Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Rating: M

Summary: It's the Summer after Sixth Year. Draco Malfoy's just quietly living in his manor trying to pretend the outside world no longer exists when an unexpected visitor drops in. Can Draco maintain the act he has started, or will all be lost?

Warnings: Strong violence, language, death – all the stuff that happens around Lord Voldemort…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh.

A/N – Wow, look at all those reviews. Thank you, thank you! You have given my life meaning again. What else? Oh yeah. Brownie points to the first person who can tell me who the Goddess Hecate is. And the description of Misty is actually an accurate description of one of my own mad, mad cats. Sorry, couldn't resist. When you've read it, you know the drill. Click the little review button and make the sun shine brighter for me. Thank you.

Completion

It wasn't long before the fireworks started. By fireworks I mean my father yelling "What was that?" several times. Then a thundering on the stairs as they both galloped up to the attic. I really should have peeked out of my door – the sight of Lord Voldemort pelting up the stairs with his robes hiked up would have been priceless, but I couldn't draw attention to myself. There was a long pause, presumably whilst my little attic tableau was contemplated. My room had South facing windows to catch the maximum amount of sunlight, with wide, waist-high sills which could be sat upon. It occurred to me that I could watch what was happening if I moved over there and stuck my head out. However, what I really needed was an excuse to have my head there. It would look just a little suspicious if I randomly leant out of my window. The opportunity came when I heard an almighty crash coming from the garden. I walked over to the sill and hesitantly poked my head out.

The crash had been the Dark Lord exploding what was once a rather ugly statue of the goddess Hecate, but which was now a thousand marble shards scattered across the large patio. Why did he do it? Who knows. Maybe that's the Dark Lord equivalent of a victory dance. 'Harry Potter' sprawled face down, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his amputated stump mercifully concealed below his body. As I watched Father reached out gingerly with a foot and kicked him over onto his side. A further shove from his Armani shoe, and the body rolled onto its back. I froze in horror as the smashed face stared up at the skies. SHIT! I forgot about glasses! There were no glasses on the dead 'Harry Potter'. Let them not notice, I prayed. Let them dismiss it; let them think it's unimportant. I thought I'd been so clever but instead I'd made a stupid mistake like that. What other things had I missed? My empty stomach rolled as I ran uneasily over everything I'd done. I'd cut his hand off to conceal the bare wrist. I'd left the knife and the stool in the attic, both with blood on them. I'd wiped away the footprints. I'd sworn the elves to silence. Wait, had I? I thought I had. That was something I'd need to check. Better still to wipe their memories as soon as I had a chance. But they say the Dark Lord could break memory spells. I felt sicker by the minute. Too many loose ends. The elves. The severed hand! I'd burned it and left the charred remains in the attic as evidence. But Potter didn't have his wand! Idiot, Draco. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Another foolish, foolish mistake. I had to get away fast. Get rid of Potter. Get away from Voldemort and his thought tendrils which gently explored my mental defences.

As I watched Lord Voldemort bent down and brushed the blood clotted fringe away from Bilpy's forehead with his long fingers. Whether or not he could make out the scar beneath the blood was unimportant; it was there and Polyjuice doesn't wear off once you're dead. If you died looking like Harry Potter then your corpse would always look like Harry Potter. An improvement in Bilpy's case.

The Dark Lord hadn't finished his examination of the body. He bent down and lifted the arm which was missing the hand. He turned it in the light… looking for traces of his Mark? Had I hacked at it high enough? Was he thinking that just here there should be the top of the skull of his Mark? Subconsciously I rubbed the Mark on my own wrist. It stood out blackly against my skin, like something cancerous. I watched as the Dark Lord ran his fingers over the blood spattered skin near the stump, heedless of the smears accumulating on their tips. Lord Voldemort is more than used to blood on his hands. He stood up straight again, dropping the arm contemptuously, and glanced up at the windows, squinting as the sunlight fell in his red eyes. Were they weakened? I wondered. Were they like an albino's eyes, sensitive to bright light? Or was I only imagining it, grasping desperately at any sign of a crack in his formidable armour?

His eyes moved from the shattered attic windows across the side of the house. They saw me. He saw me. I was pinned in that gaze once again, a rabbit caught by muggle headlight (hey, I read about them somewhere). Instantly I slammed up my mental defences with everything I had. Was it enough, was it enough? Damn it, say something Draco!

