The doors loom ominously in front of him, and Draco can't help but feel his heart hammering in his chest. He has been working all day on hammering out his story to tell the Dark Lord—Voldemort, a voice in the back of his mind corrects him. The voice sounds like Harry. The last time Draco was in front of these doors, it was last summer, after his father's disgrace and before his own. Then, he'd stood proud, his shoes shined to glossy black and his hair brushed to burnished silver, glad to finally be called into his Dark Lord's inner circle. Looking back at himself, the fool of a child he'd been, he scoffs under his breath. Aunt Bellatrix hears him and slaps his head, bringing tears to his eyes. Now he knows what truly goes on in meetings like these, and what those things can do to ruin your life. "Kill him," Voldemort had said, "or I will destroy you." At the time it had seemed an idle threat; after all, how could he fail? Draco was never less his father's son, wholeheartedly charging into the situation blindly without a care to the consequences. He'd made a bloody fool of himself, blustering around thinking he was being honored when he was really being punished. No one else had achieved that feat before. How could he have been so vain as to think he could?

Now he is being dragged back into the room in chains. He remembers with unerring accuracy the terrible way he'd behaved then: kicking house elves, yelling at his mother, and even breaking Potter's—Harry's—nose just because he believed he had the power to do so. He feels his cheeks warm at just the thought of his behavior, even as an icy thread of worry worms its way into his heart. Last summer, Voldemort had been toying with him. He'd used Draco's family as a way to extend his game, but now that he has no family, what will he do? He has no time to contemplate as the doors creak open and Aunt Bellatrix shoves him inside.

The Death Eaters' laughter is mocking as he trips over the girl's socks he has forgotten he is wearing. He stumbles, falling to the floor in a heap at the feet of the Dark Lord, who laughs loudest of all. "So, little Draco, have you taken to wearing dresses? No wonder we couldn't find you. We were looking for a little boy when we should have been looking for a girl!" The laughter is loud and mocking as Voldemort fists his hand in Draco's hair and pulls his head back. Draco tries to look compliant, meek, but all he can manage is to barely keep from glaring at this creature before him. Voldemort throws him down in disgust and turns to the Death Eaters.

"Can you tell me, Mister Malfoy," the sibilant sounds as Voldemort emphasizes the word 'mister' send shivers down Draco's spine, "why you did not kill Dumbledore?"

"I—"Draco begins, only to have Voldemort round on him quickly and kick him.

"No lies, Mister Malfoy," Voldemort chuckles, tipping Draco's chin up with his wand. "I think we all know by now what I do with liars." The crowd around them laughs raucously, jeering at him. "After all, you seem to have known Severus Snape quite well."

Draco's stomach lurches suddenly at the memory of the corpse in the glen, maggots chewing their way through flesh bloated with putrefaction. It takes him a long moment to remember the protection spells his mother put around the body and to push Voldemort—and his fake "memories"—out of his mind. Voldemort's high screams of laughter echo in his mind as he leaves. He remembers Snape, his favorite friend of the family, assaulting him time and time again, pushing harder and harder at his mind until one day he understands the power available to the wizard who can control his own mind. These memories are interspersed with vivid pictures of blood oozing across the floor, a candlestick dripping grey matter sitting on the end table, his mother leaned over the corpse with her lips pressed passionately to the dead man's. It is the image of his father, a slack-jawed idiot drooling onto his collar that makes him push at Voldemort's mind again. He tries to ignore that this is a real memory, pulled from his own mind, as he fights with indignant self-righteousness.

"I didn't have time," Draco says, pushing Voldemort out with a gasping breath. He sags into himself, all of his muscles releasing a tension he didn't know he had. He can hear the Death Eaters go silent at his impudence, but he is proud. He is proud of himself that for once in his life, he has done the best that he can do.

"Not enough time?" Voldemort's amusement is audible.

"No, my lord," Draco replies, somehow finding the energy to turn his boneless flop into some semblance of groveling. Forgive me, Professor, he prays as he carefully raises his eyes from the wood floor to Voldemort's feet, where Nagini the snake sits. Draco's breath catches in his throat and his heart beats like a bird trying to escape from the cage of his ribs, but he presses on, "That fool, Dumbledore's lap dog, rushed in to stop me before I could do anything. He held me back with talk of my redemption until your men arrived."

