Vonne: I know, it took a while. Sorry! This one is a memory chapter, so that is why it is written in slanted lettering. If you remember from the previous chapter, Malfoy was just about to continue with how his life played out while living with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Alright, well, I won't waste any more time...

Corey Flitzwilliam: I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far and actually read each chapter even when not having followed it since the beginning. Your review definitely motivated me to get this chapter up and finished! Thanks so much! I really appreciate it!

Isabella120: Thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

Doni: Yeah, I slightly enjoyed Draco being adventurous, too. He needs some more exictement in his life, don't you think? :) And maybe you're right about Lucius... you never know. But Lucius is a very smart man. He's probably figured something, if anything at all, out. Or at least knows SOMETHING is up, huh?

Voldyismyfather: Thanks! I'm so glad that you think that way. I'd like to hope this gets better as it goes on- HAHA. :)

Shining Bright Eyes: Thanks so much for all your reviews. I say that every single time but you're always doing it and I appreciate it more and more. :)

Jade2099: HAH, you're right. Lucius is the ULTIMATE Slytherin. But you're right, he is a father, as well. But it looks like you're going to have to wait and find out to see how Lucius and Draco figure this one out. :)

Thanks guys!

Chapter Nineteen:
Through the Kissing Doors

Draco Malfoy came through the doors of his own house but he may have well entered a foreign country.

He was woozy and a bit clouded, but he kept open his eyes, a slight struggle, all things considered. With his mess of silvery-blond hair on top of his throbbing head, he wished nothing more but to be back at school. But that didn't matter now because such a wish was utterly impossible. He was here and there was really no changing that. He was here and he would continue to be until he was permitted to leave. In the moment he allowed his foggy eyes to scan the rest of the living room. Sprawled out on top of the furniture was the rest of the Death Eaters, looking sly and suspicious and eager. They watched him in unison as he stood haveringly at the doorframe, shovel in hand, covered completely in dirt.

Bellatrix Lestrange allowed a beautifully dangerous smile creep across her pale face. She was, after all, quite captivating despite being completely horrifying all at the same time. And, despite her deliciously evil looks, she was a Malfoy. She had, as all others, inherited that very same charm of physical attraction that had graced her sister. What was chilling about her was the cold twinkle behind her pair of yellow eyes, two narrow globes that seemed endless despite their stoney atmosphere. As she watched the shady figure of her nephew at the head of the living room, she lifted her boney fingers to her head of messy hair, the massive knot of salt and pepper colors, and took to twirling the locks around her little finger. "Don't look so blue, Draco," she advised, watching him carefully, "some people would say that digging graves builds character."

Now two in the morning, Draco must have built much of his character. He was tired after having dug seven graves, but filling them was what proved to be the hardest part. And Snape was not about to let him falter on the job. But either way he'd got it done, staggered back to the Manor, while all the way he tried to mask his sleepiness. He wasn't doing so successfully at that bit, however. Each long moment that passed between him and the Death Eaters made his posture sag down a bit further, made his shoulders sink with dellusion. Even hazy, he could hear Snape quip back, "is that true, Bella? Does that mean you've not dug any?"

"I've dug plenty." Bellatrix said back, offended at Snape's comment. Perhaps he had misjudged her; of course Bellatrix would have done such a thing. She might have, after all, taken much pride in it. As Snape passed her by hastly, she picked at her yellowing teeth with a long fingernail of hers, "it's actually," she drolled happily, "quite a favorite past time of mine."

"I don't think your nephew liked it too much, Bellatrix," Rowle laughed, sizing Draco Malfoy up with one quick glance.

"Yeah, well," Bellatrix answered, rolling her eyes, "disipline doesn't run in the family." She then reeled back slightly, having pulled something finally from her mouth, and analyzed it disgusted before flicking it across the living room floor.

