Written for the February themes. Slight crossover with Fight Club, rated PG for uh, language.

The Turning Point
20. in every life there is a turning point

It is the middle of the War. People are dying at such a fast rate that the Prophet does not even bother writing full articles or detailed reports, but adds two pages worth of names to the back every Sunday evening. Of course, half the list are Muggles, and nobody cares about them, anyway. But every so often there is a familiar name, or a surprise victim. Ernie Macmillan, aged 19, dead from refusing the Imperius spell.

"Touching, isn't it," says a drawling voice as the Sunday Prophet, a week old, is snatched from Draco's grip. "People actually fool themselves into thinking they care about how many Mudbloods die."

Draco stares up at Bellatrix's sneer, and clenches his teeth. "Do you mind?" he says calmly, adjusting his robes over his bare knees. The rim of the makeshift chamber pot is cold against his thighs.

Bellatrix ignores him, but turns away towards the lantern light, dark eyes skimming over the yellowed pages. The grey strands shimmer in her long dark hair, her sunken eyes are bloodshot, and she does not look any younger than she did three years ago upon her escape from Azkaban. She gives a short harsh bark of laughter. "Murdered, Theodore Tonks.. I should like to know who disposed of my filthy brother-in-law. I owe them my thanks."

Bellatrix continues to read over the names, occasionally crowing out loud, as if the death of the Drs. Granger was something she has personally accomplished (Draco knows she didn't, because Nott had come back with trembling hands and a satisfied look on his face), and shaking her head mockingly at most.

Draco finishes, Scourgifys the pot, and wipes his hands on his robes. "What is it?" he asks. His hair is falling into his eyes. It always does that, these days, since it never seems to want to stay pulled back. His mother used to cut his hair, but Draco hasn't seen his mother in a very long time, and suspects she is dead.

"The Dark Lord is returning here tonight," Bellatrix says finally, thrusting the paper back at him. (Where Is Harry Potter? reads the headline.) "He'll want your report, as well as a -satisfactory- explanation for your abysmal behavior in the last battle."

Draco wants to scream.

He knows the Dark Lord was not pleased that he let the Weasley girl get away. He knows that the Dark Lord is angry, and is coming to their hideout - for though the older group insists it is headquarters, it is nothing more than a hiding place from the Aurors - expressly to reprimand him.

The mark on his arm burns darker, echoing his thoughts, and his wand arm twitches.

Bellatrix smirks, and Draco makes a feeble attempt to grab his wand as it flies out of his belt and into Bellatrix's open hand.

"I'll hold on to this until later," she declares, wearing an expression that might have been mistaken for pity, if it had been on anyone else's face. "If you run, we will kill you," she promises.

Draco watches her leave, and decides to make his move.

-

Draco is used to smelling blood on the wind, so when it comes to him he instinctively follows it.

The back streets of London are narrow, and dirty, and the jeans and t-shirt he took from a drunk Muggle in a bar smell of cigarette smoke and stale perfume. He follows the cracks in the sidewalk, wandering under flickering lights, as his brain finally realizes what he is doing.

Draco pauses, and considers his options. Ahead of him lies a battle, behind him lies death. Should he continue on his way, maneuvering his way through garbage and the sludge of dirty rainwater on the streets? Should he return and offer himself to the mercy of Voldemort? His arm gives a sharp twinge of pain, and he presses forward, nearly walking right by the open doors of a basement flat.

He crouches down, looking past the steps and into a low room. Cigarette smoke and the scent of cheap alcohol float up and out, along with the dim grunts and cheers of a crowd. He ventures down, carefully pushing open the front door. The smell of blood hits him harder than before, and he feels the excitement and bloodlust radiating off every person in the room. There, in the center, a wiry and dark-haired man is standing perfectly still. He is shirtless, and every eye in the room is fixed on him.

"I remind you," he announces, "that if someone says "stop", goes limp, or taps out, then the fight is over. You may not continue." The man steps towards the cluster of men watching him, and yanks one of them forward.

"Apparently," the dark-haired man continues, "this guy thought he could get away with breaking the rules." He is tightly gripping the arm of an older man, whose arm is bent at an odd angle, and whose face is covered in blood. Someone in the circle boos, and they are rapidly hushed.

Draco can sense that this man is powerful. He can see it by the way the others look at him with adoration in their eyes, he sees their hostile stares directed at the bloodied man and is certain that only moments before they were cheering him on.

The dark-haired man, the leader, lets go of the other man, and quick as a flash he pushes past Draco and leaves. Another two men walk past him, carrying a bloodied, immobile man between them. The room becomes lighter, people become more excited.

The leader walks through the crowd, tapping one scrawny boy on the shoulder, and the boy dashes to the center of the room. The leader then spots Draco, and observes him.

His instincts tell him to run away fast, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Draco raises his chin, and stares back at the dark-haired man. He smiles, but only a little bit.

"I haven't seen you before, kid," the man says. "Come here."

Draco moves forward, his legs propelling him unwillingly. He is placed in the center, opposite the excited boy, who is prancing around, throwing punches at the air.

"Rule number eight," the leader says. "If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."

The next thing Draco knows, he is down on the floor and the other boy is kicking him in the stomach. He feels more and more like pissing himself with each and every kick the boy launches.

"Come on, get on your feet!" yells the leader. "Don't be a wimp!"

What has he gotten himself into, Draco wonders, scrambling to his feet. He ducks one punch, and is kicked again for his efforts. He looks at the boy's face, slowly turning red, and watches the boy's stringy black hair fly around his face. He sees the boy's hand reach out in another punch, and is suddenly reminded of Bellatrix's hand reaching for his wand.

Bellatrix looms above him, coming closer, his arm burns, and Draco shakes it away. Crack, goes the sound of fist on bone, and the image of Bellatrix's shocked face fades as Draco realizes that his fist has just impacted the boy's jawbone.

-

Draco goes again the next night. And again. And again.

Every night he comes out of the basement flat with more bruises, deeper ones, and is even taken to a Muggle hospital one night to have his finger splinted. The boy he fought with the first night explains to the Healer that he jammed his finger at a school wrestling match, and Draco doesn't bother to correct her.

Each night, his opponent takes a different face. Draco never wins, not entirely, but he is responsible for a black eye on not-Bellatrix's face, for not-Voldemort's limp, for a bloody nose for bloody not-Harry-Potter. He can't do this forever, he knows, and the Dark Mark is visible in the sky almost every night; but for now, it's enough.

Once, he comes early, and hears the rules recited in full. You do not talk about Fight Club, he hears, and understands it to be what it is. In real life, Fight Club does not exist. In real life, Muggles are considerate, ignorant creatures who wouldn't hurt a soul. They would never meet in basements and garages all over London - especially not all over the world, as the dark-haired man claimed - to fight each other until they choke on their own blood.

Fight Club makes being a Death Eater unnecessary, for the first time in Draco's life.