Author's Note: My most faithful reviewer: Morena Evensong, asked me, I quote "Is it that this is a sort of conspiracy between a select few, or does society at large just ignore it in an "I don't want to know" sort of sense?" The answer is the second solution. Part of the situation is explained later in the chapter.
To Tommalfoy, thank you for reviewing. I'm doing as quickly as I can, considering that I'm writing two stories at the same time.
To Anne, I'm sorry but the Draco/Remus will have to wait some more. I'll get to it, promise. They'll be happy together at length. Thank you again for reviewing.
And to the best, thank you Mariann, for making a correct fic out of this tangle of mistakes.
You're all great. Thank you! I love you!
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In a loop of darknessChapter 2: … but there's always darkness looming round the corner.
Draco was exhausted, tired by life. His body was sore from being used, his mind clouded with insults and reproaches. In his chest, his heart was getting heavier each passing day, threatening to explode from the inside. He hated them. Why were they treating him so? What had he done to them? But these questions never got answers.
Six months ago, his twenty-fifth birthday had brought a novelty in his life: Snape's weekly visits in Grimmauld Place. The Manor had become quite famous since the end of the war; it had been the core of the Resistance, the Order of the Phoenix's HQ, and people filed past the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of a hero. Recently, they also got the added show of broken death-eaters.
Draco had wanted to see Slytherins again; he was granted his wish. Pansy's face was still red and gaunt from tears that had long ceased to flow and from fear that would never go. Blaise's eyes were blank and his voice was so dull and lifeless that Draco shivered each time the young man answered his master. Noticing how people got bored of them and their non-existent reactions, Draco had begun observing and imitating them.
He no longer cried out when slaps and blows hit him; he had stopped weeping in silence when Snape punctured him open. But the insensitive act had attracted him too much; it had become a drug to take refuge in this world devoid of emotion and sensations. His personality had grown inconsistent. He barely talked above a whisper; his brain didn't register anymore what his sight came upon. He was a shadow. He obeyed orders without listening. He had learnt acting without using his brain. They could have asked that he licked the floor and he wouldn't have noticed. Maybe had they…
The many residents and visitors of the house had gone on the pitch, on the other side of the Manor, to observe a game of quidditch, except for three men. In a more private part of the property that couldn't be seen from the outside, Draco was standing next to Snape's chair, a pot of tea in hand; half of a cake remained on a tray, the serving knife lying at its side. The man was sitting in the garden and conversing with Mad-Eye. For them to chat nicely they had to discuss death-eaters and their hatred of anything related to the kind. Draco was their favourite subject.
"This is where all Malfoys should be!" claimed the old man, "Serving us. After all they did to the wizards… It's their fault we have to hide from muggles."
"I can't say I miss their company. I have enough of wizard brats. Anyway…" Snape stroked the inside of Draco's thighs and drew the servant toward him to have better access, "Malfoys are much better sluts than death-eaters."
Mad-Eye sniggered. "I always wondered what you did with him…" He observed the young man, passive under the ministrations. Draco seemed inattentive to the actions that were taking place. He was a beautiful marionette, waiting to be used again and again for his master's pleasure.
Snape smirked. "Draco…" he called almost softly, "Why don't you service our friend here?"
Mad-Eye opened his eyes wide at the suggestion. But the young man was already executing himself in a whisper and kneeling in front of him, hands massaging his legs, lips caressing the fabric of his pants. "You won't find better in all Great Britain," commented Snape lightly. When Draco's teeth connected with the buttons and twisted them open, Moody gave up any remark he might have had. The boy was good. "You trained him well," he noted.
Snape arched an eyebrow. "You've seen nothing…" He stretched out his right leg and harshly pressed his foot on Draco's back, forcing the young man to his task. Mad-Eye gasped at the added pressure and wrung Draco's hair. "Ah… A pity Lucius was killed," approved the auror. "If only he could witness the scene."
