Chapter Six: The Dark Lord

August 2, 1995 (2 years later)

His hands were shaking. He lifted one up and inspected it with the detachedly desperate interest of someone trying harder than anything else to forget their fear. It shook with every heartbeat, small, frantic twitches, like a cornered mouse. His father stood beside him, dressed smartly in pure black, and beside him, his mother, who was pale as a sheet of linen, her jaw clenched so hard Cato thought her molars might crack. But she too was dressed in expensive, yet subdued robes.

Lucius looked stony, blank, and the only betrayal of his fear was how hard he clutched onto Cato's shoulder and the way in which the other held Narcissa's hand just as tightly, each supporting the other. Finally, Draco stood next to him, the very picture of a child both terrified beyond reason, and trying so very hard to look brave.

The Malfoy manor's entry hall was dim in the night. The candles guttered in their chandeliers, casting haunting shadows across the marble floor. François was in his room, consigned to it for the night by Lucius. "Soon," said his father, his voice so tense that it was almost ragged, twisted to the point of snapping.

Cato mimicked his father and propped his hand on his brother's shoulder, firm, not tight. Draco looked up at him with huge, scared eyes and Cato nodded once. "You'll be fine," he said, not trusting his voice with more than a whisper. "Bow, say 'my lord,' look at his feet."

"O-okay," said Draco, his features solidifying into a mask of bravery. He was trembling and cold beads of sweat stood out on his pale forehead. Fifteen as he was, he knew very well who was coming, and what they could do.

It was only Mr. Grey's brutal tutelage that kept Cato from cracking under the pressure. It felt like stage fright, like that moment before stepping out before the crowd, but notched up to eleven. And the fear wouldn't fade once the show began. Not here. It would rise, like a swelling orchestra, until it broke him, or the play was stopped. He was breathing in short, controlled little gestures, forcing himself to remain still. Even occlumency couldn't hide his inclination to fear.

He, unprepared, small, weak against the might of the Dark Lord, would be the second person worthy of his interest after Lucius. He thought of running, of grabbing Draco and sprinting out of the wards and apparating, leaving the country. To do what? Live a life in exile, hunted like dogs while his parents suffered? Small short breaths. No, this has never been meant to happen, but it was happening. He couldn't have predicted it, but he should have. There was no escape and he could not outwit the coming menace. There was only a prayer, a prayer that Grey had taught him well enough over the years to hide what he knew.

The door banged open, old, thick oak swinging inwards on oiled hinges and Cato jerked back before steadying himself. The Dark Lord didn't knock, of course he didn't. A masked man entered first, bowing low and holding the doors wide open with another death eater. Then it was him, stepping into the hall. He was tall, he was thin and he suffocated the room with his presence. He wore a simple garment of black that contrasted sharply with his pale skin and blood red eyes.

Cato couldn't help but stare at the man. A detached part of his mind was comparing him to what he had read, so long ago. But words would never do him justice and Cato knew, deep down, why people followed this man to the death. He was power incarnate. Absolute mastery of magic, and it pulled in everything around him like gravity.

Finally, his father spoke, bowing lower than Cato had ever seen. "My lord," he said in a voice so steady one might have thought he was welcoming a ministry official on his doorstep. "We are grateful for the honor you bestow upon us by your presence."

Cato looked at him, and thought those red eyes betrayed nothing, Cato felt as if he could see the disdain behind them. The loathing Tom Riddle had for the sycophants he had surrounded himself with. "I will not be here long, Lucius," said the Dark Lord, and Lucius imperceptibly relaxed. The red eyes twitched. Cato felt his breath catch in his throat. Perhaps he had not been so imperceptible after all. "But what's this…" and his gaze drifted over to Cato and Draco.

Cato's heart gave one, massive thud, as if it were about to explode. Then his gaze was gone, and Cato's skin was left tingling with adrenaline. How could one gaze hold so much power?

"Of course, My Lord," said Lucius. He squeezed Cato's shoulder. "Cato, my eldest. In seventh year, my lord. First in his year and successful in his every endeavor." And passed up for Head Boy. But even now, after their terrible fight and caught in the depths of hell, his father's voice held a spark of pride and Cato's heart swelled for him. But just as quickly it was gone as the weight of the Dark Lord's attention settled upon him.

