Chapter 37 – A Spirit Shattered Asunder

There was a point, Malfoy reflected, at which only death would cause him further ruin. Perhaps the time would come when he would be greeting death with open arms, and for now, there were only two things pulling him back from the brink. One was the fact that to the best of his knowledge, his father was still alive. The second was a beautiful pair of eyes that came to him in his loneliness and attempted to comfort him by the light of a fire. The eyes, as well as the face that surrounded them, were locked safely in his memory, and there they would remain. The Dark Lord would have to kill him before he would give that up.

The newspaper that had told of his mother's demise was lying on the table just a few feet away. His master was pacing slowly back and forth, glancing occasionally at the article as he passed and clearly viewed the event more as an interesting twist of fate. The opportunity to read the sad news at his leisure was the only true freedom Malfoy had been granted, but for all he knew, this could have simply been a source of twisted amusement for Voldemort. Now, he dared not shed a single tear in case such a sign of weakness would land him in even more serious trouble, if such a thing were even possible. He had dug himself a grave of epic proportions, and now it was just a question of when he would have to lie in it for real.

"A great tragedy, I agree," murmured Voldemort without the slightest note of sympathy, turning his snake-like features to the helpless individual sitting against the wall, "and I believe you deserve to hear more than just the ignorant ramblings of gossip mongers. To begin with, young Malfoy, you may rest assured that she did indeed die in my service. A most gifted witch, and perhaps one who could have proved a useful ally, but now I suppose we shall never know."

Malfoy's features contorted as he fought back the sobs that were waiting eagerly in his throat.

"Following your father's imprisonment, as you well know, she was unable to visit him, for fear that she would draw unwanted attention from the Ministry. As time went on, she began to ask me if there was any way in which I could reunite her with Lucius, but considering his act of treachery, this was out of the question. She grew most anxious when I requested that you become a Death Eater who would compensate for his mistakes, and her desperation became most distressing. Those who act out of desperation make mistakes, and your mother knew enough of my whereabouts and intentions to make even the slightest indiscretion unacceptable."

To hear Voldemort speak of his mother was like a knife being mercilessly twisted into the wound. He barely stirred and he was breathing as quietly as he could, as though he could make his master forget he was even there. Inside his head, however, he could hear nothing but his own tortured cries of grief.

"By the time you had fled from Hogwarts," the Dark Lord continued, "She had resorted to begging. She begged me to let her see her husband, she begged me to let her see you, her son, all the while insisting she would do me any service in return. Her desperation was bordering on madness and I could scarce afford to have such a liability on my hands. And so, you becamethe necessary leverage. As long as I was the one constant link between the two of you, I knew that she would remain loyal to me. I must admit to my shame, that I would occasionally place her under the Imperius Curse to give her an idea of the services that would earn my satisfaction, and if the truth were known, the Ministry would be recovering somewhat more than five dead muggles. Though strangely enough, I cannot claim credit for this final act of Dark magic. This, I must assume, was done of her own free will; a final stab at attracting my attention, enough to earn my trust. I can't deny, I do have a great respect for her actions, despite their undisciplined nature. Doubtless I shall one day be able to satisfy my curiosity as to the Dark ritual she was attempting."

With all his strength and will, Malfoy summoned the power of speech, no matter how foolhardy it seemed. He no longer cared about the reaction his words would provoke.

"Please," he uttered, in a cracked, husky voice, "Please…let…m…me go!"

These words not only raised the head of Voldemort, but also that of a dishevelled, grim looking wizard who sat at the other end of the table in silence. Until Malfoy had spoken, he had been pouring over many pages of ancient, tattered parchment with a hand of gleaming silver, scratching down notes whenever he deemed it necessary. Upon hearing the boy's voice, he looked up and regarded him questioningly, unsure if pity was appropriate. Many of the Dark Lord's followers had endured great suffering and hardship, so why should allowances be made for this one boy?

"Let you go?" came the reply, both angered and disgusted, "I don't think you realise just how low you have sunk! Even your father wouldn't descend to the depths of such pitiful whining! You have not the slightest genuine pride in your blood, and I would even go so far as to say that you are a disgrace to the name of 'wizard'!"

Swiftly drawing his wand, he made two bold swiping motions through the air as if hacking his way through a piece of dense foliage. Malfoy cried out in pain as two large deep cuts appeared across the sides of his face and bled steadily down both cheeks. Voldemort stood over him, his teeth bared. As he watched Malfoy hold a sleeve against the wounds, his face relaxed a little.

"However," he continued, with a brief backward glance at the other wizard, "I suppose you can be of little use to me here at this moment. On your feet, boy."

Malfoy had, in that instant, all but forgotten about the pain in his face. He now stared up at his master, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him. With the greatest of effort, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, forcing his aching legs to support his weight.

"Now…you may go," muttered Voldemort blankly, "You will be called upon when I deem it necessary."

"My Lord!" protested the wizard behind them, rising from his seat.

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed, turning on him, "Question my judgement once more, Wormtail, and you shall be nothing but food for the worms!"

He then returned his attention to the boy, with a look of cold loathing.

"Get out of my sight."

Malfoy backed away slowly towards the door. He wasn't about to face forwards until he was out of sight. The first step was to get away without being cursed the moment his back was turned, and he knew that both Voldemort and Wormtail were more than capable of that. Groping about for the door handle, his eyes darted from one to the other. Wormtail was still trying to silently appeal to his master as Draco backed out of the door and into the greenery that surrounded the cottage.

"But…but my lord!" he whimpered pitifully, "The boy could go anywhere and consort with anyone! Surely, we cannot risk him betraying you?"

The Dark Lord made himself comfortable at the table and turned to his quivering servant, a serpentine smile spreading across his face.

"Wormtail, I must say that your lack of perception never ceases to amaze me. Anyone with even the sense of a muggle would know exactly where he's gone. The manner of his betrayal is certain, and his punishment assured. If young Malfoy believes he can wander beyond my reach, then he deserves every bit of the torment that awaits him. For now, all that concerns me is the names for which you have been searching."

Wormtail shuffled the pile of parchment frantically before answering.

"St…still only nine, my lord…" he stammered.

"Nine," breathed Voldemort thoughtfully, "Nine names…out of thirteen."

"They have been so difficult to trace," pleaded Wormtail, gesturing an apology to his master, "The records are incomplete and so vague…"

"Ah, now that is simply because you are not always aware of what you are looking for," he replied, "I shall render all necessary assistance to find the remaining four. Once that is done, this world will finally be brought to its knees."