Snape smirked again. "I definitely hope he is." 'Wherever he is," he mentally added. He had often wondered if the man truly was dead or had put on an act to disappear from the world. But if it were the case, would he have abandoned his son? Unseen or felt by the two men, Draco stirred to life, his heart dark and resentful. How did they dare treat his father so!
Mad-Eye's breath quickened and slight beads of sweat formed in the curve of his neck. Snape was certainly exacting with his possessions… He felt the distinctive rush of pleasure in his body, his lips opened in a silent sigh…
Snape observed the duo with his never-ending smirk. The sight of Moody having difficulties breathing was distracting. But suddenly, the man went white. His eyes no longer showed lust but dolour. 'What?' Snape wondered, half-amused, 'If he's having a heart-attack, I'll make sure the reason is written on his gravestone…'
Mad-Eye let out a cry of horrible pain and Snape frowned. He went to take out his wand but in a dash, Draco got up, caught the pot of tea and crashed it on Snape's head, throwing the man on the floor, unconscious, his forehead letting blood escape. Moody's eyes were half-shut by the dolour, his left hand pressing inside his thighs to stop the flow of blood, his right one fumbling in his robes to find his wand. He had no time. Draco had swirled back to him, holding the serving knife, grasped the man by his hair and plunged the tool through the unprotected throat.
Then it was silent. Draco panted with exhaustion. He had just killed two people. Hadn't Fate a sense of humour? When he had needed to kill, he had been unable to do it, had been punished for his weakness by the death-eaters, then punished for his courage by the aurors, and now… Now he truly was an assassin.
Cries of joy and amusement were still coming from the pitch. One would surely come soon. He couldn't remember who had been present before. His memories were only blurs. He searched the robes of the men and collected their wands, then ran. The woods weren't far away and he quickly reached them, his tired legs getting strength from his resolution to survive. No, he wouldn't die here! He had refused to go to the dark side and that was the way they had thanked him! They had insulted the dark lord and his methods but could they really pretend to be better? But they would pay, all of them, for the seventh and a half years of his life that he had spent in servitude! The need for revenge was all they had left him! And he knew exactly where to begin…
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The game was going full swing; Harry was preparing his famous version of the Wronski Feint, when Dumbledore felt it. There was something going on. He quietly got up, careful not to trouble his neighbours or the players and headed for the inside garden. At each step he made, his heart swelled more. The atmosphere was wrong. What had… He stopped abruptly in his tracks, horrified at the sight.
Mad-Eye was bent on his chair, gaping, his eyes staring at nothing, hands hiding a pool of blood that formed between his legs, a knife deeply drove in his throat. And Severus… Dumbledore ran to the corpse, stretched on the ground. There was a deep gash on the head and blood poured down heavy and freely, but the man was still breathing faintly, so faintly that Albus almost missed it. He cast a Blood-Drying spell on Severus and sent a mental call to Harry.
Soon, the young man was rushing up to them, followed by the other players and spectators. The scene caused many to hide their eyes. They called for mediwizards. Giving the state Snape was in, there wasn't much choice as to the place he had to be sent.
"It's Malfoy!" raged Potter, his teeth clinging, fists clenched. "He escaped. Let's find him; he can't be far away."
When the Ministry had captured them, death-eaters had been branded with anti-apparating hexes. The fugitive could only run. A small group was formed for what would be more of a hunt than a search. They cast spells on the forest to check for any humans, but Draco wasn't there. They reached a small borrow, immediately cheered by the inhabitants. Those blanched when they were told of the situation and all ran to their house, closing doors and shutters. A family wasn't to be seen alive ever again.
Aurors soon joined the group in their search; the entire region was under survey. It was a neighbour that called for them in the end of the afternoon: the old man was used to hearing the bickering of the two adolescent daughters of the family, their houses being near, but this evening, everything had been calm. It was nothing more than a bad feeling, for the children could have been too frightened by the menace to have a quarrel, but when the old man had dared go out of his house despite the danger and knocked at the door, no one had answered.
