I really have to apologise for taking so long to update, life has been mega busy over the last few months. I am going to try and update every week from now on. I'm pretty sure I've said this before, so apologies for that too. Thanks so much for all the reviews, hope you like this chapter, sorry it's short. Update coming soon.

His father's desk was a block of obsidian that was balanced on four snake heads whose green eyes glared at him accusingly. There'd been a time - granted it was a long time ago when his father's office wasn't the shut-off sanctum of secrecy that it had become – when he had played there as a child, crawling beneath the desk and talking to the large lizards as if they could talk back. Once his father had cast a spell, making one snakehead turn and grin at him, his father's laughter had chased him out of the room. Draco smiled to himself sardonically wondering if his father even remembered how to laugh.

"Things are…" his father paused, staring at the oil painting of the manor that hung heavy in its gilded frame over the fireplace; darkened firns choked the grey building into the middle of the canvas, trapping it there in its darkness and sombreness. Draco had always hated the picture, the interpretation of the grand building having lost something when seen through the artist's eye - not surprising really considering it was the work of Astall Malfoy, who had never been particularly known for his happiness. He could only imagine that the roiling colours that flickered in the half-light of the study, mirrored the darkness that twisted within the wizard and had eventually led to him Avadering himself. Up until recently that darkness and turmoil that seemed to pervade his family had no particular name, just pride and hatred that furrowed brows and twisted mouths into sneers. Now though, all he could see was Lady Greengrass, the tendrils of darkness that had infected the spell, spilling over and lacing with all the goodness. He had a sneaky suspicion though that, however Arden had imagined the witches and wizards to be affected, he hadn't expected it to be so insidious.

"Change is coming." Draco looked up quickly as his father cleared his thought, "great…change." Great was a stumble of syllables, the word seeming to get lodged in his throat, wheezing out of him with little clarity, caught red-handed for the lie it was.

"Are we getting new draperies? Mother will be pleased." Draco quipped, unable to quite iron out the bitterness before he spoke, face souring as the taste of them made him feel a little sick. The whole pretence and illusion that their meeting was a 'normal' occurrence and that these unspoken hints and cajoles in the direction of the Dark Lord were self-explanatory were getting tiring. Lucius' shoulders tensed but he did not dignify the question with a response, instead, he turned quickly, sweeping back his robes and sitting down in his large throne of a chair.

Draco had always tried to sit in the mammoth-like chair, small hands straining to reach up and grasp the arms just as his father did. He'd always imagined himself expanding to fill the space, chest swelling with the air of authority that his father had. There'd been pride then, nudging his every action, colouring his every word copied directly from the horse's mouth. He'd utter them and look back at his father, fighting back a grin when a small nod of recognition was shot this way. Then it had been real, not the desperate clingy thing it had become, the pretence that he lazily kept around others; a sour face here, a name drop there, a little bit of obliterating others with his extensive catalogue of withering put-downs, all to hide the sickening fear. He sometimes ruminated on the loss, trying to pinpoint the moment that desperation to appease his father had been replaced with the gut clawing trepidation that liked to scratch at the pit of his stomach, no doubt searching for some sort of courage and coming up empty-pawed. Gryffindor he was not.

"Things are moving ahead as planned." His long fingers jumped across the items on his desk, never quite settling; papers adjusted slightly, quills given a one, two, tap, magical globe of the sky outside turned so that the small sun was shining brightly at him, the heat focused through the glass and warming one of his cheeks a little uncomfortably. The jitteriness of his fathers' actions, the stop and jagged start of them, suggested that perhaps 'planned' wasn't quite the right word. "As such, I need your assurance that you are with your family on this. Of course, there is no question but…your role over the next few months will be crucial."

Draco blinked owlishly, lips pursed with the beginning of the oblivious query, "What?"

"We have often spoken of this day, now it is finally here. Everything I have trained you for. All the preparation."

"So we are going to unveil our snobbery and prejudice on the world, forgive me father, but I'd thought we'd already done that." He never liked being reminded of the snooty lift of nose that was such a common trait among his relatives, but he took a morbid kind of glee from waving such things under his father's nose.

"Let's talk about Potter."

"What about him?" He drew back as far as he could before wincing as the intricate design of the wooden chair dug into his back – his father had never believed in the wizards that came to see him being comfortable.

"Tell me about him."

"He's still just as annoying as always. Honestly, if I thought we were discussing Potty today, I would have brought my notes." He attempted to meet Lucius' glare with cool indifference, but as usual, his head lowered of its own accord, pressed down by the years of habit. It was almost laughable, that the same man who had always told him presentation was key and a Malfoy should always keep their heads up so as to look down on others, was the same man that weighed chin to chest with all his 'expectation'. The embarrassment and incongruity of it had always left him feeling a little confused and that feeling had somehow morphed into the prickly prissiness that made his hair stand on end.

"What of his routines, his likes, dislikes? What does he do? Who does he spend time with?"

"You planning on dating him father, because I don't really think you're his type?"

