Draco held his head high as he walked through the gates of Hell. The empty marble hallways were silent as he entered Malfoy Manor, save for the echo of his boots on the tile floor. Shadows skirted in and out of his view: the house-elves, most likely, but he didn't look closely enough to be certain.

All warmth was leached from Draco's bones by the time he reached the ballroom. The heavy oak door was closed, but he could hear the muffled voice of his father on the other side.

A gaunt, pale girl with a tattoo of a snake around her throat approached him. His attention caught on the brand; his fingers itched to reach for his left forearm.

He cleared his throat and removed his cloak, even though it was as cold within the Manor as it was outside. She was so thin, he feared she would sink with the weight of the dense cloak, but he handed it to her anyway. He straightened his tie, ignoring the disdainful glare the girl threw his way. The servants at the Manor had learned long ago that Draco didn't mind their hostility as much as the Death Eaters did. If it made them feel better, they could be as overt in their hatred of him as they wished, as long as they kept their mouths shut and did their jobs.

It changed nothing. They were all trapped, just with different bonds.

He rolled his shoulders back and sucked in a deep breath, holding it as long as he possibly could. When his lungs reached their capacity, he exhaled and nodded to the girl, averting his eyes from her marred face. She dipped her head and held the door open for him. The movement was routine; rehearsed, even though she'd only been at the Manor for a week.

Her name was Alice, he remembered, despite the painstaking effort he'd taken to clear her from his mind. He wondered if there were even one other person still alive that knew her name, or if she'd die here, nameless and forgotten. He missed the days when the servants were numbered. At least then, Draco could refer to them as something in his mind. Unfortunately, by the time Draco was ten years old, Voldemort had enslaved so many Mudbloods, it became impossible to keep count. When they were teenagers, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle created derogatory nicknames for some of them, just to keep them straight. He received a swift flogging when his father found out. Lucius assured him that if Voldemort had been the one to discover it, his punishment would have been much worse.

Slaves are property, and pieces of property do not require names, Lucius explained.

House-elves have names, Draco argued. He hadn't seen the problem. It wasn't like he had shown any kindness to the round woman who brought him his breakfast each morning by calling her the Cow.

House-elves have no delusions about liberty or emancipation, Lucius snapped. House-elves know their place. Until Mudbloods learn the same, you do not address them unless you are giving them orders.

The servant followed Draco into the ballroom and tucked herself against the back wall. On the opposite side of the room, a robed figure stood, silhouetted by the sunshine filtering through the large window. Nagini, Voldemort's wretched snake, slid over Draco's boots before leading him halfway across the ballroom floor. The cloying scent of decay was so strong, he could almost feel his own teeth rotting, but he didn't dare look around the room for its source.

Nagini stopped when they reached the center of the floor, in line with the fireplace. The green flames flickered, casting a sickly, pale glow over the room. Obediently, Draco halted and clicked his heels together to announce his arrival, as if Voldemort didn't sense his presence the moment he arrived.

"Draco," Voldemort said, his orotund voice filling the room as he spun to face his audience of one. With Voldemort, every movement was a performance. "How kind of you to join us!"

Draco inclined his head. In his periphery, he saw Pansy standing beside his parents next to the fireplace. Narcissa clasped her trembling hands in front of her. His father narrowed his eyes and jerked his head forward. Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco bent at the waist, bowing low. "My Lord," he said to his feet. Voldemort waved a hand. Draco rose, but remained front and center.

"I was just giving Parkinson instructions for a mission I'd like the two of you to complete. Would you be so kind, my dear," he addressed Pansy, "to fill him in on the details this afternoon?"

Draco kept his eyes forward, on Voldemort's flat, grinning face. She took half a second too long to answer, and Voldemort's smile slipped. "Of course, Master."

"Wonderful," said Voldemort, his forked tongue flicking over his lips. "Draco, I believe Bellatrix has an assignment for you in the basement."

Draco blinked. Before this week, it had been months since Voldemort had asked him to do anything apart from the Registry and the occasional Tithe collection. Out of the blue, he'd been asked to accompany the Regiments, and now these two new missions. Why Voldemort was giving him regular field assignments again?

He bowed once more, as much a show of his submission as it was to hide the look of surprise on his face. "Certainly, my Lord." He spun on his heel and met his mother's wide, watery eyes. He pursed his lip and nodded to her, signaling he would speak to her later; he couldn't keep Bellatrix waiting. Following Nagini back toward the hallway, he couldn't avoid the sight of three bodies piled atop one another in the corner. He couldn't deny, he was curious about who was responsible. Given that wasn't on speaking terms with Pansy, he wouldn't get the answer from her, but maybe she would spill to Blaise. The bodies had been piled there for days, judging by the smell. Nagini must have been rather full not to have devoured them already.