The officials had forced the door. The bitter odour only warned them of the massacre that had taken place. First, they discovered the body of the mother in the kitchen. She was laying face to the floor, blood spreading under her. She had probably been cooking when Malfoy had surprised and slaughtered her. There was a door that led to the kitchen in which a dormer window was broken. Surely the escapee had entered there when the family had been out to applaud the group of war heroes.
The father was in the living room still sitting in an armchair, his newspaper clutched in his contracted hands. Just as his wife, he had seen nothing coming. Throat opened, just like her. The last corpses were upstairs, in a bedroom. The two sisters had been together when the assassin had arrived. The aurors felt the remnants of a soundproof charm on the place. The first girl, the oldest had suffered the same fate as her parents; the younger one had probably tried to scream and flee before she was found in the corridor. She had been stabbed in the back.
At that moment the aurors noticed that every victim's wand had been taken. Surely Malfoy had also stolen whatever he might need. A criminal team analysed the house for any indication of the whereabouts of the killer. After some hours of study, they concluded that Malfoy was in possession of not only wands and knifes, which he didn't mind using, but also brooms, two at the least, and Flow Powder. He had used the fireplace to get out of the house, not long before the aurors had arrived. The trail had led them to Diagon Alley, to the shop of Ollivander. There, they found the sixth corpse. Malfoy had taken all the wands in the store. Six hundred seventy three wands total.
Such information changed their view of the problem. Malfoy wasn't attempting to escape them; he was planning on mass destruction.
The next days were like Hell. Malfoy was apparently killing at random, sleeping in the house for a night, and then flying away. When aurors began placing tracing spells on the skies, he used the powder. At the end of the war, Knockturn Alley had become a place for his kind: thieves, assassins, vampires, werewolves, death-eaters in flight, their families, all those that were rejected by the laws or refused to give up some of their rights. It had been almost disconnected from the rest of the world and the officials had abandoned regulating the inhabitants of what they now called the Hole. It was an unspoken truce: they were allowed to live but they couldn't get out without being tracked. Very few had conserved their wands since most had been confiscated by the Ministry. It had been that or Azkaban. And it was in this rat-infected, dark magic-filled undercity that Malfoy took refuge.
Two-dozen aurors went to the place in order to meet the rulers of the fallen alley. These people had been chosen for their intelligence or strength; their power wasn't recorded by laws or texts but they were accepted as such nonetheless. The officials wanted them to hand over Malfoy or the Hole would be taken by force. One of the rulers, the oldest, a half-vampire by the name of Kilch, smirked. Some seconds later, twenty-three bodies were carried away and buried forever.
The chief orchestrated a time for the funerals then left the command to another ruler and headed for a little house dug underground. Upon the last years, basements had regularly been transformed into hiding places, then, as the inhabitants were more and more fearful of the aurors' attacks, in habitation. Many floors had so been created where people spent their everyday life. Such a situation had later appreciated the rulers, also had the advantage of keeping the Ministry from approximating the population rating in the Hole. They didn't know when people were born, when they died, if some arrived or departed. They thought they were faced with four little hundred inhabitants whereas the last internal census had totalled a little more than one thousand.
All this time, they had been waiting for something, a little change that would allow them to leave the Hole so that the newborn children wouldn't grow up in this dirt. Draco had materialised this hope. When he had arrived, covered in blood that weren't his, carrying shrunken bags in his pockets, their first thought had been to hide him as deep as possible. Draco Malfoy, one of the broken, fallen, convinced death-eater, slave of a hero. How could he be there? He had narrated his escape, omitting nothing of the horrors he had committed. But how could they blame him? It was clear that he hadn't all his wits about his left. Just as he was their hope, he had kept none. All he wanted now was revenge. And he brought them the means for it.
There had been more wands that they had ever seen. Enough to create a small army. As soon as it was thought of, the idea circulated in the Hole, finding supporters. People had enough of living there, of the Ministry that searched each day for a new way of destroying them and their families. The aurors had been welcomed arms in hand.
