Remnants of Life
Disclaimer: The Characters aren't mine, only the Plot. Characters are from the mind of J.K. Rowling.
Rating: R
===Note===
Began this chapter a while ago, but I kept taking breaks. Then all the angst started to depress me, and that's when I wrote the one shot with humor. (Clarity of Words)
Anyways, read, review, inspire me to write faster. More difficult now that school's started again. But I'll try.
Chapter 10: Suffering from Truth
Appearing in the damp hallway of the Riddle House, Draco swept his eyes over his surroundings with interest. Abandonment had left the once beautiful structure in ruins. The walls were dust coated and stripped of wallpaper. The floorboards were cracked and squeaked when the slightest pressure was applied.
This was the chosen meeting place of the Dark Lord's followers. It had been selected by Voldemort himself, and he was rumored to have a personal attachment to the house. The reason for this was not particularly well known. The curious however, could seek stories of the structure's history for the price of a drink down at the local pub.
In this, Draco had no interest. His manner could at best be described as detached. He cared not for his location or lifestyle. He barely heard the orders directed at him. The majority of his days were spent drifting through the hallways of the decayed house as a shell emptied of its contents. He was the ghost of the Deatheaters. He was the shadow which lurked near the back at their meetings. And, if it wasn't for the high regard in which Lucius was held by their master, Draco's presence might not have been noticed at all.
But, none among them could really be trusted until they had given some proof of their loyalty. That was the way of evil; look after yourself, because no one else will.
Draco himself had been given a test of the sort. He had expected it. He had prepared for it. Yet, when the victim was learned, he knew it wouldn't be done. Though Hermione Granger could not be considered a significant individual in his life, she was nevertheless a notable figure of his past. And that, unfortunately, was a memory he was not yet prepared to recall.
He wouldn't pretend his childhood had been blissful, because that was far from the truth. Life in the manor was strict; their routines rigid. He had suffered through his father's peculiar tempers and impossible demands. He had bore his mother's cold shoulder and condescending remarks. And, he had come out of it all without any permanent damage.
Hogwarts had seemed a promising escape. At the very least, the distance between the school and the manor was vastly satisfying. Draco soon realized however, that distance was hardly a barrier against his family.
Banishing his thoughts and settling for a forced acceptance of his current situation, Draco proceeded down the hallway to the room at its end. The door was ajar, and he entered without knocking as was usually required.
A cloaked figure lunged at him, slamming him back against the door. With an echoing bang, the entrance was closed and Draco struggled for breathe against the arm held to his throat.
"What took you so long?" Lucius demanded, uncaring that he was nearly strangling his son. "It was a simple assignment. And it was only a damn Mudblood for Christ's sake!" A vein throbbed in his temple as he screamed. Draco didn't notice. He was gagging violently. The crushing pressure on his windpipes was weakening him quickly. The thought danced that he might be killed by his own father. It would be cruelly ironic; expected almost.
The attack ceased as suddenly as it came. Dropping down onto his hands and knees, Draco gasped and coughed as he watched Lucius' feet before him. He wondered why the man didn't just kick him while he was helpless. It seemed the type of action his father would enjoy.
"Get up." The command was calm and deadly.
Draco strained to comply. His movements were sluggish, but after a moment he found himself on his feet and face to face with his malicious tormentor.
Lucius' eyes were pools of pure black. In the dimly lit room, his pupils could not be distinguished. But, even in their eternal darkness, Draco saw a fire of amusement dance and sway. His father took pleasure in others' pain. It mattered not that it was his own blood suffering.
"Is the witch dead?"
Not trusting himself to speak, Draco simply nodded. He kept his eyes averted and directed at the floor. A touch of paranoia convinced him that any eye contact would reveal the truth; that he had failed, and she was alive.
A sudden blow was landed on the side of his head. Dazed and blinded by light dancing before his eyes, he strained to hear what his father said next.
"Look at me when you answer," came the command. That was the only type communication father and son shared. Draco hadn't expected anything else.
He raised his head solemnly and found himself unable to focus. The man swayed and blurred before him. The force of the blow had jarred his senses.
"Is the witch dead?" He repeated. Lucius' voice was strained and urgent; his eyes unblinking as he searched his son for the answer he wanted. Draco didn't hesitate to give it to him.
"Yes," he said firmly, refusing to blink himself. Inability to hold a constant gaze could be considered a sign of deception. And, the consequences of deluding Lucius were endless.
Satisfied with his answer, his father smiled grimly before turning away.
"Good, you did well then." Lucius said quietly as he settled in an armchair by the fire. Malfoy found it almost amusing how the man spoke of pride but showed none.
"Rest a while. The Dark Lord will join us shortly."
The statement brought a distasteful favor to his mouth. Though he had had many personal encounters with Voldemort since the night Hogwarts fell, Draco could never suppress the feeling of revulsion experienced during each meeting.
