A/N: So, here's Chapter Two. Review, darlings! Por favor! Things are going
to start to really get interesting after this chapter, which is the
introduction of Draco, yee-haw!
Oh, I thought I might explain why I decided to create an OC. Originally, this was intended to be a Draco-Hermione story, and you can read it as such if you wish. I chose not to make it that, however, because frankly, as enjoyable as those are to read, I just don't see Hermione with Draco. I see her with Ron. And I usually am a Harry-Ginny fan, but for some reason, decided that he should be with Parvati. I think this may be Ginny-Dean eventually. If I get around to it. But anyway, I get annoyed with those stories where Hemione is just ridiculously out of character – sultry, sexy, and yet – still a bookworm? What is that? Anyway, it gets on my nerves, and I'd rather create my own OC than screw up J.K. Rowling's Hermione. Oh, and I guess I need a disclaimer: Only Laura belongs to me. Please don't steal her...
Chapter Two: Insomnia
"Place my hands flat on my chest
I feel the heartbeat back the night
I try counting the sheep and I talk to the shepherd
Play with my pillow forever and ever.
I sit alone and I watch the clock
I breathe in on the tick and out on the tock.
I can hear your bare feet on the kitchen floor
I don't have to hide these dreams no more
I found someone just to hold me tight.
Hold me, Insomniac, all night.
I dig my head down deep
So I can't hear the cars
Outside on the street
And the stars a-laughing.
They get a kick out of my misery.
I've tried everything short of Aristotle
to Dramamine and the whiskey bottle.
I pray for the day when my ship comes in
And I can sleep the sleep the sleep of the just again.
"Insomniac" (If anyone knows the artist of this song, please let me
know!) (suggested music for listening)
Draco Malfoy was asleep in his bed when the burning on his forearm that could mean only one thing occurred. He jerked convulsively when he felt it and awoke, frowning, with a start. He had only just gotten to sleep – was there no rest for the weary?
That was a stupid question, he told himself bitterly. The Dark Lord gave his followers no time to rest for that afforded them time to think, perhaps to think of defection. Well, it was too late for that now.
Sighing, Draco Apparated with a crack. He hadn't even bothered to get undressed when he collapsed on his bed, two hours ago. It was getting on to four o'clock now.
The meeting this time was in a field behind the Nott Manor. All the Death Eaters had manors – it would be beneath them not to have one. The Malfoy Manor was, of course, the most fabulous and ornate.
The meeting was short and to the point, a mere dispensing of assignments. Draco received the name and location of his next murder. He did note with interest that his father was not present. Two Order members had broken up the meeting a little early, but they fled when they saw how outnumbered they were. It was very little time before Malfoy was back in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, sleepless once more.
The ceiling was ornate, covered in gold-leafed pictures and figures. He sighed as he stared at it. He had seen it so many times that its various depictions – the wizard harnessing the unicorn, for instance – were so familiar to him that he barely saw them anymore. He had for a long time seen them for what they were – propaganda placed there from his earliest days, seemingly innocent enough, but planting a seed that his father assumed would flower healthily in his son. It did not occur to Lucius that Draco would discover that unicorns were not meant to be harnessed, whatever Lucius might think. It might have taken him until his seventeenth year to realize it, but he had realized it nonetheless, just as he realized the depiction of a pureblood wizard with silver hair and golden robes leading a muggleborn slave about was wrong.
But he had been angry about this ceiling long ago, and just as long ago gotten over his anger, for it was unproductive. And Draco could afford to be nothing but carefully productive.
He sorted through his plans for the murder, plotting it down to the last detail. When he was certain he had covered it from all angles, he turned his mind to trying to sleep.
Thoughts of Laura were unproductive, but slightly more difficult to squash than his anger about the ceiling. She seemed to invade his mind when he least needed her there. The night he had left he had virtually assured that he would always be able to banish her when he had other matters on his mind. But at times when he had nothing to force his mind to occupy itself with, she would return, sometimes smiling at him, sometimes crying for him. A hundred times he wondered where she was, what she was doing. A thousand times he went over their kisses, a million times he regretted never telling her he loved her.
Had Draco Malfoy been allowed to find someone else to love, he might have, in six years, gotten over Laura Taylor. The trouble was the startling lack of women to love. Oh, there were women. There were the daughters of his father's Death Eater friends. But they were as evil as the men who had conceived them. There were the women with whom he had stolen moments with above bars and saloons, but his interest in them was purely carnal, as was theirs. And so, the fact remained that Draco Malfoy remained in love with Laura. Honestly, he admitted to himself that he was probably in love with mere shadow and memory, and that chances were, she was not the same woman anymore. She was probably married with children by now. She probably was not even the saint he remembered.
