover, her love, went forward. He dropped to his knees, just as she and all after her had done. The call for a sponsor went out, and again Lucius was stepping forward, this time to claim responsibility for his own heir. She felt a tingle of pride and admiration for Draco as he held his arm out, unflinching. Her own arm still throbbed from where her Lord’s wand had touched upon it, branding her so elegantly with the Mark that she would carry for the rest of her days. In the clearing Draco didn’t cry out, she couldn’t hear so much as a whimper. He fought back against the pain just as she did.

Just as they had agreed to. Neither crying nor screaming. They would take the pain like the pillars of their community they longed to be.

She fought back the urge to smile as he was helped to his feet by his father, a robe slipped over his shoulders. And now he was walking towards her, that cocky glint in his eyes back now that the stress of the evening had passed. He stood next to her, next to his father; so close that she could feel him brushing against her side every so often.

Two more initiates later and then they were done, the group breaking up, to return to Malfoy Manor for a Revel. She smiled, turning to her lover.

"You did wonderful." She whispered, stepping into his arms when he invited her to do so. They didn’t need to hide here, amongst their brothers and sisters; unlike at school where they feigned hatred day in and day out.

"As did you." He smiled softly. His lips brushed hers, gently, exploring. "My little Dark Princess."

She laughed, throwing her head back.

"And you are my Dark Prince?" Her eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"But of course." His hands were inside her robes now, tracing the edges of the Mark that had been made. It was so obscenely intimate, this moment. The Mark was an extension of her own body. A private, special part of her. And here Draco was, running his fingers up and down the still pained flesh; trailing feather light kisses with his fingertips.

And it made her wet for him.

"Draco – we’re going back to the Manor, right?"

"Mmm hmmm." His silvery eyes were lost to the darkness of passion, and she wished they were already there, at the Manor, not here in the snow.

"Can we go, then?" She whispered, the look in her eyes enough to convey her entire meaning. "We’ll still need to put in an appearance at the Revel before we can retire to your rooms and . . ."

He didn’t need to hear any more. Pulling her close to his body, the handsome Slytherin threw her a cocky leer.

And they Apparated.

To the Revel.

To their comrades.

To his bed.

~*~The End~*~