Hello! Gill here. Fun things: all my chapter names are from Florence and the Machine music titles. Keeps my inspiration juice flowin'. Enjoy, and please review!

Chapter 2: Remain Nameless

•••

A lot of time had passed. Months… maybe a year. Hermione often thought of what could have taken place during the time of her sentence. She had kept track of the days in the beginning, scratches along the wall every time she was given a meal- which was usually once between sleeps. During one of the many visits to her cell, her calendar had been scourgified from the wall by one of Voldemort's death eaters. Now there was no way to tell how many days had passed. This was one way they tried to break her, by allowing her to lose herself in the days and nights of total darkness. The only moments she was allowed to see, were when she kept her eyes most tightly shut. When the death eaters visited the Manor, they often stole visits to her cell. Sometimes to inflict pain, and sometimes for other, more sinister acts. Her cell was not small, measuring ten large paces in both length and width, allowing her lots of room to move around. There was a low ceiling, within reach if Hermione stretched her arms above her head.

There were few other prisoners kept in the cellar, and none would last as long as she would. Muggleborns and blood traitors were often thrown down here, considered to be of no value or merit. They were discarded easily if the death eaters were found to be in a foul mood. They were not given their own individual cells. This meant they stayed chained to the floor, day and night. The younger, prettier girls, were visited often, typically dragged away, screaming, to somewhere more private upstairs. Hermione at first thought herself lucky as she was not condemned to the same fate as the others. She was valuable, a tool against Harry Potter and the Order. For a long while, she was left untouched by the death eaters paying visits to the basement. But as time passed, her importance to the war was slowly forgotten. This allowed for some of Voldemort's followers to grow bolder. Instead when they visited the Manor cellar, they would not just stop upon some pretty girl. Soon they started to take notice of Hermione too.

At first, it was just a passing curse, or harsh word. But it was not long before they learned to open her cell door, intrigued by what lay behind it. Soon Hermione realized she was not lucky at all. Her fellow captors had short sentences, then were released to death. Hermione was not given such a choice. She was condemned to this torture for life.

There were eight others who currently shared the cold manor basement with Hermione, all chained along the floor of the cavernous room. Hermione was the only prisoner confined to her own cell. She only knew of one, and old man, who had been there for quite a time now. Hermione made a point not to speak to the others. In the beginning, they had been her provided her with comfort. She had learned their names, and had asked about their family's and learned about their homes. But quickly, she had learned her mistake. The prisoners down here did not live long. They were brought down here to die, not one left alive. Hermione forged bonds with people who shared her prison, then had to endure their deaths, one at a time.

The old man who sat chained outside her cell was the exception. Although frail and thin, Tomlin had survived for quite some time. Hermione never spoke to the man, but she could not block out his voice, or the sounds of the others. Tomlin was a storyteller by nature, and would always have a tale to lift the spirits of the crowd. Many of the guards did not pay him much notice. It was a mystery as to why he was imprisoned at all.

Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door to the cellar opening. She heard the shuffle of feet as someone made their way down the stairs to the uneven stone floor of the basement.

It was Rodolphus Lestrange. He had been staying close to The Dark Lord's side for a fortnight, living above in one of the Manors guestrooms. He came by every few nights, as he'd taken a liking to one of the younger, more attractive muggle-borns. She was a few years older than Hermione, but you wouldn't know it. She was barely five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds. She had grown thin in the weeks she'd been here.

As Rodolphus exited the stairwell doorway, there was simultaneous movement as the prisoners tried to shuffle backwards, cowering into smaller versions of themselves, trying to avoid notice. It made no difference, Rodolphus only had eyes for one. He walked with purpose towards the smallest of the huddled figures, kneeled by her, and extended his hand. He was always kinder at first. Winning over the hearts of his victims before taking them elsewhere to have his way with them. He had a plastic smile on his face as he spoke, "Come now, there's no reason to hide. That's it, good girl. Up you get."

With a wave of his wand her chains fell to the ground and she rose shakily to her feet. If you were to examine the minute details of the girls face, you would see her suffering in the form of a small cut above her right eye that was taking it's time to heal, or the stains of tears recently fallen. But Hermione chose to not look. Instead her eyes were cast down, much like the other prisoners who shared her cell. No one wanted to witness what was happening, knowing full well the girl's fate. Rodolphus led the girl towards the exit, pausing at the foot of the stairs, casting a weary glance over the remaining muggle-borns and blood traitors, looking for some sign of insubordination. Clearly satisfied with the dejected, and hopeless atmosphere, Rodulfus turned and began making his way up the stairs, all the while pulling a shivering and terrified girl behind him.

