AN – Disclaimer – Just to refresh – I'm not Rowling, not making money on this, didn't invent the characters.

NOTE – Don't want to give too much away, but if you have issues with non-con you might have issues with this chapter. Still just a "T" rating though.

5 – Execution

It was time.

Draco Malfoy entered the ring of Death Eaters, pulling behind him a hooded figure whose trembling could be seen despite the dark robe that covered her. With a quick shove he thrust her to the center of the circle. Her arms were bound behind her so she fell onto her still-concealed face with a stifled cry.

Draco strode in to stand behind her, clasping his own hands behind his back, head bowed in the traditional subservient pose. He made sure that his shoulders were firm, proud. He let the tension in his neck stay. The Dark Lord would see it as anger, which part of it was.

"My Lord." His voice rang loudly in the cavern, no hesitation, no doubt. Then he lowered his head again and stood waiting, eyes still open, staring at the rough rock floor in front of him.

"Good evening, Master Malfoy." The Dark Lord hissed out his name, drawing out the "s" in Master to emphasize the belittling term. The purebloods around him all knew the title of "Master" was reserved for boys, children under the age of twelve. Draco allowed himself to bristle, as though he cared about such games.

"You have brought a guest." Another hiss.

"No, my Lord. Not a guest, a traitor." The cowards around him shuddered at even this contradiction, but the Dark Lord nodded. He enjoyed Draco's strength, as long as it stayed within bounds.

"So, you have caught the spy." Draco nodded, but made no sound. The Dark Lord flicked his wand and her magical bonds were released. There was no danger that she could escape. "And you know who she is?"

Draco could feel the tension in the room. How many of them feared that it could be their wife, their daughter? How many of them were suddenly wondering if she'd been acting differently lately? Draco knew that the Dark Lord would draw out the fear as much as possible, but he couldn't wait for this night to be over. Except that he couldn't stand that thought either.

"Yes, my Lord. She is known to me."

Voldemort's eyes slid over Draco's face, looking for hesitation, fear. He was leering, hungry for the suffering that he expected to be ripping Draco apart. And then - as clearly as if had entered the Dark Lord's very mind – Draco knew that the Dark Lord had known his mother was the spy all along. Draco had been set up. For a moment his vision flashed black as rage surged through him but he forced it back, forced into a tight ball, to be saved, to be channelled, to be used later. He wondered if the Dark Lord had set his mother up also, somehow enticing her to become a spy. She'd never been punished for reporting that Potter was dead. However it had come to be, Draco knew the Dark Lord was ecstatic that he could use Draco as the instrument of her chastisement. His depravity was boundless.

These were thoughts for another time. Without moving Draco took a deep breath and decided it was show time.

As though the thought of asking for permission to act had never entered his mind, Draco stepped forward and yanked the hood back. Gasps greeted the sight of his mother's golden hair, pulled as usual into a flawless ponytail. One sound, more a squeak than the others, caught Draco's ear. Pansy. Why was she here? She wasn't a Death Eater. But of course., the Dark Lord had known who the spy was. All his other classmates were doubtless also in the circle - to witness Draco's pain.

Or his triumph.

Draco glanced to his left and found Pansy, standing in front of her father, her face visible under her hood. She seemed to be biting into her own fist. Restraining a scream? She was dangerous to him. No one here, besides his mother of course, knew him as well as she did. No one else knew how close he was to his mother. If anyone could see through his bravado, his act, it would be Pansy and that could doom them both.

He knew his father was in the crowd behind him also, most likely staring off into space only dimly aware of being surrounded by others. Tonight Draco envied him.

The Dark Lord's eyes were now scanning the gathered Death Eaters, looking for weakness, enjoying their fear. In many ways he was easy to fool. He knew basically nothing about Draco. He assumed all were either snivelling cowards, the minions, or cold-hearted maniacs like himself. Most of human emotion just didn't register at all with the Dark Lord. He never trusted anyone, and therefore forgot that they might trust each other. Actions moved by love, a sensation he'd never known, puzzled him.

"My Lord?" Aunt Bellatrix, on the Dark Lord's right, simpered.

"Yes?"

"May I?"

He nodded and she stepped forward.

Another danger. His mother had warned him that Bella would be eager – eager to prove her loyalty, prove she wasn't tainted by her relation to the traitor. But it wouldn't be hard for her. Bellatrix had long believed that Narcissa's loyalty was to her husband and son and her admiration for her older sister had twisted into revulsion.