"Obviously." Thorfinn Rowle had never truly liked Draco Malfoy much, but his displeasure with the boy only intensified after the past several weeks. His incident of loosing track of Harry Potter and his friends at a small cafe had been, of course, quite a mistake. He'd never quite dropped the matter of Draco having preformed the Cruciatus Curse. Every time that the two passed, Rowle took to morphing his face into a scowl. He know had a permanet scar that slashed across the side of his face. Having opened the left surface of his cheek, Rowle's face was forever tainted as a reminder and each threatening look he tossed Draco let him know that he would never truly live it down.

Malfoy took the hint and the gaze and instantly dropped his eyes.

"You know what I don't like, Bellatrix?" Rowle started with a growl, "I don't like it when young people don't mind their manners."

"Relax, Rowle," Bellatrix mulled, digging back into her teeth. But that was all she'd opted into saying; after having pulled her fingers away from her mouth, she leaned back, stretched out, and turned her head slightly upsidedown to get a brand new look at the massive kissing doors ahead of her. She chewed playfully on her bottom lip and let her bird's nest hair frame her boney face, which would have been rather pretty if it weren't so utterly horrifying.

Noticing Bellatrix's glances back and forth, Rowle perked up a bit- or as much as he possibly could for a man of his size. Smiling, he tossed a look towards Malfoy once again and said excitedly, "you're absolutely right, Bella. Anyway, the Dark Lord will deal with such a problem."

A cold chill ran down the length of Draco's spine. He could feel his own blood run slower. Where was his father? His mother? Weren't they supposed to be here with him? And, more importantly, where was Snape, who'd been just behind him only moments ago? The missing place where he should have been standing made Malfoy want to disolve into a giant puddle. There was no more safety net, nothing to support him. And, falling hard into the realization that he was utterly and entirely alone, Draco could have died right there on the spot.

Then the two doors opened, letting everyone in the living room preview the overwhelming amount of darkness that lay beyond the two doors. A larger smile brightened the whole of Rowle's face; Bellatrix Lestrange bounded up from the sloppy sofa, looked into the darkness as if about to devour a lover. And then a high pitched scream sounded through the entire bulk of the Manor. It wasn't the first scream that Malfoy had ever heard, but the fact did not make it any less horrible. The scream was that of a woman's, so obvious behind even the most awful cracking that ran through it. She yelled out once at the initial opening of the large doors and then silenced herself to timid whimpers.

The choice to advance forward was inevitable; it was something that had to be done, even without having been asked. But Bellatrix was up and running before such a thought could even come to Malfoy's head. She skipped like an eager child, ready to open up some long awaited gift. With each bouncy jump her matted hair flounced up with her until she was just only a sinking figure in the distance, the blackness of her gown blending in the the sheer blackness of the room.

Rowle remained put, his feet slightly rooted for a moment before turning his head towards Draco and practically demanding that he followed. And because he truly had no choice, Malfoy brought himself towards the sound of the scream, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Rowle was off behind him in an instant. He seemed so calm there behind him; his hands in his nice suit pockets. Like Lucius, he'd kept an unfaltering posture. Blond and slightly overweight, only the glowing figure of the top of Rowle's head was visible in the darkness.

As the walk in the dark came to an abrupt end, Malfoy could just make out the window against the dark wall. It showed the view of the back yard and the albino peacock pacing about the emerald stretch of grass. In the night, the stars seemed to twinkle vibrantly, a reminder of something good and pure that Draco had so obivously passed up on possessing. And then, just as he thought he'd break down in the anxiety of the peacefulness outside, something new took that beauty instantly away from him. Quickly, the curtain was drawn over that one glass window, and once again he was thrust back in the blackness, leaving him there and nothing more.

The woman on the ground screamed again and Draco stumbled back over his feet. She was much closer than he'd anticipated for her to be; in fact, she was at his feet, coiled and crawled on the marble floors of what used to be his father's office. The moment his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he could see that the large office desk had been removed. The renovation had called for anything and everything else in the room to be removed along with it. It appeared that he was standing in the emptiness of the room, the only objects inside proved to be just shadows. The figures appeared in heavy blobs all around the exterior of the empty room, circling the woman at his feet. She'd finally managed to raise herself, clinging onto the front of Malfoy's shirt, and begging for something so rapidly that he could only barely understand her.

