Vonne: Okay, before you read this chapter, know that once the page break comes up, the below part is all a memory. I've also put it in italics. Let me just say now that the second part of this memory is very similar to what happened in "High Hopes Down", my first fiction. If you've already read it, I'm sorry for the repeat, however, I wanted to try and perfect it for myself so I thought I'd add it in here. So hopefully that helps/clears up a lot! Anyways, reviewer responses below. Check to see if you're listed! (Which the majority of you are):

Dramione1996: She is! But maybe she'll finally start to feel bad herself sooner or later...

Thwarted Moony: College! How exciting. It's alright if you don't find the time to review on every single chapter from now on. I'm just happy that you're still reading this and enjoying all of it! Thanks for the reviews, once again!

Isabella120: HA! Thanks! (:

CherryVanillaCoke16: Thanks so much! I'm so glad you like this so far! I hope you enjoy this next update, as well!

Jade2099: Thanks so much! I'm glad that you find everything to be pretty realistic-- that's such a big compliment. And I think you're right on track with what you've thought about the story. Pansy's not 'evil', she just sees what she wants to see. Most likely that's the reason why she didn't press Malfoy about the whole thing afterwards; it doesn't really matter why he showed up at her house in the middle of the night, because it happened and she's choosing not to press it.

Shining Bright Eyes: You know, I was thinking that same thing. I don't know why but I can also see Malfoy being a veg. Oh, and you'll definitely get the "meet the parents" dinner coming up! Anyway, thanks for all your reviews. They really help me to update as fast as possible.

Chapter Sixteen:
The Deceased Seven

"I remember one time in particular in the backyard..." was the only sound that seemed audible through the cracks in the world that so disrupted the current nature. As the sky bolted around him, churning chaotically, Draco Malfoy spoke only into the speakers of the tiny plastic radio.

He was on his back, sprawled out against the dewy grass, staring up at the sky. There was a storm coming, such a thing was undoubtable, but Draco did not plan on moving. In fact, he further welcomed the storm, anticipating the works. As the bits of ample rain began to fall, he didn't even bother wincing; instead, his focus was on the toy, on the female voice as the other end, who only breathed in little breaths.

He knew this day was coming, and he knew that it was inevitable. Though even the moments leading up to the moment had gone by almost completely unnoticed. In a fuzzy state of mind, Draco had stumbled from Pansy's house, hit the bar, and ascended up to his bedroom without brining much attention to himself. It had been raining all day, or at least he'd presumed for it to have been, and as the day drew on, he watched the light fade, drawing each passing second into the darkness of the night. The very moment that blackness captivated the world, Draco Malfoy took off. He grabbed his coat and stuffed the Muggle radio into his pocket. The Manor was absolutely silent as Malfoy evacuated from it; his father's shadow, reluctantly showing Lucius asleep on the single cushion sofa, was illuminated against the wall, the fireplace lighting up his long fit of blond hair.

Dodging the rain, Malfoy pulled himself through his backyard, more quickly than he'd made his way through the rest of the house, and found the same familiar clearing that he'd known forever. Then, making himself comfortable in the slight sprinkle, he found his back and pressed it up to the wet grass, letting his legs go limp as they touched the ground along with the rest of his body. The pond ahead of him bounced up with every drop of rain that splashed its surface and he didn't dare approach it, worried about the glimpse of his own reflection he might see within it. His lip was still split and open, and his eye was still bruised and puffy. Lying there peacefully, he'd only just gained rest from limping on his aching leg. But, despite everything, he was spilling out his memories through the illness in his nauseated stomach. Sick and tired and delusional, he couldn't quite help himself.

And all the while the storm above intensified. "It was sometime in October, but I was home from school. I still don't even know who'd asked for my release, but... either way, I was back." Each croaky detail hoarsely escaped his throat, but he was so far under, that he couldn't quite comprehend even his darkest admissions. Slightly tipsy from the alcohol he'd consumed in order to prepare himself for the night, he continued sorely, all the while staring back up at the darkening clouds.

"I'd come home and they'd killed seven people..."

Five Years Earlier:
The Malfoy Manor

Somewhere in the darkness, Draco Malfoy knew that there was a door. It was strange how foreign his own home was to him now, but standing there speechless he knew that he had to feign confidence. It was sometime in the night, but Malfoy was unsure as to what time, perhaps early morning. Then again, time didn't matter now- time wasn't important. What was important was the darkness and the door and, exclusively, what lied behind it. With his father in the depths someplace behind him, Malfoy held his breath and prepared for the worse. But Draco's uneasiness was doubled when Lucius Malfoy's hand tightened on his son's shoulder. "Now, hold on a moment, Draco."

