Disclaimer:I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters.

Hey guys, first off I must apologise for how late this chapter was. This summer has even very eventful, paired with my terrible writer's block and my new love for Lucissa fics! So, this is kinda a filler chapter, I do detest them but I need to flesh out the time during Hermione's pregnancy, though I don't expect it to continue for more than another chapter (Thank God!). So I hope you enjoy this one, it's rather morbid. The usual thanks to my devoted readers, followers, favourites and most especially my darling reviewers who I absolutely adore! I couldn't ask for a better bunch than you guys.

Just one last note, to all you guys who like dark fics, I've found one I feel I should recommend. Though it's only just started and is WIP, I think it has very good potential and is excellently written (which is a must in my account - this is where you all snort and say "pot, kettle!"). Anyway, it's called Solid Links, Hollow Hearts by Somber Joy. DEFINITELY give it a read.

Right, enough of me, on with the chapter. Enjoy, my dears!

Chapter XVI

The pool of blood slowly crept across the polished wood of the Dark Lord's table, drawing closer and closer to the chair where Draco sat stoic, eyes fixed firmly on the red substance as it poured steadily from the corpse that lay abandoned.

The boy was virtually unrecognisable now, so much so he doubted even the boy's own mother would be able to identify him. He was slightly younger than Draco and had been in the year beneath him at Hogwarts - a Hufflepuff if he remembered correctly, though the boy's name escaped him. To everyone else who had occupied the room little more than 10 minutes ago, the boy's name was Dennis Creevey, the boy who had killed Fenrir Greyback. Now however, he was little more than a mutilated carcass.

What none of them knew, was that this boy was just the first that Draco happened to come across who could fit the description of a Creevey boy, unfortunately for him. He couldn't very well take the real one, knowing it would only serve to strengthen the hatred that Granger had for him. He couldn't help but remember the way that she had begged and pleaded for his life, offering him what he could only dream of in return for his safety. And yet, despite not agreeing to her terms, he couldn't find it in his cold heart to give the boy up because all he could see was her tear-stained face plaguing his mind.

The blood seeped its way closer to the edge of the table, close enough for Draco to reach out and touch it. While the idea of Muggle blood revolted him beyond words, he couldn't help but realise how there wasn't even the slightest trace of mud in the deep red liquid that spilled from the boy's veins. He shifted his chair as it began to drip from the edge of the wood in steady streams, the faint tapping being the only noise that filled the eerie silence.

He watched every drop as it tried to summon enough energy to push itself over the edge of the wood and onto the floor, often having to combine with another before succeeding. His eyes followed each drop as it fell into the larger pool that grew on the floorboards next to his shoes, nothing to signify the existence of each one besides the slight pattering sound it made upon impact.

For a moment, he wanted to reach out and touch it. He wanted to find out what exactly it was about this particular blood that made it so different from his own. He needed to know why it was so impure, so dirty, for it was this blood that had caused his father to give up his life in favour of serving the Dark Lord, and by doing so, he had given Draco's life and Narcissa's too. He had to know why he couldn't have Granger like he wanted to, why she couldn't have his child, and why he should have to hide her away. What was it that made her so disgusting, when tainted blood -just like hers- dripped to the floor in steady beats before him, no different than the blood he was sure was pumping through his veins.

Would it feel different on his fingertips?

Would it transmit some unnamed disease to him?

Would it taint his purer blood? If he could even call it that anymore.

He hesitantly reached out and placed his hand in the path of the falling droplets, watching in earnest as one teetered over the edge of the wood, taunting him with the impending fall. He wondered whether he should take his hand away before it was too late, but found that he could not.

He expected to feel a momentous shock, some sort of drastic change take place inside of him when the droplet finally hit, infecting him with its filth, and yet the only thing he felt was the slight warmth of the liquid as it splashed onto the tip of his forefinger.