Her accent was strong and riddled with slang, which was explained by the age of the young woman. Perhaps only in her late twenties, she was ragged, dirty, and a bit overly frazzled. Her fingers were inclosed in a pair of gloves without fingers, the side of her face was only slightly bruised, but from the corner of her thin mouth trailed a minimum flow of crimson blood. She was undoubtedly homeless, but the look in her eyes told Draco that all she wanted was to be back in her "home", whatever the place was in which she called that. "Please," she was saying, was crying in little broken tones, "please don't kill me."

Kill her? Draco Malfoy could't even stand to look at her writhing there, let alone kill her. Sick with pity, he backed away further, still managing to stumble back over himself with nervous aggression. "Do backbones run in the family, Bellatrix?" Rowle sarastically asked from someplace in the darkness. The woman on the floor looked up, appearing retched underneath her soggy face, and gawked at the nothingness in horrified curiosity.

"You're implying that you posess such a thing," Bellatrix hummed, clearly not bothered by Rowle's insult to her own family. It wasn't, of course, as if she truly considered Draco to be very much related to her in the first place, but she did quite fancy the art of her vain wit and ability to humiliate when given the chance.

Rowle stiffened. "Of course I have a backbone," he shot back, not expecting her to turn that tables back on to him. Of course, in the little light that the room held, such bickering gave little to the effect of solitude.

"Ah," Bellatrix said. Draco Malfoy could hear that creek of the walls as she leaned back against them. The structure of the place had not been as sturdy as it used to be, after having taken quite a beating ever since the Death Eaters had called the Manor their home. Either way, Bellatrix stay firmly pitched against it, once again taking to picking at her teeth, this time with the end of her wand. "You must have multiple, then. Clearly besides laziness and a lack of self-control, a surplus amount of bones could be the only other reason why you're such a fat bastard."

"Enough!" Someone new called, just as the sound of Rowle running forward echoed throughout the entire room. At the sound of the noise Rowle's had frozen in his place, his wand held out in front of him aimed at Bellatrix's chest like the end of a loaded gun. However, Bellatrix's eyes only met the tip of Rowle's wand unimpressed before searching the empty room for the owner of the new voice. On the ground the woman cowered, bringing her entire face into her hands and falling entirely within herself. Malfoy's own head whipped up and she thrust hers down- two acts so perfectly in unison that Malfoy only felt more pity for her. They were quite very much the same-- too horrified to move a single muscle. But within a moment Bellatrix's face brightened up with extreme enlightenment. Lord Voldemort, in his own rotting flesh, stood before her and she could tell just by the very raspy drawls that emitted fatally from his throat. His two narrow and yellow slit-like eyes pierced throug the darkness, providing something of the only light necessary.

The snake of a man didn't spin around, but merely turned his head in a slow and steady fashion, his eyes coming to focus once again on none other than Draco Malfoy. "I thought," he hissed, still angry from all those previous months ago when Draco found he couldn't kill Albus Dumbledore there in the night on the Astronomy Tower, "that you'd just... relish... in the chance to redeem yourself."

A third scream echoed through the room and the woman, still absolutely fearful, was twisting and turning on the marble, contemplating a way out. But even she had not a single idea of what sort of death would await her, was oblivious to any sort of idea. And Draco was sure she was a Muggle, because at every sight of flying light from a wand sent her screaming again, ducking as if the shots were always aimed at her. She was shaking, spitting between her lips that she didn't care what sort of devil worshipers they were, what sort of cult they had going, but that she wouldn't tell anyone, wouldn't tell a single soul, not even one.