This is apparently the right thing to say, as Voldemort merely chuckles to himself. "He talks about other fools," he tells the other Death Eaters, who let out a cacophonous mix of braying laughter and disappointed mutters. They'd so hoped for blood, Draco thinks bitterly. "And how did you end up in such charming clothing, my boy?"

"I was doing reconnaissance, sir," Draco replies, "at the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix."

"Oh? And where is that?" Voldemort's tongue is sharp and Draco is sure he will detect a lie, so he tries to tell the truth.

"L—" again the words fail him. "Gr—" He is beginning to feel ill from the effects of Fidelius against him.

"Obviously they have hidden the location with a Fidelius charm," Aunt Bellatrix speaks up, and for a moment even Draco stares at her. Her boldness goes unnoted, however, and Draco continues.

"I was spying on the people in that house," he says, "when one of them suspected I was a spy. He drugged me using Muggle means and dressed me as a girl, leaving me in the poorest quarters of Muggle London in hopes that I would be kidnapped or killed." The lie is bitter, but the truth in the statement is bitterer still, and he is almost overcome with nausea at his own stupidity.

"It seems a childish thing to do. What is the name of the member of the Order of the Phoenix that did this?"

"R—" the name won't come, and the more he pulls on it the more the room begins to spin. "Ro—"

When he faints at Voldemort's feet, he is not concerned with the picture he makes, splayed on the ground, his skirt tugged up his legs to above his knees. He is not worried about torture or pain or death. He falls gratefully into the welcoming arms of darkness.

::

There has been a great deal displaced in Ottery St. Catchpole by the Death Eaters and their fire. The Burrow stands alone, untouched, on the other side of Stoatshead Hill, but not every family was as lucky. Luna Lovegood is sitting on her front porch, or, rather, where her front porch would be if she'd still had a house, playing idly in the ashes on the walk with a stick. Her father's printing house is gone, and so is he. He'd been in the old barn they'd disguised the print shop to be when the Death Eaters had attacked. She'd been in the house, making earrings out of clay. When the first waft of smoke came in through the opened window, she'd run downstairs to the old bomb shelter, a relic from the 1940s and the reason her father had bought the house. She'd locked herself in with the canned food and waited until the screams had faded, the sirens had come and gone, and she was sure the aliens were no longer out scavenging for human bodies to steal.

When she'd tried to open the door, the ceramic handle had been so hot that she'd blistered a little in the palm of her hand. It had taken another day for it to cool enough for her to open the door, and when she'd pushed it open and staggered into the sunlight, there was no one standing there to greet her. There was nothing standing, period. As she'd looked out into the town where she'd grown up, there was nothing that she remembers. The baker's house, with his little shop, it's nothing but an oven surrounded by rubble. The bank is nothing but a shell. Even the reflecting pool Mr. Diggory had put in third year is gone, its water dried up and the marble cracked and blackened. She's afraid of how many spirits she'd see if there was water in it, anyway.

After a few days, someone from the Ministry came to examine the site of the disaster, and he found Luna standing there, in the middle of town. Her face was smeared with ashes, her hair and clothes sooty, and she held a daisy in her hand. She wouldn't talk, and she still doesn't. The Ministry sent her away to live with her father's sister and her family, who tries really hard but just can't understand what has happened to her. After a week of not talking to them, they have begun to mostly ignore her and put up with her because they have to.

Luna's aunt says that she can't see how she's the child of her father. Luna's so serious, quiet, and responsible. She always does her chores, always listens to her aunt, and always does as she's told. She's well-behaved and down to earth, and generally nothing like the Luna that any of her friends would recognize. She cuts her hair short, curls it, and wears somber clothes day in and day out. She hopes that if she acts like an alien changeling, the aliens that took her father will come back for her.