Curiously, he drew his hand away and watched as the single droplet began tracing its way down the length of his finger, caressing the skin as it went, leaving nothing but a slight crimson trail in its wake. There were no boils nor blisters. He didn't feel ill or even moderately sick. He wasn't repulsed as he thought he might've been, in fact, he was more curious than anything.

He brought his finger to his nose and sniffed. It smelled just as any other blood would, the slight metallic pang wafted in through his nostrils without the slightest hint of dirt or any other vile scent he could think of.

In a panic, he drew his wand from his robes and uttered Scourgify upon Scourgify, repeatedly trying to cleanse his skin of the blood that would not leave him, despite the fact that it had long vanished from his hand.

He clutched the arm rests of his chair fervently, his chest heaving with the disturbing revelation. The sound of the gentle patter of the blood droplets hitting the floorboards quickly turned into loud crashes that hurt his eardrums, the smell of death made him gag and want to vomit. He couldn't bear to remain in this room any longer, and it was with that thought that he clumsily shot up from his chair which fell with a bang to the ground behind him.

Clutching his wand tightly in his fist, he made quickly for the exit, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed, cocoon himself tightly in the bed sheets and forget about the Dark Lord, forget about Granger, forget about babies and most importantly; forget about blood.

"Draco, a word." The Dark Lord's smooth voice slithered from the shadows, causing Draco to pause in his tracks, fear spiking through his veins. He composed himself while his back was still to the Dark Lord before turning and offering a slight bow.

"My Lord." Draco acknowledged him.

"I had hoped not to be speaking to you about this, again." The last word was pronounced with such anger that Draco came very close to wincing, but he could not show weakness in front of the Dark Lord and would fight for his calm, collected composure despite his personal feelings. "Your mind was elsewhere tonight." He observed. "Now what could be important enough to divert your attention from the rightful deliverance of justice and retribution?"

Draco racked his brains for a decent excuse, for he couldn't very well tell him that he was concerned about planning on what to do with his half-blood bastard child, whose mother was Harry Potter's Muggle-born best friend, now could he?

"My father." He blurted, knowing that if he failed to supply an adequate answer, the Dark Lord would most definitely probe his mind for the answer instead. "I noticed he wasn't present tonight, I was merely concerned for his wellbeing, my Lord." Draco admitted, not exactly lying.

"It seems that you do have a heart after all, young Draco. How disappointing." The Dark Lord snorted. "He's still pining after that traitorous wife of his. Her lecherous hold on him has left him weak and he will suffer for it if he has not learnt his lesson already, make no mistake."

Draco ground his teeth together to stop any rash comments or actions from taking him off-guard. He refuted every single word that passed the Dark Lord's lips concerning his beautiful, innocent mother who had been so callously snatched from him and his father upon the Dark Lord's command. It was something that Draco would never forgive.

"Love is such a fickle thing." The Dark Lord spoke ominously. "It twists the mind, distorts one's sense of what is important. It is a weakness, Draco. Any heir of mine must learn to be without it, sever any ties with it, because mark my words; it will be your downfall."

"I understand." Draco spoke monotonously, wondering if the Dark Lord's words concealed a threat.

"Do you?" The Dark Lord asked boldly, a question which Draco did not dare answer. "It is essential no one ever believe you weak, else you spend the whole of your life fighting to prove otherwise. It is something no heir of mine can allow, you see, not even you can fight everyone, Draco, and sooner or later, your enemies will come to realise this. You must never let them find a single fault or weakness within you, for it will be exploited, manipulated and used against you in every possible way imaginable."

"I understand the gravity of such circumstances, my Lord. Though rest assured, Lucius nor any other person for that matter, mean enough to me to become indispensable. Nothing will hinder me in my path to path to power." He spoke confidently, knowing that deep down he did not believe his own words in the slightest.

"Good. I won't have you unfocused next time we meet, else there will be dire consequences."

"Yes, my Lord." Draco offered a final stiff bow, and left without another word.

