Vonne: Once 'Basket Case' ends, I'm going to need a new story to occupy myself with. Yesterday, I started a new fiction entitled 'Cellar Door', but today I realized that the way I'd begun was not really how I wanted to go with it, mainly because I wasn't sure as to how I was going to write Hermione into the plot. But now, after a little bit more planning, I have come up with a new idea. This is going to be what 'Cellar Door' would have been with a slight twist. So, with that being said, 'CD' has been deleted to make room for this- don't worry, it only had one chapter, and I've used some excerpts from it to complete this opening chapter, as well. So! Please do not hesitate to review and let me know what you think of what I have going so far with this. I'm hoping that it will take off in the same way that 'Basket Case', 'Radio', and 'High Hopes Down' did. Remember that I respond back to all the reviews I get, so please leave me a question in a review and I will have your answer published with the next chapter. I've included a longer summary of this story below, because FF is very picking on character counts at the front page.

Summary: Draco Malfoy's life had been spiraling out of control since he first was pulled from school to live with the Death Eaters. He's an alcoholic mess with a permanent Dark Mark on his arm, a walking zombie whose existence is lived through followed orders and obliging head nods. And his days are spent numbly; he goes through the motions until it is time for bed. But the arrival of the Death Eaters' new captive changes his life drastically. Hermione Granger is living down in the basement, and the Death Eaters have given Draco Malfoy the task of 'making her feel at home'. But will Draco be able to face Hermione? Or will he fall madly in love with her?

"This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that Cellar Door is the most beautiful..."

Chapter One:
Dead Man's Bones

Though the Manor that belonged to the prestige Malfoy's had been hidden, it sat undeniably at the posterior of the massive gate that surrounded it. The vines grew veiny and clustered around the marble white outside, creeping up the sides of the house as if rooting it there to its spot on the ground. Yet the stone pathway kept it beautiful, captivating even, despite the scenery of mysterious wood behind it. It curled up and drew on, drifting off in a graceful manner past the gate, past the vine, and past the flowing fountain in the front, where a delicate white peacock strutted proudly across the emerald green lawn before vanishing far beyond the hedges.

It was a home of beauty, of interest, and wealth; and such assumptions were only further clarified on the inside, as well. Elegant wallpaper lined the corridors, and massive chandeliers hung glistening from the ceiling tops. And the hallways twisted and turned, long and winding as they contorted in a secretive way throughout the lovely mansion. Thus, one in particular lie tucked away, hidden from the rest; it followed the stairs upward and winded around the visible doors of the home that seemed welcoming and warm. And at the end rest the door to one bedroom in particular. The door was small and scratched, far at the back of the house and commonly overlooked.

If ever opened, however, the interior would only show a bedroom, Draco Malfoy's, and a rather messy one at that. And, at the time currently, it had been occupied. The shadows of three lazy figures sparked to life. In the dull blackness, one of the slumped men groaned. The hazy scene around Draco Malfoy swirled, and he was certain that it was somewhere around two o'clock in the morning. Well, remotely certain, at least. It was the numbers on the large clock before him that had made him uncertain. They twisted and twirled outwards, taunting him restlessly and blurring whenever he tried to readjust his eyes and get a more proper look. Still, two a.m sounded about right; the moon was still out and the sky was still dark, but something about his surroundings seemed to blossom, as if the world had just begun to open up into another day. However, Draco's instinct did not stop him from trying to see. He peered at the face of the clock, challenging it, and then, with a sigh, gave up whole-heartedly.

"Goyle," he said with a slur. He lifted his hand lazily off of the mattress of his bed and gestured to the awful contraption in the corner. "What's the clock say?"

Gregory Goyle shook his head. His back was against the mattress as well, and his chin was in the air. He shimmered with sweat and spit, and he looked like an abnormally large bear on the surface of the bed opposite of Crabbe. "Draco, mate, no," he hiccuped, his fingers still clenched tightly around the bottle of gin that he'd been sipping, "clocks don't say anything."