He bowed low. "My lord," he intoned in a steady voice. Suddenly the man was in front of him.

"Rise," he said in a soft voice, like sand in the wind.

And when he rose, a pale, deathly cold finger lifted his chin until their eyes met, and Cato felt a band of pressure building around his head as the Dark Lord split open his mind and peered into him like a dissected frog. He had two years of unforgiving, horrible tutelage with Mr. Grey under his belt, a poor portfolio to present when facing a man of the Dark Lord's caliber. Yet just enough when the man expected nothing, and sought out no deceit.

Cato forced down a shudder as eel-like feelers pressed into his mind like so much raw meat. He kept his gaze blank, a little fearful, and let the Lord sift through his thoughts as easily as one might peruse a bookshelf.

Flickers of emotion, countless memories danced up from his subconscious. It was a quick inspection and the Dark Lord never dug deep, sifting through that which was easily attained. Why would he search for more in the mind of one so young? But then he was gone, and Cato sagged into his father's grip, trying vainly to keep his muscles from abandoning him. Bile tickled his throat and his eyes twitched beyond his control, his vision blurring. It felt as if something horrible and slimy had slithered along the confines of his skull and a single 'wrong turn' would have allowed the Dark Lord to crack open that flimsy vault Cato had buried deep inside his mind.

The lord's scarlet gaze fixated him for a moment longer. "How fascinating…" said Voldemort, sounding bored. Then he turned away and Cato fought the urge to expel his meal, his fathers hand the only thing keeping him standing. Surely he would see, surely he would realize how badly he had shaken Cato and come back for a second look to alleviate his suspicion. Then it would be over, and Cato would be dead- no. Tortured, then dead.

But the Dark Lord barely glanced at Draco, ignoring his tremulous 'My Lord' before turning back to Lucius. "Come, Lucius. We must speak."

"Go to bed, Draco." The two brothers were seated in the family lounge, a small, cozy room with a handful of intimate couches and chairs surrounded on all sides by book cases. He was standing in front of the only window, a wide pane of ornate glass overlooking the fields. His back was ramrod straight and his fingers twined together so tight that he felt like they might pop out of their joints.

The moon peeked back at him from behind the trailing gauze of clouds, as if it too feared to shed light on the events of that night.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep," said his brother. His voice was admirably steady, but empty, as if he could no longer bring himself to feel fear.

"Probably," replied Cato, his eyes so fixated on the moon that they began to water. "But try. Please."

"Cato?" Draco's voice was suddenly wrought with such uncertainty that Cato tilted his head to look at him. Had it already been so long since the pale ghost standing in front of him with eyes as wide and fearful as any he'd even seen was just a young boy trying to get him to play Quidditch with him? A sob tried to erupt through Cato's lips and he bit it back with vicious discipline. Not in front of his brother. The brother he had failed to save from the Dark Lord's presence. And what could he have done? He, a single boy with a little foreknowledge. "Is it going to be okay?"

"Yes, Draco. It is." He could barely trust himself with more than a whispered lie, hating himself for it with every syllable.

Draco nodded and walked over to the door. Then he stopped, opened his mouth, closed it. Nodded. "Try to sleep as well."

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Cato's posture collapsed and he gripped the window sill with both hands. His breath came in gasps, uncontrolled and wild, but none of them seemed to fill even half his lungs. It was as if a hand had gripped his chest and twisted them ruthlessly. His vision swam. He had had over a decade to plan, and now the product of his work lay before him. He had endeavored to change as little as one could. He had waited for the storm, determined to shield his family when it struck while allowing the outcome he knew could still happen, Potter's victory. How could he have planned for The Dark Lord's sudden visit, and how could he not have? It felt as if something jagged was pushing its way through his veins and into his heart and he gasped, clutching his chest, his brow banging against the glass. What sort of idiotic boy thought that fragments of knowledge tied together into a messy parcel of half-forgotten memories could ever hope to protect his family from the attention of a wizard that dwarfed him in every way?