Freezing, Draco's feet stopped moving. Tense wasn't especially the word to describe the way he felt, because such a feeling went far beyond 'tense'. He was shaking and nauseous and ill. Whatever it was that Voldemort had called him from Hogwarts for, he knew that it was not particularly good. But with Snape as the new headmaster, getting out of the school grounds came easily. Though, even having friends in high places didn't do anything to calm his nerves. His father's hand remained steady on top of Draco's suit shoulder, but even through the fabric, he could tell that his father's palms were clammy. Flipping restlessly, Draco's heart plummeted-- it was such an awful feeling to loose what he'd once considered to be his role model. But such a thing had gone long ago, and now his father was only a stoney figure in his otherwise morose outlook.

"Stand up straight," Lucius advised, pausing before the two large kissing doors. Draco stiffened, squaring out his shoulders while meekly biting his lower lip. His mind had run off in a blur-- since when did the Malfoys become so self conscious in their own home? Pathetically, Draco tried to remember something of a peaceful time in the home-- a place he know only viewed as a simple building-- but came out with not a single memory to lift his spirits. "And, please, try to keep your tone in check. We don't want to have you sounding disrespectful."

Malfoy swallowed the persisting large lump in the middle of his throat. Truth be told, Malfoy had been nothing but respectful to Voldemort, however, he knew the specific tone that his father was speaking about. On more than one occasion Malfoy had slipped, allowing himself to sound horrified in Voldemort's presence. However, such a tone proved all but acceptable. Furthermore, Draco took a mental note: listen to your father, monitor your voice. "And, look him in the eye, if you can," Lucius added, slightly weary of his last bit of advise, "The Dark Lord notices these things, Draco." Look Lord Voldemort in the eye. For one reason or another, this horrified Malfoy most of all, though he shook the worry away and nodded, keeping his eyes straight forward. "Good," Lucius praised quickly, his voice shaky and worrisome. "Come along."

Draco felt his father's hand slip from his shoulder and once again Malfoy was on his own. He strode forward and allowed the two large doors to open on their own, revealing his old home to him for the first time in one whole month. It was quite obvious that the Death Eaters had redecorated. White curtains hung, sheer like and torn, from the large windows that overlooked the entire house. As the slight wind rushed through the open glass, they flew out like phantom. The house was haunting, and on a large dressers that lined the hallway, vases had been tipped over on their sides, leaving traces of its shattered glass, like broken skin, on the surface. Almost every picture had been broken, the shiny frame split into two and a massive crack had split the whole thing down the middle.

In the corner of the room, the largely beefy shadow that was Peter Pettigrew lunged out from the darkness. He was even more grotesque than Malfoy had remembered and as he spoke his breath reeked of liquor and dirt. "Ah, Draco," he slurred, "how nice of you to come back. Lord knows we've been anxious to see your face again." His hands were brought up to his heaving chest in a prayer-like manner and the slightly dusty quality about his face signified that he was up to nothing good. From Draco's side vision he saw no trace of his father and as he focus shifted to the broken mirror, his suspicions were further confirmed; he'd been left utterly alone. Therefore, Malfoy avoided Pettigrew's eyes and watched nothing but the looming hallway ahead of him. Everything seemed to lean in towards him; the furniture and the windows and the walls. As he stumbled through the corridors of his own house, he could feel his anxiety ridden heart beating inside his chest. The broken chandelier above him only blinked with the havering candle light, the only amount of light even bothering to grace the Manor at all.

And finally, when the two massive doors stood in front of him, Malfoy could feel his entire posture falter. He shut his eyes, repeated several breaths over again, and recited his father's advise in his head. Standing up straight was proving to be more of a task than he'd originally suspected, however, sighing, he readjusted himself with fake conviction. His shaky hands lifted slightly to fix his tie, aiming to present himself properly. And, lifting his arms once again, he pushed them to the front of the doors, grazed its great surface and told himself that there was nothing to fear. Though not he his own words could convince himself. He instantly backtracked, pulling his arm back with such force that he almost stumbled over in the process. However, in an instant, a jet of bright light flew to his assistance; the moment the spell hit the doors they flew open, practically knocking all Draco's readjustment efforts out of place.