Alice—the girl, the servant, he corrected himself—opened the door for him again. A rush of cold air settled over him as he left the warmth of the fire.

"I'll take my cloak back now."

She muttered, "Yes, sir," and held out the heavy velvet.

He slung it over his shoulders and tied it loosely across his chest. In the wintry chill, he found the weight of the fabric comforting. "And fetch my mother a cup of tea, will you? She's shaking like a leaf."

She sucked on the inside of her scarred cheek, emboldened enough to look him in the eye. He raised an eyebrow. The sentient tattoo slithered around her neck, repressing whatever magic she may have grown accustomed to before her capture; threatning her punishment if she dared to disobey. "Yes, sir," she replied, lowering her eyes once again as she headed to the kitchen.

Draco remained in front of the door to the ballroom. Once the girl disappeared around the corner, he leaned his ear against the dark oak, but heard nothing. He placed his palm flat against the door and felt a familiar, electric buzz through the wood. Someone had cast Muffliato on the room. He balled his hand into a fist before turning away, stopping in the library to find his mask.

He felt the screams well before he heard them. The dungeons, like the ballroom, were enchanted so no noise escaped, but that didn't stop the sound waves from shaking the foundation of the house, or permeating his bones as he jogged down the stairs. When he crossed the magical threshold, the first thing he heard was his aunt's maniacal laughter, followed shortly by a shrill scream. At the last step, he placed the gold and black mask on his face. Mercifully, the Death Eaters did not keep any dead bodies in the dungeon— the smell bothered Bellatrix too much.

A thin layer of liquid covered the floor, soaking through the seems of Draco's boots. He hoped it was only water that had seeped through the walls during the last rainstorm, but it could have been anything. Sloshing through the liquid, he passed a few unconscious bodies, lying in pools of their own blood, sweat, tears, and urine: the putrid scent gave no specifics. It hovered in the air, rancid and metallic on his tongue, like an old coin. Funny how the smell of human excrement didn't deter Bellatrix, but rotting flesh did. He had no idea how she could stand the stench for hours on end without gagging, although he supposed she had no choice but to acclimate. He wrinkled his nose, grateful for the mask.

One boy, probably around Draco's age, curled on his side in the corner, sobbed into his already drenched jumper. A girl, no more than ten, cupped handfuls of the liquid on the ground into her mouth, gagging as she swallowed it. He knew from working upstairs that prisoners were supposed to receive food and water at least once a day. He also knew that Bellatrix didn't care much for rules, as long as she got results.

But what caught Draco's attention was the blonde witch with paper-thin, pale skin, beads of sweat clinging to her brow, lipstick smeared across her chin, and thick glasses cracked and tilted on her thin nose.

"There he is!" Bellatrix threw her arms out wide, her hair flying as she did. Her gleeful smile was on full display, as she refused to wear a mask. "I have a treat for you."

He finished trudging through the liquid, stopping before the blonde witch: Rita Skeeter. Like the Mudblood upstairs, a jade snake ran around the circumference of her neck. "What's she doing here?"

"She claimed to have information about a Mudblood who's gone into hiding." Draco stilled. His fingers clenched his wand. "Based on her recent whereabouts, we suspect the Mudblood is in Bristol, but that's all I can get," Bellatrix said. Draco relaxed. He was safe. Theo and Blaise were safe.

"If you couldn't get her to talk, what makes you think I can?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay even, relaxed. The mask covered the disgust on his face, but it did nothing to hide it in his tone.

Bellatrix smirked and walked in a circle around him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I haven't tried everything yet," she said. "A little birdie told me you're getting bored with the Registry." Fucking Pansy. This isn't what he'd had in mind. "Here's a chance to prove yourself to the Dark Lord." A chance to prove himself, so he could move up in the ranks of the Death Eaters. So he could have more power, more influence. He should be thrilled with the opportunity. Men his age weren't often given chances like this.

"What's with the brand?"

"An Animagus," Bellatrix said. "Don't want her turning into a beetle and escaping our clutches!" She let out another laugh, then a sneer at Rita, and then walked away, kicking water at the unconscious bodies. "Have fun!"

He watched her ascend the staircase, her damp robes billowing behind her. When he was sure she was gone, he sank to a knee beside Rita. "Last chance to speak up. Who is the Mudblood? Where are they hiding? "

Rita recoiled, pressing her cheek against the rough stone wall. "I'll tell you... what I told her," she said through heavy breaths. Her voice was scratchy and hoarse. She must have had been screaming for hours. Bellatrix hadn't tried everything, but she'd tried enough. "Revoke my Tithe... and I'll... tell you everything."