The door clicked open again and he spun around, furiously wiping his hands over his eyes. "Draco, I told you-!" But it wasn't Draco, it was his mother, standing and looking at him with an expression of utter shock on her face. Then she was there, collecting him in her arms as if her were nothing more than a child once more. "Oh my boy," she murmured as he collapsed against her, each breath a huge and terrible gasp. "My beautiful, brave boy," she whispered, and Cato cried into her shoulder, his body wracked with the violence of seventeen years' worth of sobs held back.

He clutched at her like a newborn again, burying his head into her shoulder as if all the worries of the world might fade away into her smell, into the fabric of her robes. "I shouldn't have let this happen," he managed to say hoarsely. "This shouldn't be happening."

Thin fingers ran through his hair with such gentleness that his sobs began to ebb. She was holding him as tight as he was her and he could hear the tightness of her breaths, the stilted nature they took when she was controlling her emotions with an iron will. For a while, she said nothing and he was grateful for it, for the brief illusion of security her embrace offered. And when finally he was able to look at her, his face soaked in tears and his eyes brimming, she placed a hand on each of his cheeks and kissed his brow. "When you stood before him this evening…" She ran a thumb against his cheek, turning away a tear. "You are protecting your brother, and impressing the Dark Lord." He bent to rest his head on her shoulder again and she allowed it, stroking his hair once again. "This decision was ordained before you were born, Cato. The moment we chose him, we were never to be freed again from Him." A tear fell onto his cheek and her looked up, startled, as a single line of tears trickled from her eyes. "It is us, who should never have let this happen to you."

"That's not tru-" but she interrupted him with a finger against his lips and a small shake of her head.

"It is. But we must live with the decisions we have made." A sigh escaped her lips and for a moment her posture crumbled and she looked old beyond her years, and exhausted. But it was gone in a moment, like a shadow passed over a flame. "I am proud of you."

"Proud of the boy who just ruined your robes?"

"Rags," she said dismissively. For a moment, they looked at each other, then a small smile crooked her lips. "Draco told me you wanted to see me. I shall assume that he lied."

Cato snorted, a messy affair after so many tears, but his mother didn't even flinch. "Idiot."

She sighed and sat down, pulled him down with her until his head was in her lap and he was staring up at the fireplace. The embers glowed and danced before his eyes, their edges light with an orange glow that eddied and flowed like water. Her fingers were in his hair again, nails tickling his scalp. "I had long given up hope that you'd ever need a mother. Always so controlled, even as a child…" she trailed off as Cato grabbed her hands and shifted to look up at her with blazing eyes.

"I'll always need you," he said with such fervent belief that she looked away, her face a mixture of emotions so intense that he felt a sudden prickle of emotion behind his eyes. "And I would sooner take a spell for you than let you be harmed."

21st of December, 1995

Christmas held little of its erstwhile charm as Voldemort's shadow spread over England. In the end, it was not to be at all. He had hurt his mother deeply, but he couldn't stomach it, not after his fight with his father. So on the 25th Cato had his stewardess, Miss Davies, block his floo to all but calls from his mother and excused her to her family in their residence a few miles from Falaise House.

A small pile of presents accumulated in the lounge overnight and on the 25th he sat in a sofa, the fire crackling in front of him and snow falling in sheets onto the iron grey sea far below. He opened them one by one, neatly piling them into two piles: those that would stay and the trivial junk that would go straight to his vault. Narcissa had taught him to never discard a gift.

He hesitated over Juliette's gift. She had mellowed over the years as his disinterest finally got to her, but still… Finally, he put the cologne she had given him to the side and promised himself to wear it at least once around her. That would please his mother. Above all, one gift stuck out and pulled a smile from him. It was a small box wrapped in white with a letter on top. He flipped it open, it was written in flowing, calligraphic French.

"It is time you learned poetry in the language of love. Love, Fleur."

And of course, her anthology of French poetry stayed. Whatever they had had after he walked up to her a few days before the Yule Ball, ignored her court of witches and told her that they should take each other out so people stopped asking had been brief, but sweet. They had silently acknowledged the time limit on their brief few months and neither had sought more from the other than company, a few kisses and support. In the end, it had ended well enough despite the shadow cast by Cedric's death -a painfully necessary call-.