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A month later
Dumbledore sighed and rubbed his temples. Never would it be finished. This war had no end. He sipped some of his tea and analysed once more the map on which they had compiled the last attacks of the rebels, hoping he could find a link between them and, by so, the place of the next one. After the news that Malfoy had been accepted and placed under the protection of Kilch, never had a public place been attacked again. Only soldiers of the alliance were killed. The true nature of the fights was a political war, not a rebellion.
A week ago the most horrible butchery he had ever assisted at had taken place. Against his opinion, the Ministry had decided to lead a frontal attack against the Hole. In the process, they had lost nine tenth of the aurors and half of the Order. The Order of the Phoenix had been reformed the moment the menace had shown. Albus had let Harry take the command, for he was too old for that anymore. His magic was lessening and the tiredness of his body didn't allow him eccentricities. Helpless, he had looked at his friends getting killed. He had been spared in the fight. Why? He had no idea. Certainly Fate had something else in store for him, more atrocious than death by knives.
The rebels preferred to fight with weapons other than magic if they could. The survivors of the alliance had painfully learnt that in the small lanes that constituted the Hole, where there was no visibility, a knife was much more practical than a wand.
Despaired that he would never find something of use, he gave up his map and got out of his room. In the great Hall of Hogwarts, Harry was shouting along with other members. In the middle of the screaming, Dumbledore couldn't grasp whatever they were saying. That had no importance now. At the end of the Second War, he had given the place of Headmistress to Minerva and retired in his little cottage, at the far North of Scotland. Memories had been too strong for him to stay; still, he visited often to keep news of everyone. But he hadn't liked what he had seen…
Albus left the doorstep without a noise and got out of Hogwarts. There was only one thing to be done. Only a handful of persons that could help… Without resolution, he stepped in the forest. He walked straight ahead for two days. They were surely all searching for him by now.
He came into view of what he had been heading for: the last House of Seers. They were waiting for him, all dressed in black, covered by hoods. They hated strangers and wanted nothing more than to live alone, far away from the real world. But they had helped Dumbledore once, they had accepted to contribute to Voldemort's second fall at the price that the location of their house would always remain a secret.
He didn't talk; there was no point: they already knew why he was here. These people were seers from tip to point, there was no comparison with what Sybil had been, occasional medium. They had seen past, present, and future; they were the instruments of the immortal Wind. What was it that they ignored about human nature?
"What do you expect from us, Dumbledore?" one suddenly asked, his voice shadowy.
"Help for the remaining," he murmured, wondering why they were asking a question whose answer they already knew. But Wind had its way that shall not be perturbed.
"Which ones?" inquired another, a woman this time.
And in front of them, the all-great Dumbledore felt speechless, powerless. Which ones? That truly was the question. They had helped once, and Wind had seen what wizards had made of their world. How low and perverted they had fallen. And he, who had held the power to change everything in his hands, had let it happen.
When the fights had ended and Voldemort dead forever, so many had already preceded him. The world had needed an outlet for his hatred, his need of revenge. It had been the children, innocent victims of their parents' madness. But what other choice could he have made?
A branch stirred next to them and Albus swirled toward it. He took a step back at the sight of a hidden-faced young man and eyed the seers in surprise and relinquishment. If this was their choice, he had nothing to add.
Before he could make any move, his wand was snatched away from his pocket, his hands bound in his back and his eyes covered by a scarf. He didn't pose any resistance.
The rebels took him to a secret entrance of the Hole and he felt they were going downstairs. At length, he was released and could observe where he had been taken. The place had no window and was only lightened by some weak candles. It was a vast room that seemed to be used for everything. A little group was eating in a corner; children had been playing in the middle and stopped at his arriving. The looks of hatred in their eyes were out of place for children of their age. One of them spat at him, never letting go of his glare. Albus was stricken. Was that the world that he had helped create? Holes for babies that had known nothing of the war?
Coming toward him was Kilch. The vampire saluted the young man before beckoning them into following him. Without fear, he showed his back to Dumbledore: the old man's enemies were more aware than his own friends that he had no strength left to fight.