The trouble was, Draco did not remember a saint. He remembered a real woman, and he loved and cherished her flaws just as he loved and cherished her virtues. He felt as if he had examined every one over and over. For someone who had not seen her in six years, he mused, he might know he better than anyone else.
But the fact still remained that while he was trapped in a world from which he could not escape to find someone knew (and how many miserable, sleepless nights he wished that he could), she was not, and in reality probably had found someone else. For the first few years, he had wondered if perhaps she had waited for him, but he knew this was merely wishful thinking: when he had left that night, it had been irrevocable. He was gone forever. He was a Death Eater. And even if there had been a way to escape, to go to her, she would not want Death Eater for a lover. She was too good to be touched by that evil, anyway.
Draco ground the heel of one palm into his forehead, trying to force thoughts of her out of his head. He could still hear her bare feet on the floor of the common room, could still hear her laugh, could see her grinning on a hippogriff, challenging him. Could still feel her kisses. He had hoped these thoughts might dim over the years, that he could distract himself into forgetting about them. But far from it, with no life outside of his career as a Death Eater, she was the one good thing he held onto.
Giving up on sleep, Malfoy stood up and began sorting through his mail. There were two pieces of junk mail, which he binned, and a letter from his father, which he unfurled with resignation.
I am in France and will not be returning for a few days at least. There is a French Ministry Auror there who is causing some trouble and must be dealt with accordingly. In the meantime, I hope that you are keeping yourself busy doing our Lord's bidding.
I received an interesting bit of news the other day. That Muggle with whom you were forced to share a dorm with during your final year at Hogwarts, has apparently returned to England. We still do not know where she has been these last two years, but it seems that she is once more working for Albus Dumbledore and his little league of freedom fighters. Now would be a prime time for you to dispose of her and punish her for her insolence that year. I do not presume to give orders on our Lord's behalf, but I imagine were you to execute her, you would be looked favorably upon. I know that it is frustrating for you to hold the position as a mere assassinator, but I heard wind the other day that a promotion night be coming your way if you play your cards right.
Draco sucked in his breath. Laura was back in England? The last news that he had of her was two years ago, and she was leaving the country. No one knew where she had gone.
It felt as if a cold stone had been dropped down in his stomach. If he was ordered to kill her ... Thank God his father had merely suggested and not ordered. But were he not to act on the suggestion, his father would be suspicious, and would probably inform Lord Voldemort, which could have direct repercussions on his standing within Voldemort's ranks. And that position, at the moment, was far too precious to risk. Far too precious, and far too precarious. He needed a bump into a higher position so that he might be let onto more valuable information to pass along.
Malfoy kneaded his knuckles into his forehead, leaning his elbows on the desk with a groan. He had to get some sleep or he was not going to be able to function in the morning.
Lying back down in bed, he mulled over his father's letter. As always with Lucius's letters, the threats were veiled and the tone was cordial. However polite Lucius's letters might be, they were categorically dangerous. Malfoy had learned to deal with them carefully, planning his response to each and every one in detail.
Draco had long past the age in which he did everything his father said, or ordered. He held no fear of the man any longer: Lucius had done the worst thing he could possibly do to Draco, and he left nothing for him to fear. Draco was left with little personal fear of his father. As a matter of fact, Draco was left with little personal fear of anyone. However, things far greater than his own personal safety rode on how Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort saw Draco. And as much as he despised his role in the world, his position in Voldemort's ranks was vastly more important than his own feelings. Thus, obeying, or giving the semblance of obeying, his father, had repercussions, both good and bad, on more people than himself.
For almost a year now, Draco Malfoy had been feeding information along to Albus Dumbledore. Only Dumbledore himself knew. Unfortunately, Draco was only an Assassin. True, he was Voldemort's chief and most talented Assassin, but he was still only an Assassin: brute labor, so to speak. He had not yet been let in on the more intricate workings of Voldemort's ranks. However, as time passed, the knowledge he was being passed was steadily growing. He had, after all, learned of and been invited to the meeting at the Malfoy Manor that was to occur in two weeks. He knew little more than the location and the time, but he knew that it was vastly important to Voldemort. He had passed what little he knew on to Dumbledore, amongst other things. It was a stressful life, playing both sides of the game. There was a constant chance he might be discovered by Voldemort or his father, yet the reason Malfoy was afraid was not because of the certain death that would be subsequent to his discovery. He feared, instead, of the lives that would be lost, and the source that was so vitally important to the Order which would also be lost. That the source was himself was of little concern to Draco.
