Note: This story contains references to children dying, and a violent scene.

It was never a comfortable thing, waiting for an audience with the Dark Lord. Lucius Malfoy sat on one of the worn, velvet-covered chairs in the parlour, shifting about trying to get comfortable on a seat which had long since lost any semblance of padded comfort, and was barely fabric stretched over wood now. He wished he could cast a Cushioning Charm, but it was forbidden to cast any spells in the Dark Lord's home without his express permission. And he knew, somehow he always knew. And then if you were lucky, you were punished. Sometimes… he tortured or even killed his own followers. He was seeming more deranged every day, and while his infiltration of the Ministry was going well and Bagnold was running scared, Dumbledore and his wretched Order were picking more of them off all the time. Lucius hadn't signed on for this. He wished sometimes that his father hadn't insisted on his joining this insane crusade. Still, he'd rather be on the winning side, and despite Lord Voldemort's occasional bouts of madness, he was a ruthlessly effective leader. No-one dared betray him. Few dared to face him in battle, and even fewer survived the experience – how the Potters had managed it twice so far was almost beyond imagining.

He wondered (a little anxiously) what the Dark Lord wanted with him, and his sister-in-law's family. She was in there now, speaking with their Lord. Perhaps he wanted another donation of funds to the cause? But surely speaking with his father Abraxas would be a more direct route to their vaults. Perhaps a mission? He would welcome the opportunity to prove himself, and ingratiate his family further in their Lord's favour. It didn't do to be out of his favour, these days.

The swift soft thump of feet on stone alerted him before his restricted vision did, that someone was striding quickly into the room. He drew his wand, ready for battle, but through the eyeholes of his mask he saw to his silent relief the dark robes and the featureless white mask of a fellow Death Eater. They halted as soon as they saw him, walking more sedately into the room. A twitch of nimble fingers gave the covert hand-sign they all used to identify themselves, to help stop Aurors and pesky vigilantes infiltrating their ranks. Malfoy quickly gave the counter-sign.

"You're in a hurry," he said blandly. "But you shall have to wait, as I have the next audience with our Lord, at his own insistence."

"Lucius," said the man with a sigh of relief, "it's good to see you." His smooth drawl was recognisable at once – it was Severus. He strode swiftly over to Lucius, shaking his hand in greeting. An odd touch of formality for old friends, but not an unknown courtesy amongst pure-bloods. Lucius felt the smooth touch of parchment in the palm of his hand, and was glad he was wearing a mask so that the portraits in the room wouldn't see his surprise at his friend covertly passing him a note.

Severus kept standing in front of him, nattering on about some potion he'd been working on for the Dark Lord that would cause horrendous burns when flung at a target, and conveniently obscuring the view of the portraits opposite them while Lucius covertly glanced at the tiny note in his palm.

"Tell him your child is due in June, and ensure it is born then. This advice repays all my debts to you. Eat this note after reading it."

All his debts? Lucius' year of protection at Hogwarts for the scruffy little scowling half-blood, the rather substantial loan for Severus' Apprenticeship fees and equipment, tomes of forbidden dark magic, and his patronage that led to an introduction into the Dark Lord's ranks? All was to be repaid with this one tiny note? And what strange advice it was, too.

He coughed, and covered his mouth with his hand, dropping the tiny scrap of parchment in his mouth, where it dissolved instantly with a faint taste of peppermint. Nicely done, Severus.

"It sounds like an excellent potion, Severus," he said casually. "I'm sure our Lord will be most pleased with your diligent research. Will you take a seat and join me in waiting your turn after the Lestranges and I are done?"

"Yes, I shall await my turn with equanimity. I certainly don't wish to disturb the proper order of things and try and jump ahead in the queue."

"Indeed."

They waited together, making polite chitchat about inconsequential matters, while Lucius thought over Severus' advice. It must be important. He wouldn't take such an odd risk, otherwise. He started employing Occlumency, calming his mind and tidying and organising this new information. Malfoy Manor served as his mind palace wherein all his secrets were hidden, and none that mattered were left easy to find. Everyone always went for the bookshelves. Far too obvious. That's where he hid secrets and memories he was happy for people to browse and find, and the occasional false lead. He made a new book there, of Narcissa lovingly announcing her pregnancy, and how the midwife had told her the baby was due in June.

He mentally hid Severus' note inside an egg upon the breakfast table in the smaller dining room. The memory-book of his true interactions with his darling Narcissa about her happy news was turned into a slice of toast and added to the increasingly full toast rack, next to the slice of toast that recorded his father's angry rant to the family about how the Dark Lord was going to drain the Malfoy vaults dry if his demands kept increasing, and how he was signing a good portion of it over to Lucius now to hide the true extent of their family's wealth.