"How nice of you to join us," came the sarcastic tone of Augustus Rookwood in the lack of light. A chorus of anxious laughter erupted before him and then, once again, the doors swung shut behind him. In the blackness Draco could feel a rush of cold inch up his spine. A heavy and murky scent overtook his old dining room completely, undoubtable and obvious. And there was no ignoring the smell, one that Draco would never quite forget. As he managed to pull himself forward, a sickening tidal wave washed through his insides and his anxiety was all that was keeping him from doubling over and getting sick all over the marble floor.

"Now, Rookwood," the voice of a snake hissed, "play nice." There was nothing but the glowing vision of two snake-like eyes and Draco told himself to look directly into them. But even as the most minute moments passed Draco knew that he couldn't possibly. Voldemort's pupils, however, were locked so intensely into Draco's that Malfoy could feel a piece of him missing, and he felt the consistent feeling that his very soul was being analyzed. But as the silence consumed the room, Voldemort finally permitted himself to speak out loud. "What Rookwood says is true, Draco," he slithered, "we have been anxiously waiting your arrival."

Too bad Draco couldn't wait to get out of there. But he didn't let this show quite as obviously as he'd felt. Despite the quiver in his chest, he lifted the corners of his thin lips into a timid smile, nodding as if to pass off as desiring the very same. "You see, Draco," Voldemort continued, "we needed you. We needed your assistance." If the color could have drained any further from Draco's face, it had doubled. He was as pale as a ghost and he could feel his false confidence melting. Then, in a more harsh and direct tone, Voldemort's head turned, "Pettigrew," he called bitterly with a flood of significant resentment, "lights."

The lights above the group of them flickered ahead and the dining room slowly came into view, though once the candle lights had managed to flicker aflame, Draco instantly wished they hadn't. The group before Draco lay silent, as if waiting for a response. But all Draco could feel was the jab of pins and needles creep up his entire body. Numb with dizziness all Draco Malfoy wanted was to be back at school, out of his house, out of the watching eye of Voldemort. But such a desire was only a wish, a wish that could not-- would not-- be granted.

The smell that tainted the dining room was instantly given a face.

Lining the entire room, the shadowy exterior of rotting bodies had been strung out through the entire room. Draco counted them-- seven. Seven stone like and still human beings lay as stiff and as lifeless as if they'd been that way for years. Malfoy could feel the water well up in his eyes, the persisting sense of nausea creep up inside of him. It was as if everything else in the room had vanished, everything expect the bodies that were almost unrecognizably disfigured. Mangled and twisted, each corpse was wrapped around itself, bitterly and irresponsibly. A maroon pool of dried up blood lay underneath each broken skull and all the while, Voldemort seemed rather unfazed.

"Seems like I had a bit of a mishap," Rookwood beamed, eyeing the bodies over for the first time. His smile was sparkling and proud and he looked up at Voldemort, expecting praise that did not come. Without any reassurance or acknowledgement however, Rookwood only glanced back towards Malfoy, permitted himself to keep his smile present, and titled his head to the side. As he did so, the greasy mop of hair on his head rushed over the upper part of his face, and a deep gash in the side of his forehead was brought ever so subtly into the light.

"Don't flatter yourself," Draco heard his aunt's bitter voice react. "They're only Muggles." Her curvaceously delightful figure stood out dauntingly. At the sound of Bellatrix's voice Draco's mindset snapped back to reality. He winced, once again finding himself in the middle of the room.

Once again the room spun around on him, tiny hypothetical violins plunking mercilessly in the back of his mind. He could feel his posture sink, unwillingly going against the first of his father's advise. He could feel his throat run dry, nonetheless permitting himself to disobeying the second. Though he couldn't speak, couldn't even imagine such a thing. And why? In his time with the Death Eaters he seen numerous dead bodies before, however, as each time came and went, it never had got any easier. And now... now seven. Seven dead corpses, new and fresh and waiting there before him, dead and gone forever. Muggles or not, the newly sensitive mindset that had so often bothered Draco was beginning to make him swoon; he could no longer feel his knees and, shaky on his own two feet, he struggled to even approach the rotting Wizard any further.

"Now, Draco," Voldemort once again mused, watching Draco's posture slide with every passing moment, "you wouldn't mind assisting out your family, would you? After all, we are all your family, are we not?"