They arrived in a small office and Kilch offered Dumbledore a seat. Draco remained standing. The young man vaguely eyed the chair with disgust then gave his full attention to the ruler.
"I will be straightforward," said Kilch, "We know why you made the decisions you made and we understand even if we don't back them up. I'm offering you the possibility to join and help us now."
Dumbledore's heart stopped. The rebels wanted to make a better world. They were purging what remained of the heroes then the fights would stop. But that had been the Order's aim too, before they reached the point of no return. And they were his friends; this was Harry… "I can't," he recognised in a breath.
Kilch didn't seem to mind the refusal. "Draco, strip," he ordered. Albus frowned. The vampire looked intently at him and the old man wondered what was the point. Malfoy was taking off his cloak and shoes and socks. The young man got back up and removed his shirt.
Dumbledore flinched and moved back in his chair. But Draco didn't stop. He took off his pants and underwear and stood nude in front of the two men, his face only still hidden by a mask.
Albus couldn't take his eyes away from the damage on the young body, horrified at what he saw. When Draco turned his back on them, the old man had to cover his mouth not to cry out. There wasn't a place that hadn't been spoilt by aggression and torture, damaged beyond repair. Waist and buttocks could only be guessed behind the scars. Dumbledore's eyes moistened and he couldn't stop the tears. When had that happened? How could…
"Half of it was done by death-eaters, the rest by the precious innocents you were so keen on protecting during the last war," answered Kilch to his unspoken question. "Incredible what lies behind concealing potions, isn't it? Maybe you want him to remove the mask?" he asked with a sneer.
Albus had to stop his quivering and swallow his tears to succeed in muttering negatively. In silence, Draco dressed again. Kilch was waiting for an answer. At last, when clothes camouflaged every piece of flesh, Dumbledore asked for some time to think.
"You have one day. Draco, take him to a room."
The young man nodded and Dumbledore couldn't help but envisioning a face, beaten in the image of the body, making the move. Malfoy led him through dark corridors to a small cupboard. It wasn't much, only a bed and a washbasin but it was all he needed for now: water to cool down his forehead and a mattress to lie on.
"Shall you want to shower, washrooms are at the end of the corridor."
In a dash, Dumbledore disinterested himself from the observation of the room and turned to Draco before the man could go away. "Wait… I…" he hesitated in voicing his wonder, not knowing how the rebel would receive it. "I… Nothing, I'm sorry." He hadn't found the courage.
He was lying on his bed, eyes staring at the darkness when he heard the knocking on his door. It was Kilch. The vampire stood and indicated by a small sign of the hand at Dumbledore to remain sitting.
"We were attacked tonight," the ruler narrated without emotion. "The last of the aurors is dead. The Ministry is ours, along with every political institution. The Order and Hogwarts have fallen. You are the last."
His heart stiffened. "Why didn't I hear anything?"
"They never entered far enough in the Hole for the noise to reach here."
Plain and simple. They were all dead. And he hadn't been there. When they hadn't seen him in the morning, they had probably thought that he had been abducted by the rebels and had planned another attack to retrieve him, despite the fiasco of the last one. Kilch left him alone in his thoughts.
Albus lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He wasn't to open them again.
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The sun was shining on the horizon, illuminating the room with rays of light. On the floor, sleeping prostrate, was a naked and beaten young man, soft stains of blood tainting the parquet under him. He was slightly shivering from the cold that was entering the room by the open window but that wasn't enough to disturb a sleep that was much needed. It was rare that his master had no visits in the evening, from people that asked for Draco's presence during the night after Snape had finished using him. But this particular day, the young one had been granted with a complete night of sleep. It was so much more than he was used to that he appreciated it till he would be forced to get up.
On the rich bed, a man awoke with a start, panting and trembling with fear, sweat drenching his back and sheets. His eyes were aghast as he went to look at the unaware boy. Realising what he had lived was only a bad nightmare, he sighed profoundly and planned at making the youth pay for his fears.
End of Chapter 2.