Draco leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. He kept the Registry, he knew her Tithe. Rita Skeeter was permitted to print whatever she liked in the Daily Prophet, granted she provide an interview under Veritaserum with one of the Death Eaters each month. Sure, it had exposed some of her more embarrassing and salacious endeavors— including a rather graphic account of how Headmaster Dippet had walked in on her losing her virginity in an empty classroom. Draco's mother had been utterly scandalized when she read the interview—but as far as Tithes went, she had it easy. Which made it easier for him to feel nothing less than indifference toward her. "You'll tell me regardless."

Rita squeezed her eyes shut. He withdrew his wand. Months had passed since he'd had to perform this spell. He rolled his neck, knowing muscle memory would carry him through it. You have to mean it. Don't be a coward. He thought of Theo. The scars crisscrossed up and down his arms, his back, his chest. He thought of Blaise, exiled from his own home. He thought of himself, permanently bowed under the weight of his own mistakes and a future he didn't want. "Crucio."

Rita's screams reverberated in the dark chamber. The young girl who was drinking the mysterious liquid on the ground clapped her hands around her ears. Skeeter fell onto her side. Her neck arched while her lower body convulsed, flinging drops of liquid onto Draco's trousers. "Give me a name. Now." The curse ceased, and her shoulders relaxed against the floor. When she wasn't moving, he could see angry red lines etched into her; collateral damage from receiving the brand. Surreptitiously, he glanced around the room. None of the other prisoners were wearing them. It was the one fragile shred of dignity that most blood traitors and sympathizers were afforded. Their blood status protected their magic.

Usually.

"Revoke- Revoke my Tithe," she repeated through gritted teeth.

Draco performed the curse without speaking it, just to see if he still could. Rita kept her lips clamped shut as long as she could, but her impulses had their way in the end. They always did. When the second rounds of her screams subsided, her chest heaved. She rolled onto her side and coughed, sending crimson splatters onto the wet ground. Tears leaked from the outer corners of her eyes; her mascara lined her eyes in a melting, watery ring.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I can make this so much worse." She stayed silent. He raised his wand and cracked the joints in his neck.

"Okay! Okay!" Rita said. Her words were muffled as she choked on her own blood; her voice cracked, broken from the torture. She splayed her hands over her face, digging her brittle nails into her cheeks. "I lied! There's no Mudblood in Bristol!"

He flicked his wand at her again. She clutched her knees to her chest and pressed her face into the ground. "Please!" she screamed, dragging her nails down her face, leaving jagged red lines in their path. "Please, there's no Mudblood!"

He knelt beside her and ran his tongue over his teeth. She kept her eyes clenched shut as he leaned over her. "You've published stories of wizards who have tried to leverage information for liberation. You should know it's never worked." The cruel, echoing chamber forced Draco to listen to his own idle malice again.

"Have you made any progress?"

He looked up to see his father, donning a mask of his own, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"She claims there's no Mudblood." He wiped his hands on his slacks as he stood.

Lucius strode towards them. The puddle that filled the room seemed to part for him, like the Red Sea. "Pity." Rita cowed under his harsh gaze. He cocked his head and withdrew a vial of amber liquid. Veritaserum. Used as a last resort, once Bellatrix grew tired of playing with her victims. Lucius gripped Rita's chin and forced the liquid down her throat. After she swallowed, he asked, "Is that true?"

She whimpered, tucking her chin to her chest. "There's no Mudblood. Please let me go."

"Very well." Lucius straightened. "You may finish her off," he said to his son, as if presenting him with a gift.

"Thank you, Father," said Draco, like the dutiful, obedient soldier he needed to be. He wasted no more time and no more energy. Rita Skeeter would die the way Mudbloods and blood-traitors did. Her body would bear the mark of her death and her treason.

Her bottom lip trembled. "Please," she said, strangled. "Please, don't."

Draco leaned forward. "Mori quam foedari." Death before dishonor. She had brought this on herself. She knew the consequences of lying to the Dark Lord and his lieutenants.

Rita spat blood on his boots. With a snarl, Lucius kicked water toward her. She let out a bitter laugh, before resting her head on the floor, lying supine. In a final act of rebellion, she looked Lucius in the eyes. Before he could rebuke her and tell her to avert her gaze, she opened her mouth, and said in a shaky voice, "Mors vincit omnia." Death conquers all.

Not all, Draco thought. Not yet.