She had thought him hurt by the less, but it had hurt all the more that he could do nothing to stop the boy from dying. He folded her note and tucked it into the pages of her book, the silvery paper glowing like a charm. He left only one present unopened. It was a book of some sort, wrapped professionally in Slytherin colored paper, with his Father's name printed on the tag. It hurt to think about him. All had started when they had been at dinner on the first day of their Christmas break. François had served Draco and Cato's shared favorite, vol-au-vent, and despite the Dark Lord's shadow, there had been smiles and cheer.

Then his father had sat back and cleared his throat. "I have announcement." Cato's fork froze in mid-air. "Come January, we will be able to see your aunt again."

He had forgotten, he really, truly had. Cato's fork fell onto his plate with a clatter, chipping the ancient chinaware.

"We're going to Azkaban?" asked Draco, a confused look on his face.

Cato looked at his mother but her lips were pursed and she refused to look his way. "Of course not," replied his father with a snort.

"Then-"

"The Dark Lord is breaking her out." Cato got up, his chair grinding against the floor loudly in the sudden silence. "Obviously." His hands were clenched at his side.

"You should be glad to see your godmother again," said his father, putting his wineglass down with exaggerated precision. He sat imperiously at the head of the table, his jaw tight, a small muscle working in his neck.

"I truly look forward to seeing her again. I can only imagine the good that Azkaban has done for her," replied Cato.

"Watch your mouth," snapped his father.

"Or what, you'll send me to Azkaban? May as well stay here if I'm doing a round trip."

A thin smile crossed his father's lips, the same shift of facial muscles he gave to business partners who were annoying him. "Cato. She is an honored member of the family and of the cause."

"Well, then I'm sure I'll get used to the screams of muggles in the hallways."

Draco was looking between him and his father with a carefully guarded look and his mother was looking at her hands. "She won't be staying with us long. It's just- She will need time to recover," said Lucius in a flat voice.

"I won't stay in the same house as her-" "It is the dark lords WILL! It is MY will!" yelled his father, slamming his fist onto the ancient table hard enough to spill his glass of wine over the table cloth.

"Then you're both WRONG!" yelled Cato, shoving his chair aside and glaring at his father.

"Shut your mouth," said Lucius, and now there was real fear in his eyes. "Say nothing of the sort again."

But a reckless anger was pouring through Cato, burning away his reason like dry grass. "Make me, Father. Stand up like you never did to him you spineless fuc-" He went flying with a flash of light and a bang, landing on the ground hard enough to blow the air out of his lungs.

"Lucius!" screamed his mother, leaping to her feet and running towards Cato. But he was already on his feet, wiping at his bleeding lip and raising his wand.

His father was standing, a mad look in his eyes. "Don't call me spineless, you stupid boy!" He gave a tortured laugh. "I have done things that would make you run back to the crib!"

"And NONE of them for this family!" roared Cato, trembling with rage.

"ALL of them for this family!" shouted his father, his wand tip glowing. There was an indescribable look of fury on his face, ripping his face into a tormented expression of rage and regret.

"You're going to ruin us all. HE is going to ruin us all!" Cato slashed his wand, no spell in mind. He just wanted to knock his father out of it, knock some sense into his stupid head. More than anything he just wanted him to realize how dangerous it all was, was pride and blood this important? A wave of energy burst from his wand, cutting through the air like a knife.

"Protego!" yelled Draco, and his spell evaporated with a resonating tinkle of broken glass as the shield shattered with it. Draco was standing now, looking almost confused by his position. "Just… Just stop. It's Christmas- We shouldn't fight."

"Fine," spat Cato, shoving his wand into his pocket. He stormed over to the fireplace and ripped open the ornate floobox, spilling half of the powder in the process. "Fine!" He threw a handful into the crackling flames. "Don't expect me back for Christmas. You know what, don't expect me this summer either!" He didn't care if he hurt his mother, he didn't care that he was abandoning them. He wanted them to hurt, to feel the pain he felt as he looked at the future. "And if Elizabeth missed me at the Gala, maybe you can send her complaint to the Dark Lord, because he's going to make everything just spick and span! Falaise House!" He left them standing in shock, and didn't come back all Christmas.

A/N: Thank you for reading. We now begin to approach the end of timeskip country. This will be the last major jump. With the end of Cato's final year nearing, things are about to change...

Remember, Harry Potter is in Year 5 now.