"CRUCIO!"

Draco held himself rigid so that he would not flinch. He'd tried to get his mother to take a numbing potion but she'd refused. In a few moments he'd be able to take over, to replace the agony with their planned painless convulsions, but for now he couldn't appear too eager. He wished he could absorb her pain himself. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, but stared intently at a ridge on the rocky floor, disappearing into his own mind to hide from her screams. He knew Pansy's eyes were on him, everyone would be watching him, wondering how he could turn in his own mother, how he could listen to her screams.

He glanced up at the Dark Lord. He would tire of this soon; Bella's pleasure meant nothing to him. For Draco though it would be a test. Draco willed his face and shoulders to relax. He couldn't show his tension but his fingers dug so deeply into his own hand that they would've drawn blood if he hadn't been wearing leather gloves. He prayed that he could make it, could hold up to what he'd promised his mother he would do.

He went back to preparing for the mental invasion that was coming, soon. Once again, he pushed all of his thoughts, all of his emotions, everything in his mind, behind the barrier that his godfather had helped him build in his own mind. After he had hidden everything away, he carefully released a few controlled thoughts, thoughts of devotion to the Dark Lord and anger at his mother's treachery. He was ready.

"Enough." Draco looked up at the Dark Lord.

"Draco, the honour is yours." No legilimency yet then. He'd have to torture his mother first. Luckily, they already had a plan for that.

"My Lord."

"Silencio." His mother looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. The Dark Lord however gave him a questioning look, which he answered. "I find the pain is greater without the ability to release tension through screaming."

"Crucio."

Unlike Bellatrix he did not scream. His controlled demeanor had become his trademark, but enough of those gathered had felt the intensity of his calm crucio. Of course, the real reasons he had silenced his mother were that it was hard to fake a scream of real pain and even the effort eventually began to hurt the throat.

The concentration of the silent spell of "convulsio" distracted Draco at first, until his thoughts began to turn with dread to what next. Of course, she would die. But how? He couldn't kill her. She knew that. What had she planned?

Draco realized his face couldn't show fear. Even boredom wasn't enough so he forced a snarl. He allowed himself to picture Bellatrix trembling instead.

The Dark Lord let him continue much longer than Bellatrix had. Draco wished he could find his father among the robed. Could he possibly be unaware of what was happening tonight? Did he no longer recognize his wife and son? At home he usually knew them, although his mind was often in its own world, a happier past. If Draco had ever doubted his father's insanity though, the fact that the Dark Lord was ignoring him tonight was the final confirmation.

"Very good. I see you don't let family ties overly burden you."

"She is no family to me." The Dark Lord was so predictable. Now he would chose others to have turns – some like Parkinson to test their loyalty. Would he call on Pansy? Draco was not at all sure that she could do it. Some, like Dolohov, would be chosen for their unfailing ability to torture. But there was nothing Draco could do.

His mother lay shaking. He knew that she was gathering her remaining strength.

"And now, let's . . . ."

"Accio Wand!" Narcissa had jumped to her feet. A summoned wand flew from one of the unprepared Death Eaters into her hand. Draco stepped back from her wondering what . . . .

"Avada Kedavra!"

A green flash tore through the cave. Voldemort stood up and met the flash. For an instant Draco hoped –

But the green was met with a burst of light – the color of molten lead. It reflected back to its origin, back to his mother. He saw the green sink into her, the light leave her face. She crumbled and fell on her back, her mouth open, her eyes wide and glazed.

Draco's mask collapsed. His heart ripped. He knew she was gone and if any there had looked at him in that moment they would have known he was broken, known how much he loved her. But for the moment not one eye was on him. The sight of Narcissa, lifeless, was too hypnotizing.

Then the Dark Lord laughed, a harsh and feral sound. Draco reached deep down into his soul and used everything he had to pull himself back together. His impassive mask was such a habit that his face slipped back into it. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing all emotion to leave them.

"I had wondered how to test my little experiment. Your dear mother solved that problem for me. Too bad she can't appreciate my gratitude." Draco couldn't recall ever seeing the Dark Lord indulge in so much glee. He had to swallow once more to force down his bile.