::

When Draco wakes up, it is not under Aunt Bellatrix's shoe again. The room he is in is dark and he can feel stones beneath him. The heavy chains around his feet are a constant reminder of the fact that he is a prisoner. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he realizes he recognizes this place, and the sudden realization of where he is takes his breath away. He has been here before, probably played in this very room as a child.

The door creaks open and a figure looms in the doorway, outlined by the light in the hall. The footsteps that come in are nothing like Aunt Bellatrix's, and he feels his entire body tense in fear. "Lumos," a voice says, and Draco stares.

::

Hermione is knocking on his door, but Ron does not want to talk. She has been knocking every few hours for the past three days, but he could care less what she has to say. She's always thought herself so intelligent, but apparently she couldn't take a bloody hint.

He isn't talking to Harry, either, even though Harry tries almost as hard as Hermione to get him to open the door. Harry is an awful prig and Ron is furious with him for choosing Malfoy over him. Granted, Harry hasn't said as much, but aren't you supposed to choose your girlfriend over your mates? That's what Ron did, anyway.

A part of him niggles with the thought that it may have been his fault. After all, he hadn't spent much time with Harry since he got in, and with that sort of loneliness, Ron supposes a person might have turned to Malfoy. Not him, of course, but someone with a weaker will might easily let Malfoy fool him into spending time with the obnoxious prat.

He doesn't even let his Mum into the room. She leaves his food outside the door, and Hermione has taken it away once or twice, saying that if Ron is going to be so awful, she'll draw him out of the room somehow. He's since learned to keep up with mealtimes and bring the tray in before the others can finish eating if he wants it. He thinks the nerve of her to take his things is pretty bold, but he dares not say anything lest she think he actually wants to talk to her.

He doesn't want to talk to her, but he misses her. He misses the soft, easy way she folds into his arms. He misses the wild tangle of her hair after sex. He misses the sweet salt of her skin and the slick wet of her mouth. He misses her lip gloss and leaving bites on her neck and shoulders.

After a week of celibacy, Ron thinks he could power Britain work a month on the energy he's spent wanking. Charlie has moved out of the room, claiming the lack of peace has kept him up at nights. He's glad, in a way, because it means more room for himself, but at the same time he feels alone in a way that he'd never thought he could. He'd always thought that between five siblings and two best friends he'd always have someone to talk to, but instead he finds himself holed up in dank old number twelve, with no one who's willing to talk to him except the traitor and the enemy's bedfellow.

Even if Harry weren't shagging the Ferret, Ron still wouldn't talk to him, he reasons with himself when the urge to give in gets too strong. He still hasn't forgotten that fight, even if Hermione has. Ron doesn't understand how she can just forget the humiliation they both faced that day. Mum still doesn't look him in the eye, and Dad has gotten it into his head that he needs to hear "the talk" again since apparently it didn't sink in the first time.

Not for the last time, Ron is glad he sent Malfoy away, even if it does look like the situation is going to blow up in his face. The ferret-faced git is more than deserving of it, in Ron's opinion, and even though he was not the one beating him up, he wishes he were. In fact, Ron thinks, I'd like to meet that guy. I'd shake his hand. Ron can't stand this painful distance between himself and everyone, and he knows it's all Malfoy's fault.

Sighing, he pulls himself out of bed. He has let himself wallow in his wrinkled bed sheets for too long. He stands up and staggers to the bathroom for a shower. Outside the bathroom, he hears something odd. It sounds very much like—

Ron throws open the door, expecting to find Hermione wrapped up in Harry's embrace. That's what makes sense, even if the thought makes him ill. But what he sees is so much worse than he ever could have imagined.

"Gin—!" he yelps, eyes wide. Ginny is on her back, hiding her face, but her legs are open and he can see everything. Above her, Charlie—their older brother Charlie, who's supposed to always protect his younger brothers and sister—is frozen in horror. "Oh, God," Ron moans, turning away from the sight. He can't believe it. It can't be true. Charlie, big, strong Charlie. He's not supposed to be the one to defile his baby sister like this. It's supposed to be Dean, with his artistic hands, or Seamus, Neville, even—Neville, who had such a crush on her back in fourth year. Someone he could beat up for doing it, but then things would go back to normal. He'd always secretly dreamed it would be Harry, so he didn't have to beat anyone up because after all, Harry and Ginny were supposed to end up together. He'd been so happy for them at the end of school because they'd seemed so close, but now…

He doesn't even realize he's talking until he sees Hermione in the hall. "No, no, no," he chants as she grabs his shoulders. "No, no, no, no," he sobs as she shakes him.