•••

The girl wasn't to return until the next morning, as was usual. It was also not uncommon for her to feature extra bruises or cuts, covering every inch of exposed skin. No one would ask her for the events of the night passed, most of it could be left to the imagination. They were used to the sound of Death Eaters boasting about their conquests from the manor hallways. Most of what transpired upstairs could be heard in echoes from the cellar below if spoken loud enough.

Hermione's cell was furthest from the staircase, but this had its advantages. When she pushed herself all the way up the south facing wall, she could position herself below the open air vent. Here she could listen to most any communication in the front parlour, where the inner circle of Lord Voldemort routinely met. This only became problematic when the screams of whomever was being punished would echo all the way down into Hermione's cell, keeping her awake and aware of someone's pain for hours on end. This was bothersome in the beginning, but by now she had hardened to it. Hermione wondered often during those sleepless nights if she might by chance know the person who was suffering at the hand of Lord Voldemort. It was not unlikely, as she knew many members of The Order personally. But it was also true that Voldemort had an equal passion for disciplining his followers as he did punishing his enemies. The screams that could be heard from her cell could just as easily belong to one of the men or women who had put her here in this very cellar. That, at least, was something she could draw comfort from.

Hermione was drifting off to sleep, huddled tightly under her faded green cargo windbreaker. She pulled the collar up tighter around her shoulders while hooking her arm under her to cradle her head. Hermione did not like sleep. She hated the way her subconscious seemed to be imprisoned, much like her body. When her eyes fluttered shut, she would not often dream of Harry and Ron, Ginny or her parents. Instead she would dream of dark hallways that seemed to extend indefinitely, no ways to exit. There was black, marble tiling beneath her feet, much like the floor of the manor. She would pass portraits on the wall that were frozen, and unmoving like photos from the muggle world. She used to believe the dreams were signs, illustrations of what was occurring in real life. When she first found peace in sleep, there would only be a door in her dream. For several nights she would try to pry the steel trap open, her fingers bloodied and nails broken in the process. When she would wake, her body would be fatigued, her fingers equally disfigured as in the dream. Often she could find the traces of blood and scratches along her stone walls, as if she were trying to dig her way out. Soon the dream shifted, she could easily open the door, but all that lay behind it was a wall. She would pound at the wall until the palms of her hands bruised, and her toes purpled from kicking. Time passed, and this wall opened to a room, with no windows or doors. This was no different from the prison she spent her days in, her dreams offered no escape. Recently, the room had been replaced by the long hallway. All Hermione could remember of her dreams the following morning, were the echoes of her steps as she walked furthur and furthur down the stretch of hallway, always waking before reaching the end.

It was during one of these dreams that Hermione was woken suddenly, by the screams of someone above her. She was running down the hallway, as she did during nights of restless sleep, when suddenly, she found herself back in her own body, huddled under Malfoy manor, very much awake, and alert. She pushed herself up, discovering the arm she had been using to support her head was asleep. Then came the sound she had been dreading;

"Please My Lord, I- I- AGHHHHHHH"

It was as Hermione had feared, Lord Voldemort had returned to the manor that evening, and was angry. Hermione could not hope to feel pity for whichever death eater was suffering at the hand of Lord Voldemort, she had ceased to care for the sounds of pain over time. She stood slowly, and moved to the corner below the air duct leaning her shoulders back onto the smooth, flat surface. Her head was throbbing from having only slept a few hours. The cries from whomever was above echoed in her ears, increasing the painful pressure behind her eyes. Then the cold, hard voice of The Dark Lord came. His voice was always soft and quiet, but still managed to make Hermione's lungs fill with ice, and her stomach drop like stone.

"Lucius, this is not the first time your actions, or the actions of your family, have severely handicapped the progress of our union."

Lucius replied as though struggling shakily between breaths, "My Lord, please. I beg of you, mercy in this. She did not know what she was doing. She thought only of her son."

"She LIED", his voice rose with anger, and he proceeded to release another curse, "CRUCIO!".