The Dark Lord's thin smile slipped away and he pressed his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. Despite his words, he was obviously contemplating whether Draco should be punished for his mother's transgression.

Draco looked him straight in the eyes. Now he wasn't afraid. There was nothing more that the Dark Lord could do to him. He willed his mind to be blank again, only his chosen thoughts available.

This time the invasion came. He waited, motionless, as the Dark Lord probed him. He released memories of last night's planned capture of his mother, including a scene of berating her which they had staged just for this purpose. The Dark Lord reveled in his thoughts.

Finally, the Dark Lord withdrew.

"You have done well. As usual, you surpass all of my expectations. Even your mother's insane attempt to harm me served its purpose." The Dark Lord paused and scanned all of those gathered, most likely enjoying their envy as he praised someone else. Then his eyes returned to Draco. "Name your reward."

He had already had a plan for this offer, hoping it would come. But now – he needed something else.

"My Lord, I have two requests." He heard a shocked gasp from one of the minions behind him. They were all so gutless. That was probably why the Dark Lord enjoyed Draco's audaciousness. It was a bit of variety.

"Indeed," was the only reply. Of course, he wouldn't agree to anything until he knew what the requests were.

"I don't know if you were aware, my Lord, but my mother always hated the ocean. A bad experience in the cold waves when she was young, I believe."

The Dark Lord looked to Bellatrix, who nodded, intrigued by Draco's words.

"I was thinking that a burial at sea would ensure that she doesn't rest in peace."

The Dark Lord's mouth widened in a smirk. "Vicious," he crooned appreciatively.

Draco acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "As for my other request," he turned slightly towards the Death Eaters still standing behind him and found Pansy, who was now leaning back into her father, "I want her in my chambers."

Her eyes bulged in panic and he knew that she was, for the first time, afraid of him. Exactly what he needed. Her father reflexively moved his arm around her, then realized that this move could be seen as defiance. The arm dropped down to his side.

"Of course." The Dark Lord was feeding on her fear. "But first, Bellatrix, Dolohov, you will accompany Malfoy as he disposes of . . . the rubbish." Draco heard Dolohov approach. "Rowle – you will escort Ms. Parkinson." The thought flashed through Draco's mind that he didn't want that thug anywhere near her. Then he remembered that they were no longer to be friends. He couldn't be concerned for her. And he needed to concentrate on what he had planned for his mother's body.

It wasn't long before Draco, Bellatrix and Dolohov were flying over the North Sea. They had apparated to the North Yorkshire shore and now were flying almost due North, Narcissa's enshrouded body hanging beneath Draco's broom. It was almost time to drop her. He could only hope that the galleon he had asked her to hold in her hand was still clutched there. He hadn't had time to explain it to her, but she had complied, unquestioning. He wasn't entirely sure that his plan would work. It all depended on whether a portkey would work on a dead body. He was pretty sure that it would. He'd heard stories of people being portkeyed to St. Mungo's, but arriving already dead. He'd find out soon enough.

The night's many stresses were beginning to wear on him. A faint pounding was beginning at the top of his neck and he knew it would only grow worse. Time to get this part over with.

"This look good to you?" he asked his Aunt Bella. He knew she and Dolohov had been sent to keep an eye on him. The Dark Lord probably didn't suspect anything; he just always had them watching each other.

"It looks frigid. Perfect." Bellatrix never failed to be a heartless bitch.

"Bon voyage," he said tonelessly, and with a quick Diffindo, he cut her body loose. He counted to himself, one second, two seconds, three seconds, four, then muttered a switching spell which switched the galleon in her hand with the portkey he had stashed in his pocket. Once the switch was complete, he whispered "Portus." He fought his instincts and didn't look down to see if her body had disappeared. By now it could hardly be seen anyway, and he couldn't chance alerting either of the others. He'd find out if it had worked later.

By the time he landed at Malfoy Manor, his escorts already gone, he was so chilled that he stumbled as he dismounted onto stiff legs. His head was pounding. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, be still, make the pain go away. Not yet. He hurried inside, and luckily didn't encounter his father as he went directly to his own rooms. He couldn't bear to see his father staggering through the house, not really knowing where he was or where he was going. Not on this night.

Now to deal with Pansy. On the way back he'd decided to make it quick, brutal and ugly. He wasn't sure that he could hold it together if she questioned him at all.