Draco winced when she'd said it: Devil Worshipers. Nothing could be more far and more close to the point. In a way he had, quite frankly, made a deal with such a creature- such a Satan like this man, who walked the earth as merely a rotting corpse. He'd escaped death, beaten the odds, and come back as their Dark Lord, whom they were supposed to love and fear and serve. It seemed so stupid to think back that at one point in his life, Draco had wanted such a life- had even anticipated it with open arms. His ignorance and stupidity overwhelmed him, his father had even seemed a bit uneasy. But it was too late going back now- they'd all made their choice, they all made every choice in the world...

Rowle grunted unenthuastically in the corner, not quite convinced that giving Draco Malfoy a second chance was such a bright idea. He rolled up his sleeves in angry anticipation, however was too afarid to voice his displeasure. In the little light that Draco could see throughout the room, he caught sight of Rowle's undenyable Dark Mark on his forearm, there scrawled across his pale stretch of skin, permenant. The one on his own arm burned, stung like a horrible and forever aching reminder- his Mark of the Beast. His Deal with the Devil.

At once Draco Malfoy wanted religion, salvation, passion, and peace, and every single thing that came with it. He wanted baptisim and repent and forgiveness and undenyable love. But now was too late, was far too late. And as he stared onto the arched back of the homeless Muggle woman, who'd only probably been sleeping when she'd been so careless snatched away from the only life she knew, he knew that he couldn't go back. He'd signed the hypothetical contract, scrawled Voldemort's mark on to his very skin. He was, in his own way, bound and rooted. He was, like the other Death Eaters surrounding him, part of the unforgiven, the unable to be saved. What good was religion, salvation, passion, and peace if he could never obtain it? The Dark Mark on his pale forearm was proof of that.

If someone poured Holy Water on him, would he burn?

If he died right now, would he fall to Hell?

"R-redeem...?" Draco asked Voldemort in the darkness, still locking eyes with the back of the figure on the floor. She'd hovered lower at the sound of Draco's voice, which was truly just as raspy and hoarse as Voldemort's now.

Voldemort stepped slightly forward, away from Bellatrix, who looked sad as he strode away from her. "Of course, Draco, of course!" He first spoke with wonder, but then his voice reeked of vanity and pride. He looked down at the blond boy as he added, "being the kind and merciful Lord that I am, I have decided to give you such a chance... to prove to me your loyalty and obdience." He held out the thin stick that Draco realized at once was his own wand. His wand that he'd not seen in ages, his wand that looked so dangerous in the hands of the man standing there stiffly in front of him.

"How?" Draco asked desperately, though nervous and completely aware. Of course he knew how, and at the stupidity of the question, the cluster of shadows behind Voldemort gave a chorus of heart felt laughs.

But Voldemort remained silent. At first he kept his gaze strong until he backed off, finally letting his eyes land on the figure before him, a mere Muggle so helpless in her tight ball. "Here," he said, with his voice filling with disgust at the putrid thing writhing uncontrollably on the ground, "I'll demonstrate. Crucio!"

At last the woman broke. Her limbs loosened and she became nothing but a big heap on the floor. She moved as if in tremors, eyes filling up with tears. Her throat permitted an ample amount of screams from its depths, which she allowe to echo through the entire atmosphere of the empty room, once Draco's father's office. She gagged and spit up, snot streaming out of her nose quickly. When her head arched back, she slapped her skull to the marble and a pond of red blood escaped her matted head of hair with rapid force. Through her terror she was trying to speak, though her words were only bits and pieces of sentences that were surely impossible to understand. Still jerking, her white knuckles found their way towards Draco's prensence and she crawled towards him, as if she was ignorant enough to presume he'd help.

Finally Voldemort dropped his own wand and the woman flopped back down to the ground again, clearly sobbing. The depest part of Malfoy's stomach twisted and he could hardly stand it watching the blood fill up around the crown of her head, her own bloody halo that stuck like a simple ring around the circumference of her now swollen head. And Voldemort only locked his gaze with Malfoy's, waiting for him to follow his lead.