This time the cries were preceded by the thump of Lucius's body hitting the floor. Wicked laughs passed around the death eaters, their cackles reaching Hermione's hears. She thought it almost humorous too, how quickly the mighty could fall. Here the death eaters were, gathered in the grand and exquisite Malfoy Manor, to celebrate the torturing of the head of the Malfoy family. Lucius was no longer the ministry official who reigned terror over the wizarding community. Now he was a man sprawled on the floor of his own estate, paying for his crimes in blood.

"I am disappointed in you Lucius. Your inability to control Narcissa, and failure to understand where her true loyalties lie cost us all today. Potter is alive due to your family's corrupt and weak stature."

This jolted Hermione, sending alarm signals all throughout her body. Harry was alive. All this time had passed, but he was still fighting, hopefully with Ron by his side.

Lord Voldemort continued, unaware of who was listening eagerly six feet under, "I have been pleased with young Draco's talents over the past few months. He's become quite an asset to our company- would you not all agree?"

There was a general murmur in the crowd, confirming his words, then came the high drawl of Bellatrix, "Perhaps, more of an asset, then his father". This sent another quiet hush of words through the assembled death eaters.

Lucius's voice came out pleading now, "Please, My Lord, Draco is young. He will not achieve as much without the guidance of- of his father.. his mother! How Draco cares for his mother. He-"

Voldemort cut him off with a wave of his wand. "Enough. I tend to agree with Bellatrix. You've worn out your use." He turned on Lucius, "Perhaps your son will achieve far greater success out from under the weight of your embarrassments Lucius. How many years is the young Draco now, Bellatrix?"

"Near twenty, My Lord."

There was a brief pause, a moment of tense anticipation Hermione could feel from her cell, and then Lucius cut in once more, with a voice steadier than Hermione would have been able to produce, in his place.

"And my wife?", he asked. "What of Narcissa. Do I pay for her crimes today, my lord? She lied to you, not to protect the life of Harry Potter, but to protect the life of our son. Will you spare her my lord. Will you allow me to pay for her mistake?"

The silence that followed was palpable. Hermione felt a stroke of sadness in her heart, feeling closer to Harry in this moment than she had in a long time. Within reach. It remained unclear how Narcissa had managed to save him, but allowed a moment of respect for the death eaters wife.

Voldemort then began to laugh, the hacking giggles of Bellatrix also sounding through the cavernous basement. "Narcissa is dead. Did you think I would spare her?", without pausing to acknowledge Lucius's grief, he continued, "Now where is Draco? It's time for him to join us."

•••

Draco did not miss the vacant, hollow feeling of the Manor. There was a reason he had not returned since leaving Hogwarts. Once The Dark Lord and the death eaters had settled into the mansion, it had lost all home-like appeal. Draco thought back to the last Christmas break he's spent here, in seventh year. On new year's eve, he'd woken to the sounds of a woman screaming in protest as she was raped in the guest room across the hall. Yaxley had had his way with several women during those two weeks home. This was about the time when Narcissa refused to stay at the Manor any longer, preferring the downtown Partridge Sq. flat, tucked in behind Diagon Alley- another Malfoy property. Draco sat at the edge of his four-poster bed, looking out at the ornate, gold-framed mirror that hung on his wall. He examined his reflection, looking for any signs of weakness. He'd have to regain his composure if he were to present himself in front of the council of death eaters waiting below for him. A few hours ago he'd seen his mother die.

She was a cold woman- not the type of mother to coddle or cook pies. She was a proud elegant witch, never a hair out of place, or a crease in her shirt unpressed. She had many faults, but she had loved her son unconditionally. It was with great pains that Draco realized, there was no one left alive who cared for him. If the screams emanating from the floor below were any indication, whatever twisted sentiments his father held for him would soon be dead too.

Draco pulled himself up and took several confidant strides towards the mirror. He smirked at his reflection, the lopsided smile giving him confidence that perhaps his pain would go unnoticed. No one with a heart could so easily dismiss the deaths of their parents, but Draco preferred to be seen this way. Many of his peers from school thought him a cruel and bitter wizard. He couldn't dispute their claims. He had built a reputation over the past year, torturing many of The Dark Lord's victims, trying to obtain information on the Order. He had been successful, only failing once to achieve the particulars he sought after. This was only forgiven by the Dark Lord after he had endured a long string of Cruciatus curses. Draco winced painfully as another cry of agony ripped from his father's throat. He had seen a man throw up each of his major organs before being allowed to die. He had seen the Dark Lord pull a woman's lungs out from her breast and rest them upon her shoulders while she lay alive and trembling. He could cope with the tormented wails of his father.