In the six years since Draco had left Hogwarts, he had grown into a man. The seventeen year old boy who had been unable to defy his father was gone. There are things that cannot happen to a person and not force him to mature into a man. Losing the love of your life and turning your back on evil are two. Giving all of yourself to the cause of good and right is another. All of this had, however, been at the expense of any personal emotion Draco might have had as a result of his year with Laura.
Sleep, he tried to command himself. Mentally, he counted sheep, but quit after three hundred. Rolling over once again, it occurred to Draco that he was hot and he peeled out of his shirt, reveiling a well-muscled chest littered with curse scars. His life had not been an easy one. As it often did on long nights such as this, Draco's mind wandered to Carolyn Moorer and her children.
He remembered the long night before the day in which he was due to murder her. He remembered rolling his wand over and over in his hands and lying awake just like this, tossing and turning. There was a red-hot iron poker in his stomach that made him feel as if he might throw up. He had still been such a boy, then: he had been so afraid. He wasn't even sure what he was afraid of. His father, mostly. Of what he might say if he failed. And on the same hand, he was frightened of killing. What a boy he had been then. He was not frightened for the people whose lives he would be taking, but was frightened of his own emotions when he killed them.
As well he should be. He had crept into the woman's flat, the mast of stealth, and he had found her, nursing her child. She had been in her kitchen with the lights off, trying to soothe the child into sleep. As soon as she spotted him, she set the child down and dove for her wand. Draco was quick, though, and he whispered those two evil words, which coming from his own mouth, would haunt his dreams for the next three years:
"Avada Kedavra."
He had been unable to kill the two children. The sight of the woman lying dead, unblemished and unmarked, on the ground, had proved too much for Draco. It horrified him. He remembered leaning over the sink, retching over and over until his stomach was empty and he was merely spitting bile. He leaned on the sink weakly, shaking all over and covered in a cold sweat. He tried to raise his wand to kill the first child, to finish the task, to avoid his father's wrath, but he could not bring himself to. He could not bring himself to kill that child. Nor could he kill the child in the other room. He did not know what he would say to his father when he returned, but he could not worry about that now. He could only touch the forehead of the squalling baby, and run out of the apartment.
There was a driving rain outside, soaking him almost instantly. He ran for miles down the street, until his lungs burned and his legs ached. Feeling as if someone had wrapped a vice around his chest, he dropped to his knees in the mud just outside of town. The rain poured down over him and he cried.
He had ended a woman's life – senselessly. He had ended it as quickly and as easily as he stomped out a bug. So this was what killing was. He wondered if any of the other Death Eater's felt this driving, gnawing regret that was so strong as to imitate physical pain. The tears poured silently out of his gray eyes and mixed with the rain. For a long time, he didn't even realize he was crying. He didn't recognize the feeling, did not understand the fist that was clamped relentlessly around his windpipe. He cried until he had no more tears left, and then he stood and Apparated back to his father's side.
The Draco who returned to Lucius's side was not the Draco who had left, though. Lucius credited it to the strain of committing his first murder, but in truth it was Draco's transformation from boy to man. He had shaken hands with the devil and come out on the other side, not unscathed, but victorious.
When the news came a week later that the two children had been found dead, Draco's change was complete. He knew the costs now: he knew that every move he made impacted not only himself, but other people. And so he took careful measures. He planned as obsessively as Voldemort himself. And each time he was asked to perform a murder, he would place the intended victim into a sleep only the counter-spell could awake them from, and he hid them. He had hunted all over until he found the appropriate place: a cave in France that had once been considered for a tourist spot, but abandoned. He had placed as many protective charms around it as humanly possible, made himself its own secret keeper, but sometimes late at night he would still worry that it had been discovered and that the thirty-six bodies now lying asleep, not needing food or water or care, were in danger.
Draco mentally kicked himself, trying to force away the image of Carolyn lying dead on her kitchen floor. She had been a pretty young woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Her eyes had been drowsy from sleep and her hair had been mussed in every direction. He wondered vaguely sometimes if she had not died, if she might have been the one to make him forget Laura.