Malfoy's eyes flickered around the room. His father wasn't anywhere in sight... his mother was gone. And Bellatrix in the corner there, she wasn't his family. Horrified, Draco knew that no one in the entire house could be considered as such, not in his mind, but saying so would only prove unsuccessful. Instead he swallowed the emerging bile that rose in the depths of his throat. He tried to stifle the intense stomach acid that tormented him. And he managed to nod slightly, a new redness climbing up to his glossy eyes. "Wonderful," Voldemort exclaimed with a slither, "I thought so. Now," he continued demandingly, "as you can see, this room may need a little tidying up." Like a pet, Rookwood chuckled at Voldemort's side; Bellatrix's globe-like eyes swam with overwhelming excitement. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Draco could feel himself loosing it; his vision went slightly blurry and his knees were weak and unstable. However, the open scars that tainted his body provided enough of a reminder as to what had happened the last time Draco hadn't quite carried out Voldemort's last wishes. Of course, the Dark Lord had not been quite fond of any of the Malfoy's ever since Draco was unable to murder his headmaster, Dumbledore. And as the open gashes on Draco's torso intensified, how could he possibly refuse?

"I...I..." he could vaguely hear himself stammer, thus instantly breaking his father's rule of a steady tone of voice, "I..."

"Y-Y-Y-You..." Rookwood taunted, leaning forward on his hands and knees. Then, with a tone that was more serious than he had been the whole night, he spat, "just like your damn father!" But Draco couldn't even take that as an insult-- didn't even hear Rookwood over the morphing sounds that his ears now only heard.

"All's well, Rookwood," Voldemort dismissed, "I think he's just too excited for words." The hovering smile that was imprinted on Volemort's rotting face was terrifying and his yellow eyes locked into Malfoy with such scrutiny that he could feel them reach the very core of him. "Now, we'll leave Draco here to his work, hm?" Then, before he apparated out of sight compltely, he turned to the mousy Peter in the corner and snapped, "Pettigrew! Keep an eye on him for a while." In an instant they were gone, having left Malfoy alone with Peter, who allowed his own smile to once again creep up on his fat face.

"Looks like you've got some work to do," Pettigrew smiled. With full intention to please the man, Draco stuck his jello-like foot forwards, allowing his polished black shoe to hit the marble floor uneasily. But the smell was undeniable and each of the seven bodies seemed to cry out to him from their deaths, crying and moaning and suffering. And the buzzing sensation that interrupted Draco's already wandering thoughts amplified. He could almost physically hear their anguish, their torture, their pain even in their miserable afterlife. Only Muggles... only Muggles and it didn't make an ounce of a difference to Malfoy now. So he couldn't bring himself forward, couldn't even manage to disguise the flush that consumed his pale face.

Pettigrew's face twitched, noticing the boy's sudden anxiety. His eyes shifted back and forth, and his small mouth called out furiously in a whipping whisper, "what are you waiting for?" Peter could feel the rising tension in his own chest and the heat striving in his own throbbing head, severely worried now. Though he wasn't given much time to react to any of Malfoy's dreary state; the young blond lost his balance, though it was a long shot to say he'd been moving anywhere productive in the first place, and his entire body fell to the ground in broken up sections. First his knees slapped the marble and then his entire front, colliding to the hard ground at the top of his head.

And Draco Malfoy was out completely cold before the fresh trail of blood oozed out from the crown of his skull.

Hermione Granger remained rather still and, for a moment, so did Draco Malfoy. She had lost contact with the radio quite some time ago and had pursued listening to it from several inches away, as if it had scorned her just by merely touching it. She herself had gone completely numb and shaky she resided uneasily in her silence, still pitifully unsure as to what to say next. The storm outside raged on harshly, hitting the roof of her house like heavy hail. In the depths of the safety of her bedroom, she could just barely hear the snores that echoed from Ron's room. And she was sure Harry had fallen asleep too, though even now their consciousness didn't truly matter to her. Even with them awake she wouldn't have noticed; all she could sense now was herself and the radio, in unison despite her loathing for the boy on the other end.

And, all in all, she had every right in the world to loathe him. So then, why did she feel the undeniable pity that seemed to so overwhelm her? She was sore beyond belief with the very notion of it-- throbbing with sorrow and anxiety and morose pity. Pity that almost physically made her sick. Because the boy on the other end didn't deserve her pity... didn't deserve anything of the sort. So, biting her sultry lower lip, she shifted steadily and responded with only silence. However, such anger lasted only temporarily. Her shaky voice said demandingly, "and then?" and she waited bitterly for a further answer.

"... And then I woke up."