"Ron? Ron, what's the matter?" her voice is frantic, but he can't stop shaking. This isn't how it was supposed to happen at all.

::

The boy has displeased his Master, that much is obvious. He can see it still, the way he carries himself like he's better than someone else. The haughty set of his shoulders show he's got too much pride, that one. The seed of Lucius Malfoy, who had too much pride, himself. By half. The Dark Lord showed him, then, didn't he? Showed him what happens to those men who call themselves the Lord and forget to call on their true Master.

Peter's nose twitches as he lets his eyes run over the scene before him. There, in the middle, the Dark Lord stands. He looks radiant, tall and majestic. At his feet, scraping like the worm that he is, is the coward. The son of the failure. There is a grim set to his lips and a firm line to his back, and Peter wonders how his Lord could mistake the boy's posture for one of submission. No, the Dark Lord never makes mistakes; the little fiend is lying to the Dark Lord, trying to fool him into complacency. Nearby is Bellatrix, the beautiful madwoman. She has been remarkably coherent recently, Peter thinks snidely. Much calmer than usual. Her behavior has been less fawning, too, and Peter cannot help but hope that she is cooling in her faith.

Something has changed in this dark angel of their Lord's court. Something is different about her, and even her nephew has seen it. Peter sees the changes every day, but never as clearly as when she interacts with the boy. He has voiced his opinion to the Dark Lord, but here is one place where the Dark Lord is completely blinded: he is easily influenced by beauty and power. And if there's anything the Black sisters were known for, it is their beauty.

Between Narcissa's pale gold and marble skin and Bellatrix's wild faerie looks, there's nothing a man could want for. Even the Muggle lover was pretty, he admits, with her cheery red curls tumbling over her shoulders. Their temperaments were as different as their appearances, and in school even though Bellatrix was a Slytherin and much older than him, her fits of pique were infamous. She could hurl a shoe at you before you knew what you'd done to offend her. Narcissa, on the other hand, wouldn't give anyone who wasn't Slytherin and filthy rich the time of day. He'd met her a few times in school, but always through Sirius, and he wasn't sure she'd known his name when she'd died. Andromeda…well, she was best not talked about. She'd been pretty and kind, but never interested in Sirius's little friends and by the time that Peter had done something to impress her with, he'd learned that there was no point. She wasn't like Bella and Cissy, who'd both married rich, powerful boys and become rich, powerful women. The last he'd heard, she'd married a mudblood named Tinker or something and got herself with a brat in the Order.

He is jolted from his thoughts by an impatient snarl from the Dark Lord. "Do I bore you, Wormtail?"

"N-no, my Lord," Peter stammers, suddenly aware of the dangerous ground he is on.

"Then why, pray tell, did I have to raise my voice to call you?" the Dark Lord's voice is deceptively soft, but Peter knows better than to let himself be hypnotized by the dulcet tones.

"I'm sorry, my Lord. It won't happen again," Peter grovels, throwing himself at the dusty hem of the cloak before him.

"See that it doesn't," He says, but before Peter can press his lips to the hem in gratitude, He continues, pointing that wicked wand at him, "Crucio. I will not be humiliated by my servants at my own court, Wormtail. Do I make myself clear?"

Peter can't think but for the shouts of "Yes, my Lord!" echoing in his brain and the agonies of muscle after muscle cramping, knotting, tearing. There is no pain like Cruciatus. He cannot open his mouth to let them out, and just before he thinks that he will surely go mad with the screams building behind his locked jaw, his kind and merciful Lord releases the spell with a casual finite, leaving him sobbing for breath and trying desperately not to drool on the Dark Lord's hem. "Yes, my Lord," he gasps quietly between great wracking spasms that shake his entire frame.