She was dead, though, and he could not forget Laura. All he could do was pour himself a glass of Firewhiskey and prepare himself for the start of another long day.
Oh, I thought I might explain why I decided to create an OC. Originally, this was intended to be a Draco-Hermione story, and you can read it as such if you wish. I chose not to make it that, however, because frankly, as enjoyable as those are to read, I just don't see Hermione with Draco. I see her with Ron. And I usually am a Harry-Ginny fan, but for some reason, decided that he should be with Parvati. I think this may be Ginny-Dean eventually. If I get around to it. But anyway, I get annoyed with those stories where Hemione is just ridiculously out of character – sultry, sexy, and yet – still a bookworm? What is that? Anyway, it gets on my nerves, and I'd rather create my own OC than screw up J.K. Rowling's Hermione. Oh, and I guess I need a disclaimer: Only Laura belongs to me. Please don't steal her...
Chapter Two: Insomnia
"Place my hands flat on my chest
I feel the heartbeat back the night
I try counting the sheep and I talk to the shepherd
Play with my pillow forever and ever.
I sit alone and I watch the clock
I breathe in on the tick and out on the tock.
I can hear your bare feet on the kitchen floor
I don't have to hide these dreams no more
I found someone just to hold me tight.
Hold me, Insomniac, all night.
I dig my head down deep
So I can't hear the cars
Outside on the street
And the stars a-laughing.
They get a kick out of my misery.
I've tried everything short of Aristotle
to Dramamine and the whiskey bottle.
I pray for the day when my ship comes in
And I can sleep the sleep the sleep of the just again.
"Insomniac" (If anyone knows the artist of this song, please let me
know!) (suggested music for listening)
Draco Malfoy was asleep in his bed when the burning on his forearm that could mean only one thing occurred. He jerked convulsively when he felt it and awoke, frowning, with a start. He had only just gotten to sleep – was there no rest for the weary?
That was a stupid question, he told himself bitterly. The Dark Lord gave his followers no time to rest for that afforded them time to think, perhaps to think of defection. Well, it was too late for that now.
Sighing, Draco Apparated with a crack. He hadn't even bothered to get undressed when he collapsed on his bed, two hours ago. It was getting on to four o'clock now.
The meeting this time was in a field behind the Nott Manor. All the Death Eaters had manors – it would be beneath them not to have one. The Malfoy Manor was, of course, the most fabulous and ornate.
The meeting was short and to the point, a mere dispensing of assignments. Draco received the name and location of his next murder. He did note with interest that his father was not present. Two Order members had broken up the meeting a little early, but they fled when they saw how outnumbered they were. It was very little time before Malfoy was back in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, sleepless once more.
The ceiling was ornate, covered in gold-leafed pictures and figures. He sighed as he stared at it. He had seen it so many times that its various depictions – the wizard harnessing the unicorn, for instance – were so familiar to him that he barely saw them anymore. He had for a long time seen them for what they were – propaganda placed there from his earliest days, seemingly innocent enough, but planting a seed that his father assumed would flower healthily in his son. It did not occur to Lucius that Draco would discover that unicorns were not meant to be harnessed, whatever Lucius might think. It might have taken him until his seventeenth year to realize it, but he had realized it nonetheless, just as he realized the depiction of a pureblood wizard with silver hair and golden robes leading a muggleborn slave about was wrong.
But he had been angry about this ceiling long ago, and just as long ago gotten over his anger, for it was unproductive. And Draco could afford to be nothing but carefully productive.
He sorted through his plans for the murder, plotting it down to the last detail. When he was certain he had covered it from all angles, he turned his mind to trying to sleep.
Thoughts of Laura were unproductive, but slightly more difficult to squash than his anger about the ceiling. She seemed to invade his mind when he least needed her there. The night he had left he had virtually assured that he would always be able to banish her when he had other matters on his mind. But at times when he had nothing to force his mind to occupy itself with, she would return, sometimes smiling at him, sometimes crying for him. A hundred times he wondered where she was, what she was doing. A thousand times he went over their kisses, a million times he regretted never telling her he loved her.
Had Draco Malfoy been allowed to find someone else to love, he might have, in six years, gotten over Laura Taylor. The trouble was the startling lack of women to love. Oh, there were women. There were the daughters of his father's Death Eater friends. But they were as evil as the men who had conceived them. There were the women with whom he had stolen moments with above bars and saloons, but his interest in them was purely carnal, as was theirs. And so, the fact remained that Draco Malfoy remained in love with Laura. Honestly, he admitted to himself that he was probably in love with mere shadow and memory, and that chances were, she was not the same woman anymore. She was probably married with children by now. She probably was not even the saint he remembered.