The seriousness in the boy's voice was undeniable, and he stared back at Malfoy as if he had told him something of value, something of true genius. Vincent Crabbe, on the other hand, remained undoubtedly unimpressed. He scowled, far more capable at holding his liquor. Though their drinking nights had not been something out of the ordinary, and Crabbe knew that Goyle always tended to drink too much during their binge sessions. Every night since the three had been pulled from Hogwarts to help Voldemort and the Death Eaters, drinking had become a regular event. And Draco knew exactly where his father hid most of his gin and tonic. Thus, he'd started pulling it up from the cellar, hiding it under his bed and storing it there until later. It wasn't as if either of the boys considered their drinking that of a good time, however. On the contrary, they fully accepted the fact that they were only just drowning in their own blatant misery.

Or, at least, Draco and Goyle had been. The two other boys knew that Draco's reluctance to follow Voldemort was growing. They'd witnessed his restless sleep and heard him up at night, sick in the sink. He had become something of a shell of his former self. He'd stopped feeling. Everything had gone numb. And yet, that did not stop Draco from trying to hide it from Goyle and Crabbe. In front of them, he managed to keep his back straight and his chin up; however, they could see right through his demeanor. Though Goyle only seemed to mirror Draco's feelings, Crabbe had been stern- he'd wanted to follow Voldemort to the end, just like his father.

Still, Crabbe cocked his chin over at Goyle, rolling his eyes. He saw the stupid look on the kid's face, and waited for the last echo of his statement leave the room. "Fuck." Crabbe moaned, running his hand over his head. "Draco, take that damn bottle away from him, would you? He's going to be bloody bungalowed in the morning."

"Oi!" defended Goyle, his fingers locking tighter around the glass like a boy trying to protect his teddy bear, "I've barely had any." It was a lie, and all three of the boys knew it.

Crabbe's eyes narrowed. He picked his upper half up from the bed and supported himself with his elbows. Over the past couple of weeks that he had been staying at the Manor, Crabbe had acquired a bit of muscle to counterbalance his fat. He could have easily pried the gin from Goyle's hands, but instead he hissed back at Malfoy, his eyes vibrant and unmistakable in the night. When Goyle tilted his head back to down another swig, Crabbe shouted, "Draco!"

The room around Malfoy spun. He lifted a wiry hand to his head and peered back at Goyle. "Come on, Goyle," he tried miserably, but his voice was soft with kind understanding. He fidgeted, still finding the strength to lift his feet, "you don't want to give us away tomorrow, do you?"

"I never get hungover, Draco," Goyle replied, swirling the drink around whimsically.

"Liar." Crabbe hissed, his short hair looking sloppy at the tip of his skull. Yet he did not look as smashed as Draco had at the moment. Malfoy, who had kept his blond hair long and shaggy, was only fractionally aware that his head resembled that of a slob. "You never get hungover? Goyle, you're a bloody idoiot."

Goyle's face slumped. He considered the room and he watched Draco as he attempted to lift himself up from the bed again. He was not doing quite spectacularly, either. Each time he strained to lift his body up, he only fumbled back down, slipping and sliding against the mattress. When he finally had his feet on the floor, he leaned back against the wall for support, his knees locked together like a new fawn. Goyle, who had been rather perplexed by the situation, lifted up a thick eyebrow. Crabbe, however, scoffed. "Draco, you too- fucking pathetic."

Malfoy's head jolted up, red. He didn't take the time to defend himself. Instead, he didn't seem to disagree with Crabbe completely. Yet a rather embarrassed expression tainted his face and his humiliation was rather obvious. "Geez, Crabbe," Goyle moaned, flopping his head back and turning away from Malfoy kindly; he let him sink in his embarrassment alone. "Why do you have to be so mean all the time?"

"Because I'm surrounded by two bloody berks." Crabbe said honestly. He was a mean drunk, but he was rather mean sober as well.

Neither of the two sought to defend themselves. Instead, Goyle shut his eyes, oblivious to Draco, who had begun his awkward footing towards him. He scooted past the edge of his own mattress, his fingers cradling the end of his supportively. He looked wonky and unkempt in his day clothes; he had climbed to bed in them and had forgotten to take them off. Yet his awful attire was not something out of the ordinary. Though both Goyle and Crabbe had remembered to change into pyjama shirts, they hadn't bothered with reminding Draco. He was far too much of a mess and it was obvious in the way in which he stumbled forward. He held his hand out, nonetheless, a sad look on his face, gesturing towards the gin bottle decisively.

Goyle's eyes peeked open at the sight of Malfoy's thinly looming shadow. "He's right, you know," slurred the blond. He frowned back at the half empty glass. The thing was a rather big bottle, and he had previous planned on saving it for more difficult nights. "And besides, you're wasting it," he added.