Bellatrix came out of the Dark Lord's audience chamber looking tired – she was leaning on her husband Rudolphus' arm heavily.

"Are you alright sister?" Lucius asked with polite concern. "Where's young Rigel?" Their baby had been with them when they'd gone in to meet the Dark Lord. A sweet little baby boy – he'd just started crawling. Bellatrix had been ecstatic – she'd sent his wife photos for them to admire.

"Shut up," hissed Rudolphus angrily. "Shut your mouth this instant! I won't have you upsetting her or making her talk. He'll punish her."

"I would never defy him… I would never defy him…" murmured Bellatrix, over and over.

"Hush! Hush, my sweetheart," murmured Rudolphus gently. "Let's go home."

"I have his mark now!" she said proudly, sounding almost crazed. "He's pleased with me. And I would never defy him… never…"

She sounded so broken, unlike her usual self – charming and jocular, with occasional acidic barbs of wit. A foreboding chill went down Lucius' spine as the couple left. With panicked desperation he remembered a second memory he needed to alter, and made a copy of he and his wife discussing names for their child – Lyra if it was a girl, Draco if it was the son he hoped for. He'd mentioned to his wife how hoped the child would arrive the predicted week or two after the solstice, so Narcissa could still enjoy the celebration. A replacement book swiftly went into the library, and another slice of bacon got added to a plate in the breakfast room of his mind – another memory hidden.

His Lord's dulcet tones called from the antechamber, "Lucius, enter."

He stamped down his fear, and went into the brightly lit room illuminated by a plethora of candles on the chandelier and in candlesticks bracketed all over the walls. Their Lord was a handsome man, with pale skin, dark eyes, and darker hair. No touch of grey, despite his increasing years. It was rumoured that he believed himself immortal, thanks to many dark rituals, and none dared question him to his face about the matter.

"How are you, Lucius?" asked his master. Pleasantly. Charmingly. Like Lucius' wellbeing was of the utmost important to him. It flattered many. Lucius was inured to it now. He knew their Lord cared for them as tools, nothing more.

"Very well thank you, my Lord," he replied, with a deep bow of respect.

"And Narcissa?"

"Rather unwell at the moment. Constant vomiting, I'm afraid. She's lost a little weight, despite our house-elf fussing over her constantly offering tidbits of food to tempt her. Even many smells trigger her nausea."

Lord Voldemort relaxed back in the chair behind the enormous oak desk. "Such a shame she has been unable to join our soirees and meetings of late. But I do understand that morning sickness takes its toll on many pregnant women."

"Thank you for your understanding, my Lord. Truly you are both beneficent and wise." He bowed again. His lord liked a lot of obeisances from his Death Eaters.

"And when is the child due to be born? I wish to visit to offer an ancient ritual blessing for your child," the Dark Lord said, with a smile. Once his smiles had looked charming to Lucius. So polished and sophisticated. Right now in the light of Severus' desperate message it just seemed terrifying, somehow. "So I need to know exactly when it is due. I must consult star charts for the most optimal time for a ceremony."

"June, my Lord," said Malfoy. Confident and certain.

"I thought perhaps it was due a little later?" Lord Voldemort said, with studied casualness.

"No, my Lord. We weren't entirely certain at first, but the midwife's divinations were clear. Definitely early to mid June."

Trained for years in Occlumency, Lucius heard the soft ruffling of pages in his mind, as the Dark Lord browsed through his memories. With an iron will he kept his mind calm and clear, focusing on the truths his Lord would want to see the most. He was honoured to serve the Dark Lord. Honoured. He did, after all, support the purging of the Mudbloods from their midst. They destroyed wizarding culture and diluted the blood. The magical power of children, and their lifespans, decreased with every generation of taint introduced into their formerly pure wizarding lines.

"Divination is such a fascinating art," mused Lord Voldemort aloud. "Such powerful insights, yet at times worryingly imprecise. Do send me a note as soon as the child is born, won't you Lucius? And I shall come calling with gifts."

They smiled insincere smiles at each other, and after that the Dark Lord gave him his mission. He was to kill the Bones family.

"The entire family, my Lord? Children included?" Usually they spared them, and any non-combatants. Especially for a pure-blood family like the Bones.

"Edgar and his wife must die. We have a spy who has ascertained that he is indeed a member of Dumbledore's blasted Order of the Phoenix, and he has defied me for the last time. His wife has also been an irritant. Don't let her pregnancy stay your hand now, Lucius," warned his master coldly. "No mercy. The Bones family must die. The husband, the wife, and the older son. The infant son you may offer mercy to if you are weak."