She waited for something, anything, but the boy did not continue. Though his own self pity was unmistakable, common for someone so undoubtedly miserable. His voice ached of pain. Every time he spoke his words were spoiled with sorrow. And now in his humiliated and sorrowful silence seemed to dwell relentlessly on him. She could hear him cough slightly through the static drenched sound of the speakers. ".... You... woke up?" Hermione repeated, almost yelling hoarsely from across the room.

On his back in the storm, Draco blinked away the rain that had washed over his face. The storm was finally starting to swell up and it was pouring down in an absolute mess. His blond hair was plastered to his pale face and his eyes watched the clouds as they illuminated bright with lightening. Perhaps it wasn't too intelligent to be near a pond in this sort of a storm, but at this point Draco didn't truly care... wouldn't have truly cared in the bolts came falling from the sky and hit him square in the heart. And perhaps it was self pity that digressed his only chances of progress, but didn't he have every right in the world to feel that way? Didn't he deserve something... anything? The sinking notion in the pit of his stomach told him that, no, he didn't deserve an ounce of it. And it was that very thought that further discouraged him. He could have died, died for a cause, but he didn't. Instead he chose to remain a robot, hazily dazed throughout the entire ordeal and the same thing tortured him over and over again: he didn't do anything.

Over the harsh rush of the rain, over the tantalizing whirl of the echoing thunder, Draco Malfoy repeated in a frog like croak, "and then I woke up..."

The notion of being rocked back and forth brought instant perspective to Malfoy's otherwise dizzy fog. His shut eyes pried open, first flakily before bringing his eyesight to normal view. However, where he was was outside, perched up against the trunk of a tree, and the tip of Peter's wand was perched on the center bridge of his nose. His heart skipped a beat and he jerked his slouchy head up in to a proper position. However, Pettigrew was just as alert, despite being absolutely drenched in his own pool of perspiration. His eyes moved back and forth with anguish of his own and his mouth was slightly left open, so that he could permit himself to breathe more freely. He looked tired from having carried Draco outside the Manor and to the forest clearing, but heaving Draco's body across the earth was not the only duty that he'd done; the seven bodies had been laid out before the two of them, dirty and twisted and rotting.

"Get up," Pettigrew commanded with a hovering tone, because he was fearful himself. He'd snuck Draco out of the house, managing to slink past the others without having been noticed. However, even Peter knew that luck had never graced him for too long of a time. So, therefore, he was running low on time. His stern hand remained pointed directly in front of Draco's face, making him cross eyed in the midsts of his person delusion. "Get up!" he shouted once again, terror mounting in the bottom of his own aching throat.

But Draco couldn't even manage to do so himself. His knees were still weak and useless and as he attempted to oblige Pettigrew, his palms slipped against the wooden tree trunk and he once again lost his balance, colliding with the chest of Peter, who pushed him off furiously. "Get the fuck up!" Peter roared, his nerves just about crushing him. Overall, he looked as if he himself was about to melt; his skin appeared glossy and oily, his own receding head of hair was plastered to his puffy face. His mouse-like eyes shook with every passing second and he looked as if he could both murder and shake Draco at that very moment. However, even Malfoy knew that the pathetic man was looking out for his own well being. Pettigrew had a job to do and that was to keep a watch on Draco. And so far he wasn't doing too brilliantly.

Tired over the furiously passing time, Pete bent down, wrapped his pudgy fingers around the sweaty collar of Draco's nice suit, and hurdled him to a standpoint. "You've got a job to do," Peter growled, nodding towards the deceased seven. "And I'm not going to pay for you being a coward!" As chilly as it was outside, each moment that staggered on between them seemed to send Peter into more and more of a heated state; his pulse doubled and the sweat seemed to tumble down his front. He breathed as if he'd run miles and he held his wand out threateningly, aiming to put an end to the young Malfoy once and for all.

But the tears were finally sliding down Draco's own visage and he stumbled forward, bending down low to grab his quivering knees. Though chocking heaves of his own, he coughed out desperately, "I... I c-can't," and Peter's fury only seemed to widen.

He laughed desperately, nervous tears beginning to swell up in his own eyes. He was horrified for himself, tragically fearing his own pathetic life. He was, after all, in risk of loosing it very soon anyways; Voldemort had not been too happy with him. And he would not let this stupid kid ruin his chances of an enjoyable existence. He lunged forward further, once again seizing Draco by his suit's tie. The grip of his hands at Draco's neck tightened and Malfoy felt himself loose quite a significant amount of air. But Voldemort had taken his wand and Malfoy had been helpless beyond comprehension. However, even with one, Malfoy figured he wasn't much help to himself with it to begin with. "You need to learn to do what you are told!" Pettigrew roared, a petty twitch taking over his face.

