Prologue:
Hope was not lost. When Dumbledore died, it was a setback, a pain and ache, throbbing in the side of good. When Harry Potter died, it was a heavy blow, a stab in Light's back. But hope was not lost. People still fought. They gathered under their leaders, ready to stand up and become a hero if the Cause called for it. But so far, no outstanding heroes had come. Only a few people had become martyrs, their lives crystalized, revered, because they had died fighting, gone down with their wand in hand, throwing curses at the Dark Lord's masked warriors.
A hero was needed for the Light, a face for the Cause, a place to look up to, to model oneself after, and no one was fitting the bill. Those who had been worthy were not around anymore. Half of the Weasleys were dead. Bill, Percy, Charlie, and Arthur ahd all gone down in battles, trying to quell some "natural disaster" bought up by the Death Eaters, storming known hide outs, each of their deaths mourned more ferverently until Molly and Ginny were hovelled away in the woods of Ireland and Ron was holed up with the twins' beneath their store, coming out only in the day to tend shop or when he was needed for battle. Hermione had been taken away by force to be exploited in some dark place only Death Eaters and evil beasts dared to go. No one even looked for her out of fear.
Most of the Gryffindors that went to school with Harry were killed or being used by Evil for some terrible purpose. The few who survived lived half lives, coming out only during the day, under heavy protection. Some, like Neville Longbottom, had settled into the background, researching, making potions, thinking up useful new spells and counter curses. Neville actually used his herbology skills, making all sorts of potions (he had gotten better in that area after he was rid of Snape) and cross-breeding plants to create extremely useful medicinal products or poisions. More than a few Death Eaters had dropped dead due to one of his dried and powdered plants in their afternoon tea.
Muggles were a bit more aware that something strange and terribly frightening was happening. More than a few innocent Muggles had become vampires, werewolves, even empty vegetables without souls, having had them sucked away into the mouths of dementors. Towns were burned, some magical, some muggle. They were impartial, for the most part, so long as there was no fear of their own kind being killed. Evil did have a hero. Several. The Dark Lord, of course, was their idol, the god they worshipped. Even those training far away in the highest parts of Scotland would go silent at his name out of respect. Severus Snape was the ultimate hero, betraying good so completely that the Light limped in pain from the loss of the traitor. No one really liked him if they had met him, but they respected what he had done, and the close relationship he had with Voldemort. He lived like a hermit of sorts, brewing away in his laboratory, eating meals alone, scribbling on parchment all the time, if you ever did see him.
Lucius Malfoy had come back to evil as soon as he had caught the change in the winds. He had since slaughtered brutally all of those in the Ministry he had kissed up to when Voldemort fell, but not before cruelly torturing them, and, if they were pureblooded females, having them bred for heirs by others. His wife Narcissa joined him in the vile acts as it pleased her, but Draco preferred to admire at a distance, and simpy helped strategize before they attacked towns, killing and casting powerful spells for the disasters that riddled the United Kingdom. And it is with him the future of Evil lay.
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Snape was ready for Draco to visit the Dark Lord. It was time for his plot to come into play. When Snape had realized that Voldemort was dying, he had decided that he wouldn't mind being his heir. And then he heard of what Voldemort planned, and it had nothing to do with his being the next Dark Lord. It had everything to do with another heir, an heir that Severus knew was unworthy, was not ready.
So, Severus Snape used his sharp and cunning mind to develop a plan, one so subtle that Lord Voldemort himself would not detect it. It involved a potion, a goblet, and a bit of candlelight.
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Draco Malfoy was little more than an inbred brat, but he had hardened after a year of warfare. He was no longer the pale, petty boy. He was a man, having seen death, caused death, and having had no regret. His family was proud of him, of what he had done. Or what he was supposed to have done. No one but those who had witnessed it with their own eyes knew Snape had killed Dumbledore, and even a few eye witnesses refused to believe. Draco had been grateful to Snape, and was in his debt. To get out of that debt, he would have to do something drastic, for Severus had saved him from death at Voldemort's hand, or torture, perhaps if he was lucky. Not to mention being shunned and disowned by his family.