He was granted another minute or two of mournful silence before his bedroom door swung open, the family house elf Digip came hobbling in.

"Good evening young master Draco." He said, in his surprisingly deep and husky voice, much unlike the usual house elf's, "Your presence is requested in the front parlour."

Draco let out the shaky breath he'd been holding onto. He took one last look into the mirror pushing the hair out if his eyes. He straightened tall, then spun on his heel and swiftly exited the room, down to where his father hopefully already lay dead.

He walked down the hallway, pausing at the head of the stairs, hoping to catch a glance of the scene below before being spotted. His father lay crumpled to the floor off to the side- still breathing. The parlour was filled with every member of The Dark Lord's inner circle. Draco looked over them with a look of disgust on his face. Although many were masked and heavily clocked, Draco could pick out every witch and wizard in the room. The Lestranges, Roddy and Bella, sat closest to the Dark Lord. Odd, he thought. Draco could have sworn he had witnessed Rodolphus dragging some innocent girl up to his room earlier. That typically kept him and his wife occupied throughout the night. Then the Zabini's, close friends to the Malfoys. Draco's scowl deepened as he saw Malefice, Blaise's mother, purposefully avoiding looking at the limp form of Lucius Malfoy. Draco remembered his mother and father holding Malefice's hand as she sobbed hysterically, comforting her, not a fortnight ago. She had just received news of Blaise's death at the time. The Dark Lord held severe punishments for deserters. But now she stood aloof, as though her dearest friends weren't being condemned to death.

It had been a tough war and today was supposed mark the end of it. They had attacked the school upon learning that Harry Potter was inside. Draco couldn't understand for the life of him why they would go back to Hogwarts. He must have known he would be found out immediately. It had been almost two years since he'd last seen Potter, and it had been from the very spot where he stood now. Draco cast an inward sigh, then made his way down the grand staircase, fixing an unreadable expression on to his face.

The Dark Lord rose from his seat upon his entrance. "Draco, my boy", he began. "Come. Sit."

Draco approached the tall slender figure of Lord Voldemort, but remained standing. '"Draco, may I ask something of you?"

"Yes, my Lord, anything."

"Do you see your father there?"

"Yes my Lord."

"He has acted a fool today. Do you believe he should be punished for his actions?"

"Yes my Lord. I believe my father should be punished as any of us would be. If we wrong you, we must repent."

"I believe you and I are quite similar in that regard. You understand what must be done in order to obtain our goal. The weak must be discarded, the unloyal must be struck down."

Bile rose in Draco's throat at The Dark Lords remark. How he despised any comparison that could be made between himself and his Lord. He retained a neutral expression as dread began to creep it's way up his spine. He knew what was coming next. He could see several steps ahead already. His father would be punished for his mother's crimes today. The Dark Lord would offer Draco an opportunity to prove his worth, his loyalty, in the ony way Lord Voldemort could understand. He would ask Draco to kill his father; the ultimate tribute and sacrifice.

With this one action, Draco would be guaranteed a spot in The Dark Lord's inner circle, the Malfoy name would be brought back into society's good graces. Draco would regain control of the Manor estate, something Lucius had left to waste in recent months. There was no choice. If Draco were to refuse, someone else would simply take his place. He cursed internally, frustrated at his inability to think a way out of this situation. He look towards the broken figure of his father, still resting on the floor. How pitiful he looked. A man who had struck fear into Draco's heart throughout his entire childhood. A man who had driven away his wife and son, filled with so much hatred in one lifetime. Draco felt no pity for this man. The frustration and apprehension was replaced with a disgust for his father. He placed his hand deep into the pocket of his robes, firmly grasping the handle of his wand. Draco steeled his eyes into a hardened expression as he rose his eyes to meet the serpent gaze of Lord Voldemort.

"Yes, my Lord. The weak and disloyal have no place here."

•••

End of chapter 2!

This is my first fanfic so please rip into it with you teeth. Practice makes perfect! Criticism is welcome.

Ps. I know my grammar gets a little spotty here and there (I really really don't know how to use commas) so feel free to correct me!

Thanks.

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