"Bugger off," slurred Goyle, gazing back at Draco bitterly. Malfoy sighed. He and Goyle were rather close, much more so than he and Crabbe had been, too. He knew that Goyle was immensely intoxicated, but so was he and, as much as Crabbe would deny it, he was too. Thus, Malfoy could hardly hold Goyle's annoying actions against him; it was, as a matter of fact, to be expected. He considered letting Goyle finish the bottle off, but Crabbe's glare dove daggers into the back of his skull.

"Goyle..."

"Draco," Goyle instructed, "back away from my bed."

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, utterly baffled. His eyes found Crabbe's. He wasn't exactly sure how to go about the situation properly, and he certainly wasn't about to wrestle Goyle for anything that was made out of glass. Yet Vincent Crabbe did not seem to carry any sympathy for Draco Malfoy. He kept a stern and calm face, turning his head to look at the two of them with aggressive pity. "For fuck's sake, Draco." Then he snapped, "grow a spine."

Malfoy turned his head back, lolling it back over his shoulder to scrutinize Goyle again. His face heated up and he watched the boy cling on to the bottle in his sleep. His eyes were shut, and he could not see the blunt anxiety etched on Malfoy's visage. Yet there was an overwhelming sense of aggravation mixed into his stature, as well. He was tired and drunk; he didn't want to play the parent anymore, and Crabbe was not even helping him. And certainly Goyle was not making this easy. He thought back- usually when Crabbe had started up on them, they would help each other out. Now, all Draco could get was a flash of Goyle's sausage-like finger. "Give it here, Goyle," Draco demanded.

"Get bent- OI!" Goyle had not been expecting Draco to lurch so greedily at him. He felt the bottle be pried from his hands, and he clawed back for it, stumbling off his own bed with a large frown. But Draco had stumbled backwards, perhaps too drunk to be walking either, and collided with the floor. He was lucky enough not to break the glass. Still, he scrambled back up in time to miss Goyle's advancement. Crabbe, he only scowled from his bed. "Draco," Goyle whispered so that he was not heard by the Death Eaters down on the first floor, "you know I can kick your scrawny arse back into next week! Give. It. Back."

Thinking quickly, Draco lunged. Goyle had not made any attempt to pick up his wand, but Draco's fingers found his in defense. He leaned back into the wall, breathing hard, and struck the tip of his wand out back at Goyle. Crabbe laughed, "there you go, mate!" he cheered, a smile spreading across his face.

"Go to bed, Goyle!" stammered Malfoy, his chest heaving up wildly. He ignored Crabbe, who had taken a seat on his mattress. His own fingers held on to his drink that was still half full. He seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. And he seemed oblivious to the danger of the tension. Goyle's expression, however, went dark. He looked sullen and uneasy. His feet stopped moving and, instead, he remained still on the floor of the bedroom. He stopped for a moment, looking Draco up and down slightly; and then seemed to decided that he could definitely take him.

Thus, the large boy stepped back, backtracking before rushing forward like a bull. His eyes narrowed and Draco stumbled back. He flinched, twisting, and then whipped his wand out, his voice a desperate pant, "Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, and Goyle suddenly went stiff. His hands slipped down to his chubby sides and, like a plank, he crashed backwards with a large thud. When he finally hit the floor, he was out instantly.

"Shit!" Crabbe swore, staring down at Goyle. He'd shook the room, and the banging noise was rather impressive. He ran his hand to his skull, setting aside his drink heavily. "Shit!" Draco had slumped to the floor, his legs out in front of him and his eyes wide. He let the bottle gently down to the floor, and his chest had not stopped heaving. "We're fucked!" choked Crabbe, frantically. He jumped from his mattress, staring down at Goyle in a terrified manner. "We're fucked!" He waited- it was the only thing he could have done- and stood in the center of the room dripping sweat. The Death Eaters would come into the room to find Goyle in a tightly wound heap in the room; Crabbe, holding a bottle of alcohol; and Malfoy, slumped up against the wall looking more intoxicated than the rest of them.

His mind thought back to all the horrible things that they would do to them. And he could hardly stand. He, Vincent Crabbe, had been loyal to the Death Eaters. He'd followed Voldemort faithfully, unlike Draco or Goyle. But there was no way that they could overlook something like this. And he couldn't help himself; his shoulders shook, his face falling. He waited for a hiss, for the lock on the bedroom door to turn. He waited to be hexed, or for a dark shadow to block his view. However, nothing happened.