Though something new push its way through the trees; a shadow that had passed by otherwise unseen. The looming figure was dark in exterior, but the presence that it illuminated was just as cunning and terrifying. Though the lingering outline of the man only stood still for a short while. Acting fast he pulled out his own thin wand, pointing it at Pettigrew and shouting, "Expelliarmus!" over the heavy wind. And in an instant Pettigrew's grip around Malfoy's collar loosened and Malfoy was dropped to the ground, his own hands touching his neck. In shock Peter revved backwards, eyes wide and even more terrified. His gasp was hoarse and rushed and he dove forward, covering himself from any oncoming spell that he presumed to be harmful.

"Don't kill me!" he shouted, squealing.

But the figure in the back only laughed sarcastically. He strode forward, the flowing cloth of his dark robes streaming out behind him in the curling wind. Malfoy, however, was oblivious to this; as he sat curled up on the floor, his mind was faltering briefly. And all the while he tried only not to lock eyes with the bodies before him, tried to remain huddled in his own little ball. "I'm not going to kill you, you pathetic rodent," the man bellowed and Draco's throbbing head arched up, finally facing the figure dead on.

Severus Snape had never looked so angry.

"But I will be more than happy to make your bones catch on fire."

"NO!" Peter cried out miserably, "for the love of God, Severus!" He had pressed his palms over his head, ready for Snape to blatantly ignore his pleading. However, when no such spell came, his loud heaving breaths died down. He inched forward, eyes searching for his discarded wand, and when he found it, he crawled for it sheepishly, a dog with its tail between its legs. "H-he w-was give a t-task," he informed Snape accusingly, "and w-was bluntly refusing t-to--"

Snape cut him off loudly, "I'll take care of Draco, Pettigrew," he stated, allowing Peter to retrieve his wand and stumble to a steady stance himself. "Go back to the Manor. Inform the Dark Lord that all is under control." Peter hesitated, his eyes wandering from Snape to Draco. When he found the blond boy on the floor his face fell to that of detest, but Snape cleared his throat, forcing Peter's attention back on him directly. "Now!" he demanded, harsh and loud and his command seemed to work. Obligingly, Peter scampered to his feel, tripping over himself as he clamored from the spot completely. And then, when he finally managed to stumble to a standpoint, he vanished completely, allowing only the sinking vision of his shadow to linger on any further.

However, Snape's mercy didn't last much longer. He forced himself forward, peering down at Draco with a newfound rush of his own. "Get up," he commanded again.

Draco, shaky and ill, said only, "I c-can't," and his moan seemed floppy even in the uptake of the wind.

Snape rolled his eyes, bending down forward only so that Malfoy could more clearly hear his stern voice. "Get," he said slowly, "up." But Draco only shook his head back and forth, unwilling to oblige for the first actual time that night. Snape, on the other hand, was more than willing to make Draco oblige. He reached forward and did as Peter had; grabbing forward to wrap his own slender and boney fingers around Draco's tie. As he lifted him up from the ground, Draco yelped anxiously, feeling the loss of breath once more.

There was not any anger behind Snape's gaze. He was fearful and determined despite his rush and hurry. His cold eyes narrowed down on Draco, heaving him to one side and nodding towards the seven bodies. Then he lifted his wand, waved it around in a quick circle, and from the darkness a silvery shovel rose in the distance, whipping off of the side of the tree trunk in a fast motion. The shovel hurdled towards Draco's heaving chest and he caught it dumbfounded, his eyes wide and newly watching Snape. "I can't do it," Malfoy once again repeating, standing still against the neck of the shovel, using it as his only true method of support. "I'm not doing it."

"Draco," Snape snapped, "you're wasting too much time complaining."

But all Draco could see was the string of rotting corpses and he could feel the oncoming bile. Holding the sick at the top of his throat, he could only manage to shake his head. "I'm not asking you, Draco." Snape responded, slightly pitiful. However, this feeling was heavily overshadowed by the urgency that tainted his entire voice. "This isn't your choice," he stated, watching Draco watch the seven bodies before him. "Now start digging."

But Draco knew exactly what Severus Snape meant. With a horrified and morose nod he gripped the handle, swallowed hard, and struck the cold, hard ground.

Vonne: Review!