He threw open the door to his room, wand already drawn, and silenced her even as she looked up at him from the arm chair she was curled up in. He made sure that she saw a look of hatred on his face, then stupefied her. He levitated her into the guest room next to his room. He didn't want to have to see her later. He dropped her body onto the bed.

Then he went to work. What he should do was beat her bloody, but he was too soft-hearted for that. She'd hate him anyway, but she'd long been his closest friend, the only one he ever confided in, even though it had been more than a year now since they'd talked. Instead, he used pigmenting spells, painting a vivid bruise across her face, bands around her wrists.

Draco took a deep breath and braced himself. He didn't want to do this, but it had to be done. He used a slicing spell to tear off Pansy's robes, then her underclothes. He tried not to look at her now bare body any more than he had to as he painted a large bruise on her stomach, then smaller ones on her thighs. He considered slicing his hand, using his own blood to add some gore, but his stomach lurched at the thought. It was enough. She wouldn't notice the lack of blood.

When he was done, he muttered an "enervate." As soon as she was conscious, as soon as her eyes met his, he glared at her as he pointed his wand: "obliviate," then, once again, "stupefy." When she woke, she'd know she'd been obliviated. She'd assume the worst. She'd probably never talk to him again, which would be safer for both of them. She'd be one more person lost to him forever. He'd known for a while now that he would never love her, not romantically. Maybe someday he'd be able to explain.

He went to his potions cabinet and selected a jar of simple cleaning lotion and then transfigured the label to now read "Murlap Essense Ointment."

"Nappy." He summoned his most loyal house elf. Nappy had been with him longer than he could remember.

Nappy appeared and took a step back as she took in Pansy's condition. She turned to Draco and asked "Master?" then flinched away from him as Draco approached.

"Nappy, I . . . ." Draco stopped, his voice about to break. If he fell apart now . . . he closed his eyes and took a few moments to pull himself back together. When he opened them the trepidation was gone from Nappy's eyes, replaced by her usual concern. "This isn't what it looks like. I swear."

"Nappy knows Master is a good boy. Nappy knows Master and Miss Parkinson are playmates." Nappy was so eager to believe him. He felt a gratitude for the elf sweep through him. She might be the only being alive who still thought he was good.

"Nappy, when she wakes take care of her, good care. But she can't know that it wasn't real. She has to hate me. It's for her safety. Tell her she should go live with her mother, get out of the country, stay far away from here."

Nappy nodded, although she gave him a puzzled frown.

"One other thing, when she awakes give her this." He handed the changed jar to the elf. "Make sure she has a mirror." Draco knew that Nappy would carefully follow his instructions no matter how strange they were. He was counting on Pansy's vanity to be so disturbed by the bruises that she would heal them as quickly as possible without noticing that they didn't actually hurt like real bruises.

He had one more place he needed to go now. This night felt as though it would never end. The pounding in his head was almost overwhelming.

He stalked off through the manor's gardens, until he reached the fenced enclosure near the edge of their property. He'd already performed the blood illusion that blocked the view of one corner of the family cemetery from anyone without Malfoy blood. He paused before he pushed open the gate. Would her body be there? Would it be broken from the fall?

He saw the white of her shroud peeking from behind one of the tombstones. She was here. Her body had fallen remarkably close to the empty plot where he'd planned to bury her. The shroud had come unwrapped, slipping off to leave her face partially exposed. He reached over to move it aside, to look at her one last time. She seemed undamaged, almost peaceful, always beautiful. He vanished the rest of the shroud, then took a moment to cross her arms across her chest. He had to do this quickly or he might not be able to do it at all. With a flick of his wand he entombed her, and buried her casket. He gathered his breath, then repaired the disturbed ground so that it no longer looked like a fresh grave. He couldn't leave a marker, not yet, but he summoned a flower from the garden and planted it.

He was about to go, when he glanced at the ground and was suddenly very aware that his mother lay beneath it. His mother, whom he would never see again, whose voice he would never hear again, whose arms he would never . . . .

His legs gave out and before he knew it he was grasping the newly planted grass on her grave. Tearless sobs racked his body. His hands cramped, his throat burned, but he could only wish it hurt more. He wanted the physical pain to match the agony in his soul. He clenched his eyes shut, seeing only darkness. In the moonless night, he let the blackness consume him, and cried into the ground as he said goodbye to the last goodness in his life.