But Malfoy couldn't seem to lift his hand. Even though the better sense of his head was telling him to go, do it, or die, he couldn't quite manage. There was no strength or feeling left in it-- no feeling left in his entire arm, addtionally. And he stood there, only dumbstruck at the figure before him, still and unmoving, but screaming and suffering. She'd pulled her hair out of her head, clumps of it next to her twitching torso as big and massive as an entire mouse. His mouth couldn't even form the words, his eyes couldn't even keep Voldemort's gaze. Inside his chest his heart beat faster and faster and over and over he thought that maybe he deserved Hell, maybe he deserved life in enternal sufferring and wallowing and hopelessness and damnation.

"Hm," Voldemort tutted, after a long moment of standing in his suspicions, "pity." Then he raised his wand again, though this time at the figure of someone new-- Draco's. Malfoy felt the burning hit him before he knew it and the wand clattered from the grips of his sweaty palms even before his own legs gave in. He hit the ground in tiny little parts- knees, and then his upper half-- just before the woman. On the floor next to him, she shot up, darting backwards like a crab, screaming wildly and more loud than even before. Her back hit the wall, unable to take her eyes, wide with anxiety, off of the blond boy, who was on the ground gagging, choking as if two invisible hands were strangling him half to death.

And Malfoy had never felt something so physically painful in his entire life. His hands reached up to his throat, but were only weak with hopeless strength. The burning sensation riddled throughout his entire skeleton. All two hunred and six bones in his body were on fire, encaptivated in flames that seemed endless and overwhelming. At any moment he was sure he'd combust, become nothing but a pile of black steaming ash. Still alive and physical not truly capitvated in flames, he could feel his eyes go back, could hear the voices of the other Death Eaters, but couldn't possibly understand them. All their sounds meshed together; millions of voices laughing through his fuzzy thoughts. His own head slammed against the marble and he bit down on his lower lip, feeling it split open on impact. In the corner, the woman cried loudly.

Though Voldemort had no plans on backing down any time soon. He'd known that there was no way possible Draco Malfoy could have done what he'd been asked to do, and even though a bit disappointed, Voldemort relinquished in the sheer delight that overtook him now.

Draco's hands slipped down from his throat and he felt them completely lifeless at his sides. His neck was sore with twitches, and twisting. He no longer could see behind his tear stung eyes and he no longer knew where he was. He was slipping in and out of consciousness and of sanity, could barely breathe as every tremendous surge swept mercilessly throughout his entire body. Was this it? Was he dead? Was this Hell?

At last Voldemort released his grip on his wand, snapped away from Draco, panting breathlessly. And in the corner the Muggle woman watched the body of Draco Malfoy still twtich, still choke and gurgle slightly as if trying to catch his breath. She was in hysterics, her face so red from her tears that each time it slid down her puffy front it stung her bitterly. But Malfoy was lying on his back, his chest heaving up and down spastically. He was drenched in sweat and tears and snot, spit, and blood. Desperately he reached for the stone floor in front of him, pulled himself up to a postition where only his upper torso was raised. Heaving rapidly, clutching his queasy stomach, he was sick with nausea when he vomited on the marble floor.

The loud screams from the Muggle rose anxiously. Voldmort strode towards the door, the length of his long black ropes flowing out slightly behind him. "Finish her off," he demanded, and then vanished behind the large doors, completely out of sight.

Bellatrix leaned forward, eager and more than utterly willing. The smile on her face was wide and fearless and she rose her wand with sweet aggression. "Avada Kedavra!" she shouted and the woman gave out her last final scream before flopping down on the floor in one fatal heap.

"Alright now," Rowle said, having happily had his wish of reaping revenge upon Draco Malfoy granted, "your turn." He truly did desire to kill the boy, to once and for all end it on a note joyous to him, but that was something for another time, another place. He was, of course, only half lying, but he inched his wand up into the air and aimed it right at Malfoy's rising chest. And so, as Malfoy felt himself fall back down to the ground again, feel the sinking loss that weighed heavy inside his empty, heartless chest, he was once again unconscious on the marble floor, lost completely to the world.

Vonne: REVIEWS! :)