The trouble was, Draco did not remember a saint. He remembered a real woman, and he loved and cherished her flaws just as he loved and cherished her virtues. He felt as if he had examined every one over and over. For someone who had not seen her in six years, he mused, he might know he better than anyone else.
But the fact still remained that while he was trapped in a world from which he could not escape to find someone knew (and how many miserable, sleepless nights he wished that he could), she was not, and in reality probably had found someone else. For the first few years, he had wondered if perhaps she had waited for him, but he knew this was merely wishful thinking: when he had left that night, it had been irrevocable. He was gone forever. He was a Death Eater. And even if there had been a way to escape, to go to her, she would not want Death Eater for a lover. She was too good to be touched by that evil, anyway.
Draco ground the heel of one palm into his forehead, trying to force thoughts of her out of his head. He could still hear her bare feet on the floor of the common room, could still hear her laugh, could see her grinning on a hippogriff, challenging him. Could still feel her kisses. He had hoped these thoughts might dim over the years, that he could distract himself into forgetting about them. But far from it, with no life outside of his career as a Death Eater, she was the one good thing he held onto.
Giving up on sleep, Malfoy stood up and began sorting through his mail. There were two pieces of junk mail, which he binned, and a letter from his father, which he unfurled with resignation.
I am in France and will not be returning for a few days at least. There is a French Ministry Auror there who is causing some trouble and must be dealt with accordingly. In the meantime, I hope that you are keeping yourself busy doing our Lord's bidding.
I received an interesting bit of news the other day. That Muggle with whom you were forced to share a dorm with during your final year at Hogwarts, has apparently returned to England. We still do not know where she has been these last two years, but it seems that she is once more working for Albus Dumbledore and his little league of freedom fighters. Now would be a prime time for you to dispose of her and punish her for her insolence that year. I do not presume to give orders on our Lord's behalf, but I imagine were you to execute her, you would be looked favorably upon. I know that it is frustrating for you to hold the position as a mere assassinator, but I heard wind the other day that a promotion night be coming your way if you play your cards right.
Draco sucked in his breath. Laura was back in England? The last news that he had of her was two years ago, and she was leaving the country. No one knew where she had gone.
It felt as if a cold stone had been dropped down in his stomach. If he was ordered to kill her ... Thank God his father had merely suggested and not ordered. But were he not to act on the suggestion, his father would be suspicious, and would probably inform Lord Voldemort, which could have direct repercussions on his standing within Voldemort's ranks. And that position, at the moment, was far too precious to risk. Far too precious, and far too precarious. He needed a bump into a higher position so that he might be let onto more valuable information to pass along.
Malfoy kneaded his knuckles into his forehead, leaning his elbows on the desk with a groan. He had to get some sleep or he was not going to be able to function in the morning.
Lying back down in bed, he mulled over his father's letter. As always with Lucius's letters, the threats were veiled and the tone was cordial. However polite Lucius's letters might be, they were categorically dangerous. Malfoy had learned to deal with them carefully, planning his response to each and every one in detail.
Draco had long past the age in which he did everything his father said, or ordered. He held no fear of the man any longer: Lucius had done the worst thing he could possibly do to Draco, and he left nothing for him to fear. Draco was left with little personal fear of his father. As a matter of fact, Draco was left with little personal fear of anyone. However, things far greater than his own personal safety rode on how Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort saw Draco. And as much as he despised his role in the world, his position in Voldemort's ranks was vastly more important than his own feelings. Thus, obeying, or giving the semblance of obeying, his father, had repercussions, both good and bad, on more people than himself.
For almost a year now, Draco Malfoy had been feeding information along to Albus Dumbledore. Only Dumbledore himself knew. Unfortunately, Draco was only an Assassin. True, he was Voldemort's chief and most talented Assassin, but he was still only an Assassin: brute labor, so to speak. He had not yet been let in on the more intricate workings of Voldemort's ranks. However, as time passed, the knowledge he was being passed was steadily growing. He had, after all, learned of and been invited to the meeting at the Malfoy Manor that was to occur in two weeks. He knew little more than the location and the time, but he knew that it was vastly important to Voldemort. He had passed what little he knew on to Dumbledore, amongst other things. It was a stressful life, playing both sides of the game. There was a constant chance he might be discovered by Voldemort or his father, yet the reason Malfoy was afraid was not because of the certain death that would be subsequent to his discovery. He feared, instead, of the lives that would be lost, and the source that was so vitally important to the Order which would also be lost. That the source was himself was of little concern to Draco.