"Father!" I called. "What on earth is that mess on our patio? It looks highly unhygienic." Play dumb, play dumb. You couldn't possibly recognise him at this distance; he's just a body to you, a nameless body. My father turned to face me, the sunlight shimmering silver down his long, platinum blonde hair. It was looking distinctly ragged due to his stay in Azkaban. I mean, it was improving, but still, you looked at it and thought 'Aargh! Split ends!' His eyes narrowed as he saw me. Father's feelings towards me are ambivalent. On the plus side I'm about as Malfoy as they come; arrogant, superior, self-confident, well-groomed, powerful. On the minus side he believed that I was marred by a streak of cowardice, because of my failure to kill Dumbledore. Would you believe, Father, that only today I killed something? Maybe not. But I am not weak. And I am Malfoy; I am pure Malfoy, pureblood wizard, pure Malfoy. Family is still important to him, even if the Dark Lord is blinding him with his promises and slippery, serpentine words. My father feels an obligation of duty to me still. It had already proved useful to me today. I prayed that I would not need to test his feelings towards me again; that he would not be forced to choose between me and his master again. I don't think I could have stomached the answer.

"Draco." He laughed without humour. "It appears that one of your school friends had an attempt at flying, but forgot his broomstick." I frowned down at the body.

"Wait, are you trying to tell me that that is Harry Potter?" Lord Voldemort snorted.

"What, you don't recognise him? Come down, Draco, and have a closer look." He smiled coldly up at me. "Unless you are feeling too delicate." The direct challenge stood there. Come down and crow over the remains to prove my disdain for opposite side. Or decline and stand accused of sympathy towards the enemy. I forced a smile.

"My Lord, I fear that I too am not very good at flying down without a broomstick; I shall instead take the stairs." He nodded towards me.

"Do come down, Draco. This is a triumphant hour for all of us who truly believe." Triumph? The mangled remains of an enemy he didn't even kill constituted a triumph to Lord Voldemort. I frowned as I stood up and closed the windows. But then, that was how the Dark Lord's reasoning went, wasn't it? It didn't matter how or why, but as long as the enemy was dead then you had won. Kill them all and then there would be no one left to challenge you. A crude strategy, lacking in subtlety. And, unfortunately, an effective strategy. Things had been a lot easier for the Dark Lord with Dumbledore out of the way, at least from what I'd heard.

I took the stairs slowly, apprehension rising in my throat. What was I doing? I was supposed to be avoiding Lord Voldemort. Any time I spent in the creature's company increased the risk of being found out, the risk of being caught, the risk of a horrible death. I know I keep repeating that but it was an extremely real threat. I'm not being melodramatic. I could easily have died that afternoon.

But I didn't.

I walked past my mother's room and took the time to look in on her. She was asleep on her bed, under the covers. Sparky sat like an ugly watchdog at the foot of the bed, guarding her mistress from herself. Sadness filled my heart. Was the reality of her family, the reality of me so terrible to my mother that she had to find an escape? Was I not worth holding on for? I shut the door quietly, chiding myself for my selfish emotions. The Malfoy curse; it's always me, me, me; and I only even noticed that this was a fault when I was hurt. So indeed I was still caught in the cycle of me, me, and me.

Was that why I was doing this? As I descended down the staircase I subconsciously slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the warmth of that small, fragile body. Was that the only reason that I had played God and decided to give another human being a chance at living? To ultimately benefit me? It was an unsettling thought.

Malfoys do better without consciences, and I tried hard to banish mine as I crossed through the conservatory, opened the glass doors and stepped out into the patio, steeped in afternoon sunlight. It was too beautiful. The lawns were a vibrant green, the willows by the stream swayed gently in the light breeze. The roses entwined around the pergola in the Rose Walk were gorgeous; gentle shades of apricot, pink blushes and strident crimsons. Our patio was beautiful too; smooth black and white marble, polished daily by the house elves and surrounded by elegant marble statues. Here a pair of serpents twined around each other, there a magnificent wolf stood proud, one paw lifted, its tongue rolling over its perfect teeth, its eyes unseeing. I'd never particularly liked the statue of Hecate which the Dark Lord had shattered, but I disliked the marble fragments left behind even more. They were messy, out of place, interrupting the tranquillity of our grounds.