He had to hand it to his father, he was doing a better job than normal at keeping his calm, but he wasn't fooled, the usual anger was simmering just beneath the surface, ready to rip through the calm exterior, as it always did.

"Answer the questions, Draco."

"What do you want me to say? he loves attention, hates being shunned, he sticks his nose where it doesn't belong and he spends numerous hours staring at his own reflection, who happens to be his only friend."

"Your glibness is not amusing."

"I don't know whether you missed it father, but Potty and I aren't exactly friends."

"Hmm, yes in spite of my specific instructions that you befriend him."

There it was, almost like he'd read it in his mind, shouted Legilimens and watched the picture show of this thoughts flicker before him. The end of the pride and the meaningful nods and the beginning of disdain and disappointment. He brought it up every now and again, laying the blame right at Draco's feet, pointing out his reasoning for finding Draco the severe let down that he was.

Potty, it all came back to Potty. In his first year of school he'd been instructed to 'befriend' the famous orphan, Lucius' reasoning then, Draco was sure, having everything to do with how it looked; distancing himself even further from past accusations, imagining the blossoming friendship as the perfect alibi. No one would believe a former follower of the Dark Lord to throw in his lot with the child that had ended his reign of terror. Alas, Draco's failure had all but nailed that coffin shut, digging a hefty grave for his father's innocence. Since then his father had looked at him with the same icy condemnation as if he'd charged his father guilty himself. His father's newfound interest thought was somewhat of a mystery.

"The Dark Lord has given me…has given us a new purpose."

"I don't see how I'm part of this."

"You're a member of this family. You're part of this." His tone wasn't particularly loud, but it was firm in a way that made Draco jump a little in his seat. "We have been entrusted with an important task and we will not fail him." Draco could hear the linger of 'again' unspoken, but loudly flaunting its syllables as though it were the most important word his father had refused to speak thus far, which of course it was. It didn't take an O In divination to work out that the Dark Lord now favoured his father – and his family by extension – with contempt. It was practically written in the stars that history, as was its habit, was going to unimaginatively repeat itself only this time it seemed that his father was determined to drag him along.

Draco wanted to choose his words carefully but was at a loss as to how he could possibly manipulate the situation, Lucius Malfoy was a difficult man to read at the best of times and that added to his erratic and fearful behaviour meant that any wrong word could have resulted in further anger.

"What task?" Lucius stood fluidly grasping his wrist behind his back pretending to peruse the painting. It had hung there for generations and surely never garnered so much interest, Astall was a mediocre painter after all.

"I am to once again prove our family's loyalty." It was so obvious he wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of it before. The Dark Lords obsession, all be it a mildly disturbing one, had been the pathetic spit of boy that the wizarding world hailed all too frequently as a hero and the one obvious way to make it big with evil wizard was to gift wrap the spectacled superhero.

"Right."

"Tell me about his friends." It was as if someone had thrown ice water over him. His father was asking about Hermione. Of course, it was a well-known fact that Potty being the insufferable Gryffindor that he was, couldn't resist the chance of rushing forwards and saving those that he cared about. This little aspect of his character had previously elicited a simple eye roll from Draco, now he felt his hatred for Potty growing exponentially; of all the students in the whole of Hogwarts, he had to count Hermione as one of his closest friends.

"They're Gryffindors," Draco shrugged, turning from his fathers searching gaze and grinding his teeth together.

"Obviously but tell me a little more. Of course, we know plenty of the Weasley boy, much like his father, but what about the mudblood?"

The question sent him right back to two nights previous when said mudbloods nails had made shuddering tracks down his back and the paleness of her skin and redness of lips had all lingeringly tasted of hot chocolate. Draco gripped his knees till he could feel the bite of his fingernails through the rich material of his trousers as a new kind of fear, that reached in and clasped his lungs in a vice-like grip, left him breathless. He'd always considered the ramifications of his feelings towards Hermione, understanding that at some point all shit could hit the proverbial and there would be nothing salvageable from their stolen moments to ease him through the agony of losing her. But this was something that seemed to have flown right by his hypothetical musings, pushed aside by his own blinkered certainty that his father was bad, but he wasn't that bad. He supposed he should have re-assessed his views after overhearing the conversation between him and Mr Nott; if they could stand by and let Cedric die, he didn't want to imagine what they could bring themselves to do to Hermione.

"What about her?" He hoped his father missed the strain in his voice, quickly clearing his throat.

"She is a close friend of the boy."

"Yes, but as I mentioned before, I don't know Potty or her. Why don't you ask Snape? He probably knows more than I do." It was a desperate attempt to back peddle out of the scenario, hoping that Snape would never knowingly endanger students and put an end to any plans. Lucius, however, seemed to stiffen at the mention of the wizard.

"Professor Snape is busy with his own responsibilities. Besides this plan must and will stay within the family." Draco detected a little more than family pride in his tone, he sensed that something about Snape was annoying him.

"I want no doubt about who orchestrated this plan. Bringing Potter to the Dark Lord will cement our place among his ranks. We must place ourselves in a position of trust."