Lucius protested his devout service to his Lord, and promised to slay them all. And the next night he did just that, with other Death Eaters at his side for back-up. The Bones family died almost to the last member, for Edgar and his wife were unfortunately hosting a family dinner. Only Edgar's sister and an infant niece escaped the slaughter, escaping through the Floo before the fireplace was blown up. Edgar died in a pool of blood, next to his parents whom he'd fought beside. His wife and the children were slaughtered in the cellar, where they'd run in a frantic attempt to hide when they'd been left with no better option for escape. It was a massacre, and as Lucius shot the Dark Mark into the sky above the ruins of the house, he knew there was no turning back. He'd stay a loyal Death Eater. It was the Kiss for him if they caught him now. And he still believed in the cause. But he wouldn't risk his wife and child for it. Mrs Bones' plump belly was about as round as Narcissa's was. And he'd researched the Bones family before the attack. The eldest boy was in his first year at Hogwarts. He'd been born on the twentieth of July. The infant son was, however, born in September.

-000-

Their child had been born a month early, on the fifth of June. They called him Draco. Narcissa was coldly furious with her husband. She'd almost died, and her womb and cervix were so damaged by the spells required to induce labour that the midwife had woefully predicted that this might be the only child she would ever bear to term. Draco had survived only because the midwife stood ready with an aging potion to give their infant child who struggled to breathe with his immature lungs, wheezing and choking in a way that struck terror into both his parents' hearts.

His wife didn't truly understand the necessity of it all. He hadn't dared to tell her everything (little though he knew of it), with her more modest accomplishments at learning Occlumency compared to his own proficiency. But the hints he'd dropped had been enough to terrify her, and she trusted him. Rigel Lestrange hadn't been seen for months, and Bellatrix was charging into every battle she could. She was now the proudest and most headstrong Death Eater of them all, as if she didn't fear death at all. Sometimes she laughed as she fought.

Narcissa knew enough from that fact, and from her trust in Lucius, to take a guess. Her child's life was at risk, and this was necessary somehow, despite the danger it entailed. She didn't have to like it, but she surrendered to his demand. From then on she delighted in every small rebellion they had against the Dark Lord, however, for she blamed him most of all, correctly guessing he was the threat to Draco. With Abraxas' blessing they hid much of the Malfoy family wealth in Lucius' personal vault, and in her dowry vault from the Blacks. They played up her incapacity after the birth as leaving her with a chronic disability to avoid her being branded with the Dark Mark. And of course, above all they hid the circumstances surrounding Draco's precipitous birth.

They both knew the Dark Lord was madder by the day. The McKinnons had died a month ago in May at Lord Voldemort's own hand, with a little help from Travers. Marlene McKinnon had been heavily pregnant at the time.

The Dark Lord visited with gifts and an old ritual spell for luck and power for the baby at their Blessingway in late June, smiling at the newest tiny Malfoy, and checking to see that Narcissa was well. And that she had a more flattened belly than before.

Thankfully, that was all the evidence Lord Voldemort had required. Lucius had taken the extra step of ensuring their midwife wouldn't talk, just in case his Lord had decided to check further. He'd sent her home a few days after Draco was born with a small fortune in Galleons, and a box of chocolates. She'd died quietly in her sleep that evening, with half the chocolates still uneaten. The Aurors were too scattered and panicked by the war with Lord Voldemort to take the time to properly investigate the "natural" death of an old woman.

In August one of the Death Eaters located the Prewetts. It took five Death Eaters to take down Fabian and Gideon. Gideon's wife Splinched herself to death trying to frantically force herself through the Anti-Disapparition Jinx they'd laid down. The squalling infant son in her lifeless arms survived her escape attempt, but was quickly silenced for good with a quick cutting curse by Mulciber.

The Prewett baby had been born in July of 1980. And now other members of the Order of the Phoenix with young children had gone into hiding. Lucius was no fool. He could see the pattern, even if he didn't understand why there was a pattern. Severus wouldn't tell him a single word more about it – he acted like he had no idea what Lucius was asking about. He still remained immensely grateful to his young friend for taking such a risk for his family in giving him a warning. He tore up Severus' loan contract, and even made him Draco's godfather.