It was on one fateful Tuesday morning that this debt would be relieved, but at great cost. And on this morning, Draco woke up from a dream, a little sweaty from the heat wave passing through England over the past few weeks, since the ratty place Voldemort had chosen to stay in for a few weeks had no air or circulation system. Tempers, of course, had been flaring due to heat and trials a recent attack had caused. The whole place reeked of blood and vomit, making Draco ill and irritable, and the moans of wounded Death Eaters haunted the place day and night. Draco stripped of his night clothes, thankful for the small private chamber he had been given. Draco was in a position of great merit, having killed the only man Voldemort was said to have feared, and providing volumes of information and aid to an important attack, thus, he was given his own chamber, which was more than most got, which was a cot with up to ten other men in the same room. Draco had even heard of new Death Eaters being cramped with twenty others. It was a pity for them, but he had little guilt and sympathy for them. He went outside to the stream flowing down from the hill, where he washed up a bit, a reminder of the barbaric state he was forced to live in. But, a Malfoy could not very well go to see his Lord without first making sure his appearance was in best form. He was ready to visit the Dark Lord.
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Chapter One
Draco meandered into the room. It was a hall, magicked into existence for its specific purpose of housing the Dark Lord's evil minions while he was plotting. It held a long table with twelve seats, six per side, and a throne of almost divine comfort at the head. Draco knew, because he had sat on it once, when no one else had been there. It was empty but for the frail, snake-like body of his lord, Voldemort. A thin, bony hand beckoned him weakly, and he stepped forward. His Lord Voldemort had told him many things. He had told him of his horcruxes, though not their forms, nor their hiding places. He had told him each time one was destroyed, and Draco had seen the effects, seen the pale complexion and weakness that followed every time Harry Potter had drawn himself a little closer to Voldemort and his inevitable death. Voldemort had told him about his dark magic, about his childhood, but only when the mood struck him. And Draco could tell that today, he was in that mood.
"Draco," Voldemort murmered in a raspy whisper, "I have something important to tell you." Draco stepped forward and waited while he took a sip of hot wine from his goblet. Draco didn't know how he could drink hot wine when he was about to scorch. Of course, he couldn't understand the heavy robes and blankets all over him, either. But Draco didn't ask, and Voldemort didn't tell. That was why the Dark Lord liked him so much. He didn't ask. "My last Horcrux has been destroyed. I felt it last night. It is gone. Now all that remains of me is what is here, dying in this wretched place." Voldemort paused, looked at his goblet, then continued on, talking desperately. "My time is soon to be over. You will take my place."
"What?" Draco asked, his mind boggled completely by what his master had just told him. "What did you say?"
"I don't have time to answer silly questions. You are to be my heir, the next dark lord. You will rein the kingdom I have built up from the muck and mire that was. Promise me that you will carry on with what I have been planning all of my life. Promise me now, before it is too late! Do it, boy!" The raspy voice had raised in volume as much as it could.
"I...I p-p-promise, m-master," Draco stuttered, nervous at Voldemort's words.
"Good. Good. Now run away, and mind the candle. Run!" Draco ran. Just as he exited the hall, a great explosion resounded, and Severus Snape came out of a door Draco had never seen before. He had no time to puzzle over this. He turned tail and began heading for the doors. Snape caught him by his collar and looked straight into his eyes.
"Why were you not with our lord just now? What happened? How did you escape before he died?" Snape asked. Draco felt sobs and tear of frustration and helplessness well up in him.
