CURSED: FROM THE BEGINNING [D.M]

-(30) he could have no part in all of this

DRACO nearly turns back and runs to his room twice over. But he can't. He has to do this. He has to or he risks dragging Zilliah into this mess. So keeping one foot in front of the other, he treads through the snow, his mind whirring away.

His first task- the Vanishing Cabinet. Even finding it in that huge room of rubbish was a task in itself and it took him three whole days. With that, he thought that half his job was done- but no, it was just beginning.

The fixing of external damage was simple enough and he got it to look as a brand new cabinet in just a single day. But there was something wrong with the magic in it. Something internal. Every last attempt, every last spell and every last book he sought failed him from figuring out the issue at hand.

But he didn't give up. He couldn't. Because if he did, he would have had to think about his other task. The one where he has to kill Dumbledore. Just the mere thought of it always sent him into a state of panic. He couldn't do it- atleast, not then. So he picked himself up from the floor and pushed on.

Two whole months he had spent on fixing the magic of the cabinet without any result. Two whole months where Voldemort grew impatient with Draco Malfoy's futility.

He had been called back to the manor last week- the first week of December.

Voldemort had used the Cruciatus Curse on him again and it was the same like before- excrutiatingly painful. But he didn't try to block the pain with Occlumency. He had let it wash over himself, coat him in a layer of it's own. He felt like he deserved it. Alas, all he had been is a failure.

He remembers the scene ever so vividly in his mind. And he replays it over so as to give him the push he needed.

"I'm trying hard, my lord", he had rasped out, the intensity of the pain holding him to the ground even after the curse was lifted off of him.

"You're not trying hard enough", Voldemort had hissed straight back, cruel eyes set on him as he hovered above. "You're just as useless as your father. Maybe I should bring in someone else."

He strode away to the door of the drawing room and ordered the Death Eaters behind it to enter. Corban Yaxley and Linden Emerson walked in. Draco had felt his heart strain even further.

"Linden", Voldemort murmured, rounding about on the sturdy man who did not have a flicker of emotion on his face. For a split second, his gaze had fell on Draco who was sprawled upon the floor on all four limbs, and then it was fixed straight ahead. "My ever faithful Linden."

"Yes, my lord. You wished to see me?"

"Yes Yes. You see..", Voldemort coaxed, placing a hand on the back of his neck. "Mr. Young Malfoy here had been assigned a task of extreme importance but it turns out he is just as incapable as his father." A momentary snicker from all three men as Draco felt nothing but disgust and disappointment grow in his guts. "I'm afraid he might need some assistance."

"How can I help, my lord?"

"See now, it's not you that has to help, Linden."

Draco's heart dropped then- and he could remember hearing Linden's too. "Then?", the man forced out but from the hitch in his breath, it was clear that he had already known.

"Your daughter, of course", Voldemort had said simply like it was the most normal thing there is, walking back upto face him with a smile- a subtly threatening one. "What was her name again?"

"Zilliah", Yaxley was the one to respond, a disgusting smile plastered across his face. Draco had felt the instant desire to beat it off of him. "Zilliah Emerson."

"Zilliah?", Voldemort asked, bringing a hand to his chin, thinking. "Sounds familiar, her name. Have I ever seen her, Linden?"

"No, I'm afraid you haven't, my Lord", Linden responded even though something in his voice had made Draco think he was lying. But neither Voldemort nor Yaxley seemed to catch upon it.