In the six years since Draco had left Hogwarts, he had grown into a man. The seventeen year old boy who had been unable to defy his father was gone. There are things that cannot happen to a person and not force him to mature into a man. Losing the love of your life and turning your back on evil are two. Giving all of yourself to the cause of good and right is another. All of this had, however, been at the expense of any personal emotion Draco might have had as a result of his year with Laura.
Sleep, he tried to command himself. Mentally, he counted sheep, but quit after three hundred. Rolling over once again, it occurred to Draco that he was hot and he peeled out of his shirt, reveiling a well-muscled chest littered with curse scars. His life had not been an easy one. As it often did on long nights such as this, Draco's mind wandered to Carolyn Moorer and her children.
He remembered the long night before the day in which he was due to murder her. He remembered rolling his wand over and over in his hands and lying awake just like this, tossing and turning. There was a red-hot iron poker in his stomach that made him feel as if he might throw up. He had still been such a boy, then: he had been so afraid. He wasn't even sure what he was afraid of. His father, mostly. Of what he might say if he failed. And on the same hand, he was frightened of killing. What a boy he had been then. He was not frightened for the people whose lives he would be taking, but was frightened of his own emotions when he killed them.
As well he should be. He had crept into the woman's flat, the mast of stealth, and he had found her, nursing her child. She had been in her kitchen with the lights off, trying to soothe the child into sleep. As soon as she spotted him, she set the child down and dove for her wand. Draco was quick, though, and he whispered those two evil words, which coming from his own mouth, would haunt his dreams for the next three years:
"Avada Kedavra."
He had been unable to kill the two children. The sight of the woman lying dead, unblemished and unmarked, on the ground, had proved too much for Draco. It horrified him. He remembered leaning over the sink, retching over and over until his stomach was empty and he was merely spitting bile. He leaned on the sink weakly, shaking all over and covered in a cold sweat. He tried to raise his wand to kill the first child, to finish the task, to avoid his father's wrath, but he could not bring himself to. He could not bring himself to kill that child. Nor could he kill the child in the other room. He did not know what he would say to his father when he returned, but he could not worry about that now. He could only touch the forehead of the squalling baby, and run out of the apartment.
There was a driving rain outside, soaking him almost instantly. He ran for miles down the street, until his lungs burned and his legs ached. Feeling as if someone had wrapped a vice around his chest, he dropped to his knees in the mud just outside of town. The rain poured down over him and he cried.
He had ended a woman's life – senselessly. He had ended it as quickly and as easily as he stomped out a bug. So this was what killing was. He wondered if any of the other Death Eater's felt this driving, gnawing regret that was so strong as to imitate physical pain. The tears poured silently out of his gray eyes and mixed with the rain. For a long time, he didn't even realize he was crying. He didn't recognize the feeling, did not understand the fist that was clamped relentlessly around his windpipe. He cried until he had no more tears left, and then he stood and Apparated back to his father's side.
The Draco who returned to Lucius's side was not the Draco who had left, though. Lucius credited it to the strain of committing his first murder, but in truth it was Draco's transformation from boy to man. He had shaken hands with the devil and come out on the other side, not unscathed, but victorious.
When the news came a week later that the two children had been found dead, Draco's change was complete. He knew the costs now: he knew that every move he made impacted not only himself, but other people. And so he took careful measures. He planned as obsessively as Voldemort himself. And each time he was asked to perform a murder, he would place the intended victim into a sleep only the counter-spell could awake them from, and he hid them. He had hunted all over until he found the appropriate place: a cave in France that had once been considered for a tourist spot, but abandoned. He had placed as many protective charms around it as humanly possible, made himself its own secret keeper, but sometimes late at night he would still worry that it had been discovered and that the thirty-six bodies now lying asleep, not needing food or water or care, were in danger.
Draco mentally kicked himself, trying to force away the image of Carolyn lying dead on her kitchen floor. She had been a pretty young woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Her eyes had been drowsy from sleep and her hair had been mussed in every direction. He wondered vaguely sometimes if she had not died, if she might have been the one to make him forget Laura.
She was dead, though, and he could not forget Laura. All he could do was pour himself a glass of Firewhiskey and prepare himself for the start of another long day.