It was a little over a year later that the Dark Lord was defeated. Lucius Malfoy noted with interest that the "Boy Who Lived" was born in July. Should copious bribes from the happily preserved Malfoy vaults and his planned plea of being under the Imperius Curse succeed in keeping him out of Azkaban, the Potter boy would be one to watch. Perhaps he was a nascent young Dark Lord himself – it seemed the likeliest explanation for how the child had survived when so many others had fallen. He ignored the idiotic drivel that Dumbledore and the media spouted about the theory that "his mother's love" had saved him. He and his fellow Death Eaters had killed dozens of mothers while they huddled futilely over their children's bodies – it saved none of them.

When the time came for his son to go to Hogwarts, he'd encourage Draco to befriend the boy. Best to be on the winning side, whatever it was.

-000-

Draco could hardly believe it. Harry Potter had saved him from being burnt alive by Fiendfyre, though sadly Vincent hadn't been so lucky. The poor idiot – casting a spell he hadn't mastered – it had been his downfall. And then, they'd been discarded. He'd been just dumped in the hallway like he wasn't anyone important, while Harry and his friends rushed off to join in the fighting alongside a bunch of Weasleys.

The real problem was that he'd been seen being rescued. Not that he knew it at the time. Thicknesse had been transfigured into something resembling a sea urchin by Percy Weasley, while his companion got hit with three separate Stunning Spells. But Thicknesse recovered – human transfigurations never lasted long. And, like the Imperiused loyal minion he was, he'd revived the Death Eater next to him, and informed him that Draco Malfoy was allied with Harry Potter.

So a scant handful of minutes later, after Draco had gone sneaking off looking for someone to help Greg (who wouldn't wake up no matter how much he shook him), and hopefully, a new wand to wield, Harry Potter had saved his life a second time, in a rather humiliating manner. A masked Death Eater had found Draco (now rumoured to be a traitor), and had found Draco's pleas that he really was on the Dark Lord's side pathetic and unconvincing.

Without a wand, without friends, Draco had expected death at any moment, only for a jet of red light to zap past him to hit his opponent and stun him. He turned around with a beaming smile, expecting to see Pansy, or Theo, or his mother. He saw no-one. But he sure felt it when a fist connected with his jaw.

"And that's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!" yelled the most irritating Weasley spawn of all.

He said "we", but Draco knew it would've been Harry who saved him. If Ronald Weasley had saved him, he would've crowed about it. Or not punched him. No, Potter had saved him again, and his friend was royally pissed about it.

And then they were gone. Again. He was worthless to both sides. Barely even worth fighting.

He snatched up the fallen Death Eater's wand. Waste not, want not. It wasn't as good as his old wand, or even as good as his mother's had been, but he got a decent amount of sparks out of it – it probably had a unicorn hair core. It would serve.

Now armed, he did what he thought any sensible person should do when an epic chaotic battle raged all around them, and enemies were everywhere and allies were few. He ran away and hid. He crept inside one of the deserted classrooms, and hid inside a storeroom. And he didn't emerge until he heard distant cries and cheers ring out.

"Harry!"

"HE'S ALIVE!"

Harry Potter had survived his confrontation with Lord Voldemort? Again? Draco wasn't sure whether to be relieved or petrified. He felt an awkward combination of both. On the whole, he decided he was just glad the whole thing was over, and he was still alive. He fervently hoped his parents were too.

He snuck cautiously towards the Great Hall, and to his shock found he'd badly misjudged the situation. Potter and Lord Voldemort were both still alive, and facing off against each other. His greatly relieved mother spotted him peering around a doorway, and scurried over to pull him to cover behind her, and they scurried behind one of the splintered and overturned tables, where his father lay injured, bruised and battered but still alive.

"I found him," his mother said, her voice trembling, tears running down her cheeks. "I found our boy at last."

"My son," said his father, reaching out a hand to touch his arm, as if he could hardly believe Draco was real. "I am so glad."

Unwatched by their family, Potter's confrontation with the Dark Lord continued, and they heard his boasts about how Snape had been a spy for Dumbledore all along.

"Is it true?" asked Draco in a whisper, deeply shocked.

"He swore me an oath to protect you," said his mother, uncertainly.

"I expect it's true," said his father grimly. "There were… signs."

"…I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine!..." boasted the Dark Lord.

Draco hissed unhappily – his godfather was dead?

"He thought he was loyal, but he killed him anyway?" he said miserably. "What chance do we have?"

"Little," said his mother miserably. "I lied to his face and told him Potter was dead." Lucius squeezed her hand in meaningless reassurance.

She'd doomed them all, should the Dark Lord prevail. But she wasn't the only one. His father had failed to acquire the prophecy. Draco had failed in his mission to kill Dumbledore, despite his many attempts, and hours of researching poisons and Dark curses of all kinds. And now his mother had outright sided with the Light. If Voldemort won, if they were lucky they'd get to live as the lowest of the low. If they were unlucky, the remaining hours of their lives would be filled with pain as they were slowly tortured to death. Perhaps they could still talk their way out of it though. You never knew. But… probably not.