~*:*~

He materialised with an air of natural grace, the crack of apparation echoing through the hallowed halls of Malfoy Manor. He was immediately struck by the complete absence of light and warmth in what he assumed to be the foyer.

He stood silently for a moment, allowing his senses to drink in anything conspicuous, be it strange noises, smells or lights. He found nothing, and couldn't quite decide whether that put him more on edge or at ease. Slipping his wand cautiously from his sleeve, he murmured a quiet Lumos before light spilled from the tip of the wood, piercing through the dark corners and crevices of the extensive foyer.

"Father?" He called out, his voice strong despite the irregular surges of fear and uncertainty. His voice bounced off the walls, hitting his ears once again as an ominous echo that forced the tiny hairs on the back of his neck to stand erect.

A cool sweat broke out on his forehead as he broke free of the spot his feet were seemingly rooted to the marble floor. The soles of his shoes clicked with each step, the sound reminiscent of the pitter patter of the droplets of blood on the wooden floor. His breathing came out in harsh pants as he made his way towards the base of the stairs, taking them slowly at first until his fear for his father got the better of him and he sped up, charging up the stairs three at a time with a speed that could rival that of the golden snitch.

The never-ending labyrinth of halls and doors of his childhood home had never been so daunting at any moment in his life up until now, as the meagre light spilled from his wand, its intensity flaring in sync with the continual spikes of fear that shot through his veins with each pulse of blood.

The more steps he took, the more it seemed that the corridors narrowed, the light dimmed and his head spun. He was wrenching open door after door, only to be greeted by the familiar black emptiness of the vacant space with no physical sign of his father. He continued in his pursuit until he swore he was passing the same portraits, encountering the same ornaments and throwing open the same doors as insanity slowly crept upon him, thoughts becoming louder and louder until his mind screamed at him.

Exhausted and overwrought, his legs collapsed beneath him, shaky with the effects of adrenaline. He toppled unceremoniously to the carpeted floor, knees scraping across the fibres so hard he was sure he would be left with considerable carpet burns, not that he cared much. His wand rolled from his palm which had relaxed from its tight coil around the wood during his fall in a vain attempt to brace himself.

He hadn't the faintest idea which room he had stumbled into, nor did he care. His legs remained unresponsive and his chest heaved irregularly in sync with his breathing, eyes fixed on the dwindling light that spilled from the tip of his wand, slowly dying until he was left immersed in the suffocating hold of the darkness once more with nothing to remind him of his existence but the pain shooting from his knees and the musty smell of the carpet.

He lay still for quite a while, strangely relaxed with absolutely nothing to divert his attention. The blankness of his mind and absence of thought which had once left him feeling lost had never been so welcoming. With his ear pressed firmly to the ground, he could hear the rush of his own blood and the beat of his own heart like a metronome. He marvelled at how strong and fast it was, beating as though it were trying to escape from the confines of his chest, gradually slowing as his breathing deepened.

He could feel the tension slipping from his muscles like hot butter, and just for a moment, he was the closest to serenity as he had been in a very long time. His eyes fluttered shut, making little difference for the room was shrouded in darkness anyway. His palms swept slowly across the prickly fibres of the carpet beneath him, eagerly drinking in the simple sensations as if it were the last time he would feel again.

For a fleeting moment, he contemplated never leaving. In this house, in this room, in this precise moment, there was nothing at all that he needed to worry about. But he knew that as soon as he stepped out of his little sanctuary, he would become overwhelmed with the tension and stress that constantly wore him down. In here, it didn't matter that he had a forbidden love child due in only four months. It didn't matter that the Dark Lord was beginning to turn his back on him. It didn't matter that he was ravaged by the dichotomy between obsession and revulsion that his inner conflicted had created.

Nothing mattered, and so for now, he simply existed, his only thoughts being of the steady flow of cool air in and out of his lungs.