"Why?" His father seemed to have been caught off guard, no doubt having mistaken Draco's years of silent boredom in answer to all the purity monologues, for rapt intrigue.

"I don't quite…"

"Why should we bother following The Dark Lord." His father had risen from his chair, hand shooting out to grab a fistful of his shirt before he'd even finished his scoff.

"You will speak of the Dark Lord with respect, and never question our fealty to him," he snarled, cold knuckles pressing painfully into his chest. But Draco couldn't feel them, he couldn't feel anything except a strange sort of rage at everything his father believed in and forced him to believe in too. It made him feel overwhelmingly brave.

With an insolence that surprised even him, he met the flinted angry gaze of his father, mouth curling with contempt. "I respectfully decline to join a wizard who is one-nil down to a baby. Do you think that's why he likes it so much? Murdering children?"

Draco didn't know why he reached for his wand as his father pushed him to the floor, in fact, he wasn't even aware that he'd done it till he quickly countered the first spell, watching in a detached dream as the spark of it shot across the room and broke a vase. His father's shouts were muffled but his hand moved of its own accord and countered another spell. He could feel the press of the polished wood under his palm, the fibres of the rug tickling his wrist as he backed himself onto it trying to lever himself up. The next countered curse hit an ancestor's frame, knocking it sideways and sending the angry Malfoy stumbling, hat falling comically from his head. Everything sharpened into focus suddenly, with such quick clarity that Draco found himself blinking.

"Crucio." The sound of the curse made Draco falter, his wand just a fraction of a second slowing. It hit him, sharp needles of pain expanding across his chest till they stabbed every inch of his skin all at once. His head thumped against the rug, his back arching. Fingers curled and uncurled, nails biting into the floor, splintering the wood that stuck in his skin, little beads of blood welling on his fingertips.

"Dad, please." He was sobbing, tears spilling from his eyes and wetting his ears. A new wave of pain came crashing down on him and he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. His vision blurred and blackened around the edges.

"Expelliarmus." Suddenly the pain stopped, and his body slumped heavily on the plush softness of the rug beneath him. His head lolled to the side, a whimper escaping him at the cool press of a palm against his cheek.

"Draco, sweetie." His Mother's voice was shaking, tears glinting on her cheeks as she made him look at her. He swallowed; throat surprisingly dry.

"Mom?"

"Can you get up?" She tugged on his hands and Draco let her lift him, still in a daze. When he looked at his father the man refused to meet his gaze, his skin paler than normal and a crazed look in his grey eyes made Draco hunch his shoulders, dipping his head low. With hesitant steps he walked out of the room, gripping onto the stone wall for purchase, his mother's soft voice assuring him that she would check on him soon. He wasn't sure he wanted her to. His house, his home, the walls and corridors that had always felt warm to him in spite of the cold, now felt bleak; the halls and doorways elongated and full of shadows. The stones reminded him of his father's eyes as he muttered the curse that made him feel as though all his bones were being twisted out of shape, full of loathing, full of anger and full of fear. There were ghosts that plagued his father, ghosts of the past that wandered with him wherever he went, and they were changing him.

Narcissa's hands were shaking as she placed her wand back inside her robes, knowing that if it stayed in her hands, she would be tempted to use it. With determination she swiped the tears from her cheeks and rounded on her husband, faltering slightly when she saw how hunched he had become, his whole body seeming to turn in on itself.

"You dare…you…" she covered her mouth as she sobbed, rushing across the room to hit him hard across the face, the sound filled the room and seemed to linger, ringing in the air as his cheek reddened, "On our son?" Lucius winced at her words, eyes flicking to meet hers.

"Cissy..."

"Don't." She raised her hand, taking one step away from him even as he lifted his arms pleadingly.

"I didn't mean to…I was so angry." She laughed bitterly through her tears shaking her head in disbelief. This was the proud Malfoy her father had deemed she would marry. She had always believed he was nothing like his father, just trying desperately to receive some sort of affection that had been cruelly withheld from him all his life. Now though she wasn't so sure, using an unforgivable on his son had all the hallmarks of Abraxas.

"Angry? You…" she couldn't say it, but she saw the shame in his eyes, he had tortured their son, had used his magic to inflict pain on the only thing that had ever really been good and right in their lives. Everyone in their circle suggested that it was the money, the power, the pureness of their blood passed down through the ages to bestow upon them the most unadulterated magic imaginable, but despite appearances they both knew how untrue that was, it was just Lucius had always found difficulty showing it.

"He questioned the Dark Lord, our reasons for following him."

"He has every right." Narcissa found herself defending her son, wishing that he had a way out of the mess that they had made for their family.

"The Dark Lord will kill him."

"And so you torture him?"

"He has to learn."

"He's just a boy, Lucius. He didn't ask for any of this." 'But we did' She didn't have to say it because they were both thinking it, knowing that it was true. Regardless of what they had grown to want for Draco, for themselves, that time was long passed, eradicated by the choice they had made so many years ago. No, no matter how much they wished it wasn't true, they were part of the Dark Lords plans, as was their son by default and there was nothing either of them could do to change it.