Potter was rambling on about the Elder Wand, and Draco wanted to hex him. Didn't he know how many lives were depending on him? Why wasn't he fighting like the brave Gryffindor he was supposed to be?

And then, Potter opened his big fat mouth and ensured Draco's doom.

"The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

His terrified blue gaze met that of his mother's – her face was as white as his. He shrunk down lower behind cover. Snape had been killed not three hours ago out of suspicion of being the wand's master, and now Draco had been named in his place?

Voldemort's voice was so quiet Draco had to strain to hear him. "…After I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy…"

Doomed. There was no escape now. Potter boasted about beating Draco, and being the true master of the Elder Wand, but Draco knew that wouldn't spare him from Voldemort's Killing Curse should the Dark Lord triumph today. For the Dark Lord would wonder – would the Elder Wand work even better if all its former masters were dead?

Their only hope lay in Potter beating the Dark Lord. Potter, who was rumoured to have failed Defence Against the Dark Arts last year, when he couldn't master even the simplest of non-verbal spells in class. Why didn't he study more? The Dark Lord wanted him dead, for Merlin's sake!

Potter had to win. For Draco's own life. For his father's battered face and time in Azkaban, and his mother's tears. Even for all the children dying – this was a school and their so-called Lord had made it a warzone – they were supposed to fight Muggles, not underage wizards and witches.

Draco peeked very carefully around the splintered edge of the upturned table as the dawn light edged over the windowsill to illuminate the two figures – the battered young boy and the monster who had once been a man. Potter had his wand? He was fighting the Dark Lord with Draco's wand?! Draco pointed his purloined wand at Lord Voldemort. He'd help if there was an opening, he decided.

"Avada Kedavra!" shrieked Lord Voldemort.

"Expelliarmus!" yelled Potter. Like a total idiot. Like the total dimwit he was, who hadn't even learnt how to cast his favourite spells silently when it really mattered. Like an idiot who thought this would end with the Dark Lord disarmed, and in prison. Maybe it would if Potter was lucky and his allies took the Ministry back, but their Lord wouldn't stay imprisoned for long if so. None of his followers, Imperiused or otherwise, would dare to leave him unrescued.

As Voldemort's wand span through the air towards Potter, Draco's face firmed with resolution. He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore. The old man had been kinder than Draco deserved. But for his parents' lives, and yes his own too, he thought he could kill Voldemort.

As Potter snatched the Elder Wand from the air with a Seeker's grace, Draco saw Voldemort glance to the side. Looking for another wand to summon with a flick of his hand or simply passed over with a muttered command to a follower. Ready to keep fighting.

In total silence, and with fierce concentration, Draco cast a spell straight at his former Lord. His right hand pointed his stolen wand at Voldemort, while his left hand made a violent clenching motion – the required gesture to activate one of the Darkest curses he'd ever read. He'd planned, once, to use it on Dumbledore, but he hadn't had the guts to try it. It was horrible. It was stealthy though – the perfect assassin's spell. No jet of light or shower of sparks gave him away. Only the red glow on his left hand showed anything was happening at all. But Draco knew it was. The sensation was there – it was like his hand was clenched around Voldemort's heart. He could feel the slippery muscle beating in his hand. So he squeezed. Tightly. He felt the liquid blood dripping between his fingers as if his hand was right in the monster's chest, though no drop could be seen on the cold flagstones under Draco's feet, nor Lord Voldemort's.

Lord Voldemort's scarlet eyes rolled upwards, and his body hit the floor with a mundane finality. Draco's wand remained pointed at him for several seconds more, until the last frantic beats on the palm of his hand stilled to a quiver, then stillness. He breathed harshly as Potter stood there with two wands in his hands, staring down at Lord Voldemort's dying shell.

In the cheers that erupted and the tumult of excitement, no-one noticed the young boy in hiding tucking away his wand, and sobbing in his mother's arms as she cooed praise and reassurances that he'd done the right thing.

The Dark Lord was dead, at Draco Malfoy's hand. None would believe him should he claim credit. And few would applaud his manner of aiding Potter, with the Darkest of curses from an old Malfoy grimoire the Dark Lord had never read. Let Potter get all the credit - he didn't want to even try to claim the glory for the Dark Lord's fall, little though it would be given he'd cursed someone who wasn't looking with an illegal spell. He and all his family would live, and that was enough. As they wouldn't have had Lord Voldemort survived.