He lay peacefully still, as one would in death's loving embrace. The frown that seemed perpetually engraved into his harsh features relaxed, the deep lines erased. He treasured each second as it slowly bled into the next, clinging desperately to the fleeting wisps of peace he longed to behold.

~*:*~

He watched her for the longest time, shrouded in the sanctuary that darkness offered him. Though his every muscle ached and trembled with the aftershocks of his torture, he daren't move in fear that he might disrupt the scene before him. He could've looked upon her for an eternity should a higher power allow it, and would happily resign himself to such a blessed fate.

It was often said that beauty was found in sadness, and while it was torturous to watch the whirlwind of pain and grief that she so elegantly endured, he found that he could not tear his eyes away from such a divine, beguiling sight that could enchant any person that might happen upon her.

The luminous streaks of golden paint that portrayed sunlight kissed her ivory skin lovingly as she basked in the warmth it gifted. Her hair had fallen from its usual, neat updo in her state of despair, soft waves of vanilla blonde hair falling carelessly, some pooling on her bare shoulders - the sleeves of her dress having fallen, the fabric hanging limp down her arm - while the remaining locks caressed the bare skin of her upper back.

She could not see him from his hiding place, concealed by stray furniture and cloaked in layer upon layer of darkness. Her bright, lustrous eyes had been shielded from his view by her eyelids, seemingly concealing the waves of anguish in which she was drowning. In actual fact, he would've thought she looked peaceful, bracing herself with her arms as she reclined on her stone bench, never moving. The only thing betraying her true emotions being the occasional tear that dripped delicately from her eyelashes, skimming the apple of her cheek as it fell, and the rare, choked sob that she tried so desperately to stifle.

An angel full of sorrow.

He was overwhelmed by a sudden surge of dizziness, causing him to lose his balance. He swayed and staggered, trying desperately to regain some sense of direction and control over his body, but it was inevitable that he would crash into some unsuspecting item of furniture. The legs of the small cherrywood end table with which he had collided screeched in protest as the force of impact pushed it backwards.

He clutched at his cane as if it were his only lifeline, his head still spinning with the unexplained bout of nausea and vertigo. He cringed to himself as the sound of her steady inhalations of breath paused.

"Lucius, is that you?" She whispered softly, her voice steady in order to carefully disguise the grief she carried with her.

Without a word, he slipped from the solace that the shadows offered him and into the probing yet meagre light of the moonbeams that filtered through the small windows. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, reaching her eyes. Though it was a small smile, it was a smile nonetheless, one which he would take and treasure.

"'Cissa, what is it that troubles you, my dear?"

"You're here." She whispered, almost as if she were unbelieving. "You're safe." She continued, her eyes crinkling with the smile that graced her features forcing the lingering tears to be expelled.

"Of course I am, you silly, silly woman." He admonished her gently, breathing a sigh of relief that it was nothing more concerning. "Where has all this come from? The Narcissa Malfoy I know wouldn't distress herself over something as trivial as this. Is there something more you wish to tell me, my dear?" He asked carefully, leaning his weight inconspicuously against the old fortepiano as his legs muscles started twitching violently.

"It is trivial." She agreed. "But when you have nought to do but constantly dwell on what horrors that man might be inflicting on your husband or even your son, it really grinds down on you." She explained. "Each time you leave, I am left to wonder whether I will ever see you again. Then each time you return, you look just that little bit worse. What makes it hurt is that there is nothing I can do but sit here in this. . .this damned garden and watch you waste away in front of me!"

Lucius cringed inwardly. He wasn't a man who liked to resort to talking about his feelings. It made him feel awkward and wrong within his own skin, but most of all it made him feel vulnerable and weak.

It was a rare occasion during her life when Lucius would actually talk of frivolous things such as love and devotion, and it became even more scarce after her death. He would never speak of how much her death really affected him, he would rather have his tongue torn out with hot pincers.