Speaking of interrupted tranquillity… there's nothing like a cadaver to achieve that effect. It was just a house elf I told myself as I approached him. I doubted that my killing curse would have been needed now that I saw him clearly. The unnatural angle of the neck, the staved in forehead. There could be no dispute that he was killed by the fall, because the fall would have killed him, even if he wasn't already dead.

Lord Voldemort stood there, a predator's light in his eyes. Frantically I wondered what part I should play. He had already written me off as a coward. Should I appear unaffected, disinterested or jubilant? Should I wail in horror? Cringe away? Dance and crow? Or merely pull a face and allow him to lose all faith and interest in me? I opted for disgust tinged with quiet triumph.

"That is Harry Potter?"

"Was Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort corrected jubilantly. I swear, he was this close to dancing on the spot. I shrugged.

"Yeah, well now it's kind of icky." My father looked like he had been force fed Skelegrow.

"Icky?" he demanded. Icky is a very un-Malfoy word I suppose.

"Forgive me Father, I mean to say that it looks less than lovely."

"Perhaps Draco has a problem with blood?" Lord Voldemort suggested. It was all he could do to keep himself from rubbing his hands together and cackling. "Or maybe he feels pity…"

"Pity?" I sneered. "Pity for a fool, whose head was so inflated by the dreams of others that it's a wonder he could come down from the quidditch pitch?" The Dark Lord laughed unkindly.

"A pity, then, that you will not be returning to Hogwarts. What with Potter dead, you might actually be able to win a quidditch game for once." Anger and embarrassment burned in me. I shot my Father a look which said quite plainly 'You traitor!' How dared he? Feeding this monster further stories about my failings? Was nothing private? "I am perfectly entitled to know the capabilities of all of my Deatheaters," Lord Voldemort said smoothly. Help! Was he reading my mind? "Even ones for which I have no use." Bile rose in my throat. I hate being humiliated. I hate it, I hate it. But it provided me a way out.

"Then if you have no use for me, would My Lord be kind enough to excuse me?" He waved a hand.

"You are dismissed."

"Your Lordship is too kind."

Perhaps it was dangerous, allowing myself to speak bitterly to the Dark Lord, allowing myself to signal my unhappiness with the situation to him. But he already knew that I was less than in love with him. By allowing him to focus on my own shortcomings I distracted him away from the issue at hand; the authenticity of the corpse.

I left the two of them to do whatever they wanted with the fake body. Well, of course it was a real body, but it was a body masquerading as another body. Officer, arrest that corpse for impersonation!

I didn't return to the Manor. I was running out of time; the sleeping potion might wear off at any time, and I needed to get rid of Potter as soon as possible. Crossing to the edge of the patio, I stepped up onto the Rose Walk – a wide, tiled path up through the lawns. A rustic pergola arches over it, with roses entwined around it. As I mentioned, they were at their best now, and as I stepped under them their heady scent filled my nose. The sunlight streamed down on their gorgeous petals. A mew caused me to look up. Carefully navigating the thorny branches laid across the pergola was my tabby cat: Misty. Misty, the strange cat with a fixation on rose petals. Maybe being a pet in the Malfoy household gave him a taste for class. Whatever the reason, he will insist on climbing up the pergola supports, taking his life in his paws by treading around the sharp thorns which could tear open his soft paw pads.

As I watched he made his way to a 'Cider cup' rose and took several of the petals in his mouth. A twist of his head and a shower of petals fell over me. With a happy 'mrrmm' he dropped to the path near my feet, three petals in his mouth. He let them fall to the ground, and then chewed each one up separately. Showing no interest in the other petals which he had dislodged, he turned and prepared to leap up again. I caught him before he could and he gave a protesting meow.

"Misty, you daft cat." His purr began, an alarmingly loud sound which shook his entire body, but still he squirmed to escape my grip. Misty likes laps, not shoulders, and will endeavour to leave your arms as soon as possible. Sighing I put him back down and rubbed his ears. He purred even harder and rolled over onto his side, paws waving wantonly in the air.

"Not now, Misty," I told him. "I'm too busy, I'm afraid." As I walked on he stood up and padded after me, mewing for my attention. When I ignored him his interest faded, and he turned back to the roses. Good. Misty, you can't follow me where I'm going.