Above him, Bellatrix is watching with cold, calculating eyes. When she sees him looking at her, she smirks and turns her own attention to the Dark Lord. He will not rebuke her because she is His favorite, and Peter can't help but feel bitter about it. He wonders when it will be his turn to be the shining star at the top of the ranks. Has anyone suffered the way he has? Has anyone loved and worshipped as he has? No. Not Lucius. Not Severus. Not Bellatrix and certainly not this brat of a boy who kneels here pretending to pay his respects.

One day, he'll show them all. He'll show them what it is like to give your life to a cause and receive no glory. He'll show them all what it's like to be laughed at and mocked for being too fat or too poor or too stupid. One day, some day soon, he will stand above them all and they will cower in his shadow as the Dark Lord's brilliance shines on him and him alone.

::

I've never been good at potions, she thinks as the cramps overcome her in the hallway. She's always misjudged an ingredient's purpose, stirred one time too many, forgotten the one part of the potion that's important. The part that makes it safe. She is lying in the hallway outside her office when she feels the trickle start, when the dark stain spreads from between her legs. It feels like a dam is bursting, an unclean, clotty dam. As she lies in the hall and feels it pour out of her, she throws her head back and screams.

Her coworkers come running, but the stench of old blood makes them turn away to retch. The stain has spread to the carpet and still the blood keeps coming. Someone goes to fetch the mediwitch and still the blood keeps coming. The mediwitch asks her, "What were you doing when this started?" and she clenches her teeth against the pain. The mediwitch asks her, "Where does it hurt the worst?" and she screws her eyes against the pitying looks of her coworkers. The mediwitch asks her, "Do you think you might know what has caused this?" and she screams against the agony trying to claw out of her belly.

Tonks is rushed to St. Mungo's, where a gynecological nurse is assigned to her. The woman is nice, but Tonks sees accusation in her eyes. She screams for Remus, but Remus isn't here, and when the cramps seize her again, she allows the world to fade at the edges. She is sweaty and covered with blood, but the blood won't stop coming. There can't be this much blood inside of me, she thinks hysterically, her hands fisting in the sheets. A new mediwitch comes in and presses a cool cloth to her forehead. There is a glass at her lips and she gulps the potion gratefully, unsurprised when she finds herself slipping into a calm sleep.

When she wakes, she is in a hospital bed and Remus is there. His face looks old now, lit with the bad fake daylight charm used to keep the room cheery. He looks haggard, but his eyes light up when he sees that she's awake. "Nymphadora?" he asks her. "Tonks?"

"Wotcher, Remus," she tries to smile, but even the muscles in her face are stiff and sore.

"I was so worried," he mumbles, pulling her wrist to him. She sees for the first time the delicate map of veins running just beneath her pale skin. There are tubes and wires coming from the back of her hand, and she wonders if she's been asleep for more than a few hours. "You've been in here for days. They said you'd collapsed at work and just started," he swallows, and his grip on her hand tightens slightly, "bleeding everywhere."

"I'm okay, Remus," she forces the smile past tired muscles, but it doesn't seem to comfort him.

"What could have possessed you to do something so stupid?" he rages suddenly. "I could have lost you both!"

Tonks feels her insides shift and she feels like crying. She tries to pull herself together, and turns her face away. "What do you mean? There's only one of me, Remus."

"There is now," he says, and a lump fills her throat. She suddenly feels small and vulnerable lying in the hospital bed. Her stomach hurts.

"Did they…" she can't ask without looking at him, but when she turns to face him she can't see him. Everything is fuzzy and she realizes that her eyes are filled with tears. "Did they tell you? Is that how you…how you found out?"

"Did you think you didn't smell different?" he asks fiercely as he leans over her, kissing her eyelids. "You smelled so beautiful to me. Of course I knew before."

"Now I just smell like a sanitary napkin," she chokes and he shushes her, pressing his lips tenderly to her creased forehead.

"No," he whispers. "No, you still smell beautiful. Just a different kind of beautiful." He holds her in his arms as she begins to sob.