He tapped his wand to the head of the snake. It came to life, coiling around her neck. Once, twice. Rita clawed at the brand, to no avail. It constricted, blocking her airflow. Her body vibrated. Her eyes rolled back in her head as saliva collected at her lips and spilled from her mouth. Blood leaked from the inner corners of her eyes. She let out one final, pitiful yelp before her body stilled.

Lucius nodded his approval. "Claim your token."

Draco's gut clenched. As if the scene before him wouldn't be seared into the back of his mind for the rest of his days; as if he wanted another useless keepsake, another useless, haunting memory. "She was not mine. I merely delivered the final blow. Bellatrix did all the work," he said, his tone laced with humility.

False humility, of course; merely smoke and mirrors, but his father could not accuse him of something he did not understand.

His father offered an ambiguous grunt in reply and summoned her glasses without speaking a word. He handed them to Draco. "Have the house-elves clean these and remove the body. Parkinson is in the library waiting for you."

He turned the glasses over in his hand, before returning his gaze to Skeeter. The jaded green ink of the serpent had faded to gray. Soon, it would disappear completely. The body would be given to Nagini, and if the snake didn't want her, her bones would be left to decay in the bogs behind the Manor. Apart from Lucius and Draco, no one would know her final, mutinous words, and in a few generations, Rita Skeeter would be known only for her treason, and for her trashy tabloids.

But at least she'd left something behind.

"Draco," his father snapped.

Draco blinked. "Coming, Father." He didn't spare Skeeter another glance as he followed Lucius up the stairs, where a liveried Mudblood stood sentry at the top. "Have these cleaned and give them to Millicent Bulstrode to put on display," Draco commanded, pressing the token against the Mudblood's chest. "Then remove the body from the dungeons."

The Mudblood gripped the glasses with white knuckles and set off to the kitchens. Lucius did not so much as acknowledge Draco before returning to the ballroom. His waterlogged robes left a trail of puddles behind him. When he was sure he was alone in the hallway, Draco ripped off his Death Eater mask and rubbed his fists in his eyes. Only a few steps away, Pansy waited for him in the library. He debated whether he should rip the bandage off and allow her to elucidate him with the nature of this new mission, or steal a few more moments for himself, alone in the hallway. There was hope here, in the silence.

But the temptation of distraction won in the end. He couldn't feel his legs as they carried him to Pansy. She sat at her desk, chin propped in her hand as she reviewed the newest list of names in the Registry. She barely glanced up as he approached. "What did Skeeter say?"

"Nothing. She says she was lying." He pressed his knuckles into her desk.

Pansy leaned away from him. "You killed her, I presume?" she asked, but she had already drawn a thin, decisive red line over Rita's name. "It will be a pain to find someone to replace her at the Prophet."

He almost suggested that Pansy put herself up for the position. It would be easier for both of them if they didn't have to sit next to each other every day. "Do you mind if I take a look?" Draco asked, trying to seem casual.

She narrowed her eyes but handed the tome to him. "Need to double-check my work? Afraid I'm too simple to keep track of something so complicated as a list of names?"

He bit his tongue. He deserved that. This is what he deserved for insulting her intelligence and calling her too prideful in a desperate attempt to protect her and the rest of their friends. He threw in a few comments about her appearance, for good measure. If only she could remember that it had been her idea in the first place.

"Or," she continued, "is my ego just too big that I don't think I need to revise it?"

Draco scratched the side of his nose. Hermione Granger was not on the list. Yet. "Obviously not," he said slowly. "Seems as though you took my words to heart."

The tips of her ears went red. She snatched the Registry back and shelved it with a lazy wave of her hand. "We're to go to Azkaban tomorrow. Lord Voldemort wants us to bring back Peter Pettigrew." She slammed the book shut and shoved her chair back as she stood.

He wrinkled his nose. Peter Pettigrew had fled the night Voldemort had killed the Potters, but didn't make it far before Lucius caught him and put him in Azkaban, where he'd rotted for the last nineteen years. Draco had only seen him in passing during his visits to Azkaban over the years, but the man had always seemed like a sniveling waste of space. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't question Lord Voldemort." To his face. Beyond business, they might not have been on speaking terms, but he still knew her well enough to finish her sentences. "But based on your father's reaction, I assume it's to get a rise out of Lucius. I'll meet you at your place at six A.M."

"Fine," he dismissed her. Pondering Pettigrew's impending return, he ran the pad of his thumb over his lips. Pansy had nearly left the library by the time he processed her words. "No, wait!" he called after her. "I'll meet you at your place."

"Fine," she breathed, exasperated. "See you tomorrow."

Draco exhaled as she disappeared behind the door. One crisis avoided, or at least mitigated. He would have allowed himself to breathe easier, had there not been countless more calamities waiting for him at the apartment.