Instead, he would wake in an empty bed each morning, battling a little harder as time progressed to beat down the deep pang of longing he felt for her. He would bury such thoughts and force himself through yet another day, feeling as though he were trying to run through wet cement with all of the insignificant trivialities he was resigned to endure without her. Then, when he had nothing more to divert his attention and crawled into bed late at night, he would allow himself to be just a man who grieved for his wife in the privacy that the darkness of his home offered.

"I. . ." He started, the words he wished to say dying on his tongue. He wet his lips and took a deep breath before trying again. "You do more for me than you realise, Cissa." He said quietly, taking her silence as incentive to continue.

"I am a selfish man. When the Dark Lord asked me to destroy your frame, I found that I could not. Only now do I realise that it was cruel of me to deny you a reprieve from this depraved way of life in the hope that having some physical part of you may lessen my pain somewhat." He paused, horrified to find tears filling his eyes. He pushed through the room towards the window which he promptly threw open, allowing the air to rush across his face, only to feel a deeper sadness - if it were even possible - at the sight of the same stone bench with the intricate vines carved into the legs, sitting in the same flower garden.

But from this view, the sun wasn't shining, the flowers weren't in bloom. The roses had died, the orchids had shrivelled and the wisteria tree had shed its violet petals. But more noticeably, the bench with the intricate carvings was empty, with no angel with flowing blonde hair to smile warmly because she was gone, and with her, his heart, sanity and will to live.

He turned away from the window and started back towards her frame, reaching out to place his hand flat on the canvas to mirror hers. He detested the papery feel of it, wishing desperately that he could feel the smooth silkiness of her warm palm instead of the coarse canvas where her hand strained to reach his. Words could not adequately convey his ardent, impassioned and heartfelt yearning for her; his best friend, lover and wife.

A single traitorous tear betrayed him, escaping his eye with a blink.

"But you are my sole comfort in this world, you provide me with some respite from its evils and I cannot let you go because I fear that I would foolishly try to follow. I need you, Cissa." He finished weakly, the blood rushing from his brain in one warm sweep that left him feeling dangerously lightheaded.

She shook her head, delicately arched eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"You cannot possibly think to. . .to. . ." She stuttered, too perturbed to even consider the notion.

"I know you must think me weak and cowardly for even allowing such a concept to seem justifiable. But I have long outlived my purpose-" He began to explain coolly, trying to refrain from showing too much enthusiasm at the idea of offing himself.

"What of Draco, have you forgotten about him? Lucius, you must know how this will tear him apart!" She protested vehemently.

"Draco doesn't need to be coddled, Cissa, by me of all people. He would be far better off without the Dark Lord's unspoken threats regarding myself hanging over his head." Lucius scoffed in return. "His life would be far easier if he needn't ensure he didn't so much as breathe out of turn in order to spare my life." He continued flippantly, without fully comprehending what he was saying. His mouth seemed to be moving without his approval which was most uncharacteristic of him, his vision was distorted and he felt dangerously lightheaded.

"That aside, you must realise that he will destroy himself without you! Lucius, please don't do anything you might regret!" She beseeched him.

"There will be nothing to regret, Cissa. My heart has slowed, it feels heavier every day." He confessed quietly. "I know something has been ailing me for quite a while and combined with all of the 'duress' I have been put under by the Dark Lord, I do feel as though my time is fast approaching."

"You must hang on for our son, he has nobody else! You cannot think to leave him alone in this world where that beast of a man can twist his mind until he is no longer the little boy we raised."

Lucius' world began to spin around him, alternating between the dull moonbeams and the unyielding darkness until he could no longer discern which way was up, down, left or right. Every muscle tensed painfully and he crumpled to the floor gracelessly with a resonating bang, his body spasming violently.

The last thing he registered before unwillingly surrendering to unconsciousness was the anguished cry that spilled from his angel's lips, her hand still spread flat against the canvas, waiting for his.