Chapter 10 – The Fear

A little way outside the town of Whitby in Yorkshire lay a small, almost deserted area of dense countryside. There were hills on all sides, littered with crumpled stone walls and the carcasses of sheep that had fallen victim to the slow decay of time and weather, or to roaming predators. In the middle of the valley, hidden by patches of thick foliage, lay a mossy, rain-beaten stone cottage. Once a grand rural residence, it had now suffered the wear and tear of centuries, like the hills that surrounded it. Despite the need for repair, the tiled roof had been well resistant to the forces of nature, never once letting through wind, rain, sleet or snow. Within the walls of this cottage, a seventeen year old boy cowered shakily in a corner.

His tender years not withstanding, there were already faint traces of grey in his pale blonde hair. By a potent combination of fear, anxiety and lack of sleep, his eyes appeared dark and slightly sunken into his sickly white face. What little rest he had been afforded had been plagued by nightmares that were scarcely any worse than his reality.

A tall thin wizard in thick black robes had been sitting at the table in the middle of the room, looking sullenly about him. The boy flinched every time he caught his eye, and whimpered as he rose to his feet and spoke. The wizard's voice was the very epitome of heartlessness.

"Of all the gifts bestowed upon you, your life is not one that I would advise taking for granted at this moment."

The boy was weak, almost a shadow of who he had been a year ago. He began to hyperventilate as the voice continued.

"Your task was completed, but not as I would have hoped. So I have been asking myself how this could have happened. I am told that you had the perfect opportunity, and yet your hesitation prompted a more faithful servant of mine to do this deed in your stead. Now you will tell me why."

The boy couldn't speak. He was terrified, and could think of no answer that would satisfy the master who now stood before him. Instead, he continued to whine pathetically as he was regarded with impatience.

"Silence is not something I treat lightly when I demand an explanation!" hissed the wizard in a snake-like tone, "You may only thank the servant in question that you and your family continue to draw breath."

He drew in closer to the corner and stared hard into the boy's face.

"I will not accept youthful innocence as a plea. At your age, I killed my father and the worthless vermin who spawned him. Could it be, young Draco, that you are unworthy, possibly even ashamed, of the blood that flows in your veins?"

At this, Draco Malfoy could only violently and fearfully shake his head.

"Could it be that you are truly unworthy of the Dark Mark that you claimed to wear with such pride? Careful how you answer boy! Both your life and that of your treacherous father in Azkaban still hang in the balance."

Finally, Draco managed to regain his powers of speech.

"I…I was…afraid it w…wouldn't work. I d…didn't know what would happen!"

Voldemort nodded, conceding.

"It's true, the late Albus Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard, not one to be underestimated" he said, pulling a wand from amongst his robes, "but given that this task was appointed to you with full understanding of the consequences of your failure, I can only conclude that you have remarkably little faith in the Dark Arts that you embraced."

He then pointed the wand squarely at Draco, who frantically scrabbled further into the corner as if he could have escaped through some hidden trapdoor there.

"Let's see if we can restore your confidence, shall we…? CRUCIO!"

Draco's whole body then tensed up, his limbs stretching out of the corner as he screamed in agony. Every nerve in him twitched with an unbearable pain that only subsided when Voldemort lowered his wand. He lay back in the corner, a trembling wreck.

"See how easy it is? Do I need to demonstrate my powers to the rest of your family before you will understand how serious my resolve can be? Because you may rest assured, that was merely a little sting to get your attention."

The boy shook his head, still reeling from the attack.

"No…please….I'll do anything!"

Voldemort looked down at him, with nothing more than disgust on his face.

"I certainly hope you will, for your family's sake as well as your own, for you have still yet to prove yourself deserving of your bloodline or the mark of recognition with which I rewarded you. Many would kill for both of these, and you may well have to kill to keep them."

He moved in closer towards Draco with a venomous snarl cutting across his features, and spoke in a manner that made him shudder all over.

"Harry Potter will die by my hand, and you will carry out in full any instructions I should decide to give you to make this possible. It would not be in your best interests to fail me a second time. Begging for one's life is one thing, but I believe you will know where your loyalties lie once you have seen another beg for their own death."

With that, Voldemort finally turned his back. He listened carefully and nodded at what he heard.

"I have certain matters of importance to attend to. While I am gone, I will leave you in the charge of a trusted follower, perhaps one who will teach you a lesson or two."

With one last contemptuous glance at the boy, Voldemort swiftly disapparated from the room. Malfoy lay sobbing into the sleeves of the once pristine and finely tailored robes that now clung to him, damp with sweat, rainwater, blood and dirt. If it weren't for the knowledge that he would possibly be in even worse danger, Malfoy would have run. He wouldn't have cared where. His confidence, arrogance and ambition had abandoned him, and he couldn't even imagine how this nightmare would end. If he knew that his parents were safe, he might have had the strength to stand, but this luxury was denied.

He didn't know how to feel or what to think. He hated Harry Potter, and blamed him for his father's imprisonment. Maybe if it weren't for Harry Potter, the Dark Lord would be richly rewarding him and his family for loyal services to him. He was running this notion over and over in his head as the door opened. The man who entered moved swiftly to Malfoy's side and began pulling him to his feet. The man's voice was stern, but the very sound of it reassured him.

"This is no time for weakness" ordered Snape.

"Professor? I…"

"You are in shock, Malfoy. You must rest, or you will lose your mind."

With some effort, he pulled Draco up the stairs and into the nearest bedroom. Laying him on the bed, he addressed him once again.

"I shall return soon with a little brew of my own creation to help you get your strength back."

As Draco opened his mouth to speak, Snape silenced him.

"Don't speak, and don't try and move. There will come a time for questions and answers, but it is not now."

The professor then hastened back downstairs. There were all too many questions that were making Draco's head hurt as much as his body did. As he slowly drifted into a haunted sleep, there was one question that rose so insistently to the surface, like bubbles in a cauldron. How many days like this would he even live to see?