Where was I going? Potter's friends would probably be at the headquarters of Dumbledore's Order thing which I had heard about. Order of the Goblin or something. I laughed. Order of the Bad-dressers more like. I mean, it contained Weasleys. Urgh. I patted my pocket thoughtfully.

"You sure you want to go back?" No answer. I hadn't expected one.

I passed out of the Rose Walk onto great rolling lawns and broke into a jog. It still took me at least a quarter of an hour to cross them. We have to have our lawns mown by teams of House Elves. As in Team Red, Team Blue and Team Green, each containing six elves. That is how large our lawns are. Which is why it took me so long to reach my destination. The Mighty Malfoy compost heaps. The one place on Malfoy grounds where one could Apparate. 'Why?' you may ask. Well, over the years Famille Malfois has learnt that enemies have a nasty habit of probing the defences around Malfoy Manor, searching for weaknesses. When they find the hole in our spells the dear little would-be assassins tend to get all excited and Apparate straight in without a second thought. And what do they Apparate into? Compost Heap number 2. Rumoured to supplement its diet of leaves, branches and grass cuttings with the occasional house elf. I kid you not. I believe we have the world's only carnivorous compost heap. Not many dear little would-be assassins get very far.

I Apparated to Diagon Alley, keeping one hand gently wrapped around Potter's tiny body to keep him with me. Diagon Alley. A place which contained a shop I swore I would never in a million years enter. Guessed it yet? Weasley's mangey Wizard Wheezes. Ye gods. The things I am reduced to doing. At least that dreadful U-No-Poo poster had vanished from the window. I read the replacement and fought the urge to snigger. Simple amusement for simple people.

Feeling down? Worried? Stressed?

We have the answer!

My Little Dark Lord! With accessories!! And followers!

Brush his hair, change his robes! Eyes pop when he is strangled!

"They can not be serious!" I snorted. But they were. Displayed prominently in the window were small figurines of the Dark Lord, Aunt Bellatrix dressed in a black corset with a little whip (ooh, I couldn't wait to tell her about that!), my Father (wearing blue ribbons in his long blonde locks) and a particularly grotesque little figure with yards of greasy hair that I could only suppose was Snape. I could feel nervous hysteria catching up with me, and fought the urge to giggle uncontrollably. Malfoys do not giggle. We snigger, we snicker, we cackle, we laugh unkindly. We occasionally indulge in a drunken titter. But we don't giggle.

Business was slow that day – too many people on holiday or out enjoying the glorious sunshine. I noted only a few customers as I pushed the door open. I scanned their faces and recognised none. The eyes of a pair of teenage witches told me they recognised me. I shrugged. Not my problem. One of the red-haired twins was at the counter. Do not ask me which one. I have never bothered learning to tell them apart. As I approached him his gaze was hostile.

"Hey Malfoy, why don't you leave now before I curse you?" I sneered.

"Believe me I take no pleasure in being here, Weasley. I'm not buying."

"Good. Because to you we're not selling." I smiled.

"Oh, but I am." Weasley shrugged.

"I'm not interested in whatever sordid little toy you've brought along, Draco. Why don't you run along now like a good little ferret?" I leaned forwards over the counter.

"Seen your friend Wonder-boy recently?" His expression was enough – he knew Potter was missing. I reached into my pocket and brought out my handkerchief. Weasley's eyes widened as he saw the head sticking out of the top of it.

"That's Harry?"

"Yes. He's going to need medical attention." Weasley's wand came out faster than I could blink.

"What did you do to him, Malfoy you worm?" I shrugged and covered Potter protectively with my fingers.

"Nothing at all. Well, actually I saved his life, risking my own. The Dark Lord was the one who hurt him, idiot." I saw his lips silently form the word 'Voldemort'. "Well done, genius." I tossed my head scornfully, just because I knew it would wind himup.

"Why?" Weasley asked. I groaned inwardly. I was sick and tired of this. I placed Potter centrally on the counter.

"You're supposed to like him. Just take him home, ok?" Wherever his home is now. With that I Apparated away. Without thinking. Back to the compost heaps.

"AARRRGGHHHH!!!! IT'S ICKY!!!!"

Yay, another nice long chapter. And Harry's finally safe (we think). Good chapter? Review!