"I don't know! I just don't know!" he screamed, unsure of anything. Draco's master was dead, and he died after predicting his own death, virtually. Draco was worried, more than a little scared, and he had not forgotten that he was to be the Dark Lord's heir. That thought alone could have made him wet himself, but combined with the unknown nature of Voldemort's death, he was deathly scared. Severus let go of his collar and walked up to the doors of the hall. Draco felt like running up to him and telling him not to, but it was too late, and Snape had flung the doors wide before Draco had managed to move an inch. Behind those doors was a charred shell of a room, where the smell of scorched skin ruled, and smoke emitted from tiny flames that were popping everywhere. Snape smiled with satisfaction while Draco gasped behind him. He had not seen the smile. He was too intent on the former Tom Riddle's remains. A brilliant idea stuck Severus Snape so violently that he wondered why he had not thought of it before. Why not kill two birds with one stone?
"You've killed him, Draco! You've killed my lord! Ooooh, my lord, what did he do to you?" Snape moaned whilst patting himself on the back mentally for doing such a fine job in acting. "Draco, you must leave! You must leave now, before they kill you!" Snape cried with sudden compassion.
"Who? Why would they kill me!" Draco cried.
"You have murdered the Dark Lord, Draco. What would keep them from killing you? You must go. I will tell no one, if you leave! I promised your mother I would let no harm come to you, so no harm shall, but only if you go. Run. Leave, and never return," Snape told the boy, taking advantage of his fear. The boy looked at Snape, his mind racing, too confused to even think, to put together that it was not his fault. The evidence was there, but Draco was already running. He ran through the corridors to the nearest exit just before a pack of concerned Death Eaters came running to the hall. Draco was scrambling through brambles before they even knew their Lord was dead.
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One week later...
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Severus Snape conducted the memorial service for Lord Voldemort and Draco Malfoy. It was a large gathering. Every Death Eater had been made aware of his death within a day, and a date was set for the service the day after that.
"It is a great shame to lose one so young as Draco Malfoy. The boy had a full life ahead of him, for he was the heir to our Lord's throne. And it is even greater a shame to lose one so dear and vital to all of us as our Lord Voldemort. He began this conquest, and this is only the fuel we need to finish it. To honor his death, we must fight his battles, and take over his perfect ideals and make them reality. Who is with me in this effort!" A great cry rose up, and Severus Snape knew that he would be the new leader.
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Draco had been wandering in the woods for a week. He was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. The water he had drunk was slimy and black, which he immediately vomitted back up. There were no berries or vegetables in the forest, which was a dense, black place, full of glowing eyes and things that go bump in the night. He had been able to get no sleep, and his eyes were bloodshot from the effort. His hair was a hopeless mass of sticky, greasy tangles, his robes torn to shreds clinging faithfully to him by his shoulders, his face red and tearstained. Draco Malfoy had never cried as much as he had in the past week. He felt death creeping up on him, slowly and steadily, as surely as Voldemort had seemed to be about his impending death. He was tired, so very tired. He lay down one the leafy ground, waxy pine needles poking him and bits of leaf tangling into his hair. But he knew he could not stay. So he got up again when he woke, hours later, when the sun was low. It would be a full moon soon, and he didn't want to be out when the werewolves came around. He began trudging, his stomach groaning in protest around its emptiness. But he had no food. He fell to the ground, and all went black. His last thought was about food, mountains of food, beautiful food.
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The man walked up to the boy. He was old, with grey, frazzled hair that stuck out from beneath the cap he had made from bent branches and leaves. His eyes were pale and foggy from age. He wore clothes made from things in the forest, his old clothes having been lost, stolen, or worn out by the bramblier parts of the woods. He knew the boy, recognized his youthful face, pale and pained as it was, even in unconsiousness. He felt for a pulse on his neck, finding that one was there, and happily turned the boy over.
"Draco Malfoy. Knew you were coming. But why?" The man picked up the boy, heaving him up with the strength he had acquired through living in the woods and slung him carefully over his shoulder. He had no reason to worry over the boy, the traitor, but he was curious. Why was Draco Malfoy in the Forbidden Forest?
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A/N: There it is. The first chappie. I actually know the beginning, middle, and end of this story for once. everyone cheers Thank you, thank you.