The Dark Lord's successful return to his body had its consequences. His skin was dead white and scarred. His face resembled that of a serpents'; sharply angular and slit eyed. Draco shuddered simply imagining his master's features.
"He might question you further; be prepared for that. If he is satisfied, you will be rewarded." Lucius remarked distractedly.
That was all his life consisted of now, Draco thought bitterly, challenges and rewards. And, he realized quite suddenly that the rewards were never worth the effort.
Lowering himself into the other armchair, he mused on what he really desired; freedom, certainly, but there was more. He wanted peace. He wanted joy. And, he found his life completely lacking in both. Peace had not been experienced since the lonely nights he spent before the common room fire. Despite the emptiness of those moments, Draco had been soothed but the familiarity of it all. Joy was not something he recollected at all. There had been none in his childhood, there had certainly been none in his torturous adolescence, and now there was nothing felt other than defeat. But somehow, he had achieved an acceptance of this.
The door creaked open behind him, but Draco didn't bother to turn around. A draft blew in from the hallway and caused him to shudder involuntarily. Still, he refused to acknowledge a new presence in the room. He kept his eyes carefully adverted, stalling the inevitable confrontation which would eventually come.
"Is it done?" A low voice hissed closer than expected. Draco started, not having realized his master was looming beside his ear. Instantly, his hands grasped the armrests to sooth the rising tension in his body. Using incredible willpower, he suppressed the urge to move away.
"Yes." He breathed, keeping his eyes forward and away from the Dark Lord. His voice came out shaky; he prayed it wouldn't draw suspicion.
He was met with silence. Despite the chill of the room, a bead of sweat formed at his hairline. He didn't know what had caused the pause. And, he flatly refused to turn his head to see. Seconds ticked by, no words were spoken.
"Do you know the punishment for deceiving me?" The question was calmly spoken. Draco felt his master's breathe next to his ear. He was close, very close. A bead of sweat trailed down his face. He dared not wipe it away.
"Usually, those who betray me are killed." Voldemort continued slowly. "Is that not fair?"
Draco nodded cautiously, unable to speak.
"But, you wouldn't betray me, would you?" It was voiced not as a question, but as a statement. Another command, Draco thought bitterly.
"You realize however, that trust is not easily awarded among us." The hiss of a voice said softly. "Which is why I hope you understand that I must do this."
Bonds suddenly appeared around Draco's arms, securing him to the armchair. Thick ropes snaked across his chest and stomach and tightened painfully. He struggled for a moment but surrendered when he realized his efforts were fruitless. Panting and panicked, he finally looked in the direction of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort laughed at Draco's reaction. His silted eyes glowed coldly in the dimly lit room. They burned of the fires of hell and held the promise of the torment to come.
Chuckling softly and ignoring Draco's widened eyes, Voldemort continued. "It's difficult to truly know who is loyal to me. So, each of my followers must be tested, you see." With a ghostly pale hand, he drew a slim vile from his cloak. Draco gazed at it in horrified wonder.
"Do you know what this is?" Voldemort asked, holding up the clear container and tapping it gently.
Draco shook his head no. Though he held a faint idea, he had no desire to say it out loud. It was simpler to play dumb.
Approaching slowly until he was right before his hostage, Voldemort held the vile up for Draco to see.
"This, is Veritaserum." He enlightened Draco as he pressed the truth potion to his lips.
Draco closed his mouth tightly, flinching when the cold glass touched his skin. He hadn't expected this, but he realized now that he should have. He should have known there was no trust amid evil; he should have known that the world's enemies were also enemies of each other.
When he resisted, a wand was raised to his chin.
"Be good, and drink." Voldemort commanded through clenched teeth.
Draco's eyes flicked to the wand. Considering his options, he realized there was to be no pleasant outcome of the evening. Taking the potion would leave him vulnerable. There were secrets he didn't want revealed. Refusing could hardly be thought of as an option at all. He would take the potion, whether it was by choice or by force however, was up to him.
He opened his mouth.
The draught was chilling and burned his throat. Draco shuddered and choked, trying to repress the ill feeling rising within him. He felt the liquid consume his core and rob him of his self control. His memories blurred and danced in his head until he was unable to distinguish between them. His thoughts were erased suddenly as the potion took over his mind and soul.
"So, tell me Mr. Malfoy, is the witch dead?" Voldemort asked, once certain the magic had taken effect.
"No." The answer left Draco's mouth before he could even begin fighting it. It would have been a hopeless battle anyway, he knew. Nevertheless he felt ever weaker knowing that he didn't even get the chance.
His master's features twisted into a contorted sneer. "I assumed as much." He said triumphantly.
The words were the last Draco heard before he was blinded by light erupting from the wand tip before him. When he awoke, some time later, he was chained to the wall with iron shackles.
===Note===
I know not much lovin' in this chapter. But I needed to set it up for the climax. You'll see soon hopefully. Must find more time to write between the extensive reading for Bio and the extensive reading for American Lit.
If you love me, then review. Aw hell, review anyway.
-Captive