"What's going on?" Crabbe croaked, and turned around.

He spotted the transparent glass door at the end of Malfoy's bedroom. It showed him the path to the house and, additionally, something rather strange at the end of it. There in the dark stood the lot of them- the Death Eaters stood in a circle. In the night they looked like demons, each of them translucent in a strange way that made them horrifying and irregular. The Malfoy's beautifully white peacock strutted past them, but it went utterly unnoticed. In the night, something else struggled against their grip.

"Draco," whispered Crabbe, stumbling forward and away from Goyle's unconscious figure. He delivered a harsh and spiteful kick directly into Malfoy's boney side. "Get up," he croaked drily. "Look." Malfoy's chest lifted and fell. He didn't move. Instead, he stared back at Goyle; a perplexed expression took over his features. "Draco," he heard Crabbe say to him again, aggressively. When Malfoy did not move, he felt Crabbe reach down. The boy's meaty claws grabbed at his collar and Draco stumbled back up to his feet. He leaned against the wall of his room, feeling ill, and felt dizzy when he was pulled back towards the shiny window.

Crabbe pudgy finger jabbed towards the glass. "There's a girl," he said, "there's a girl in the garden."

Malfoy peered out. He was right; struggling against the clustered Death Eaters was a female figure. She was slender and frantic and bloody. Her brunette hair was a mess, but Draco could help but think her to be pretty before he coughed out, "Hermione Granger?"

Crabbe nodded. "Looks like they finally caught one of them." His voice, however, was not grim. Hermione's capture had preoccupied the Death Eaters. They had not noticed Goyle's fall, and Crabbe's mood was subsequently lifted. The capture of the Granger girl seemed to be a joyful bonus. Nonetheless, he smiled with satisfaction. Draco, on the other hand, felt a distinct churning in his stomach. "She's going down to the cellar, you know," Goyle informed him happily.

Malfoy's face paled. He remembered the long hallways of his house, and the one particular corridor that made his stomach ache. It was one that was dark and daunting, it jolted off by the fireplace behind the living room, cut off by the bulk of a simple white door whose surface had been decked with scratches. It was perhaps the only obvious imperfection about the house, and something about it was chilly and hushed. It was a door that had never been opened until the likes of Voldemort and his Death Eaters had occupied the home. Since then, it had been posed there as nothing more than a blatant threat.

Yet it was not a rare occasion in which one sorry soul did find themselves stumbling down that very hallway and facing the white door in agony. They'd disappear for days, weeks, months even, before making another reappearance among the Death Eaters again. And, until then, their absence was commonly unspoken of. Hours carried on as usual, and demeanors remained fairly casual; when time came for the cast out being to make himself present again, even he opted to keep his mouths shut.

"Filthy Mudblood," spat Crabbe. But the Death Eaters resumed in their step. They lifted a wand to her throat and she cried out. However, their spell worked; at the instant, her body collapsed forward. She went limp and, crumbling downwards, she was unconscious before she had time to make for an escape. "I'm guessing its not long until they get Potter and Weasley," Crabbe continued. He watched the Death Eaters direct her unconscious body away and his expression lifted. "How long do you think she'll last down there in that Cellar?"

Malfoy flinched as Crabbe nudged him in the ribs. He felt sick with intoxication; he felt sick with something else, as well, but he wasn't entirely sure what. "I dunno," he mumbled.

Draco Malfoy had been watching the white door with a careful eye ever since Alecto Carrow had been locked up down there. He'd remembered the afternoon vaguely, but he could never forget the way that the stout woman had been seized. She was lifted squirming from the living room by Yaxley, whose strong fingers had her held upwards by the neck. He, Draco, was supposed to have been asleep, but the loud arguing downstairs had woken him from his dreams. Thus, he'd slipped past the bedroom that he'd shared with Crabbe and Goyle, and held his breath as he wandered down the hallway of his own house. Yet he'd made it just in time to see; Alecto had been thrown from her seat at the nod from Voldemort, her visage glistening in the orange-red light of the fireplace, and dragged kicking and screaming by the roots of her unkempt hair. He'd watched in terror as she'd been shown the cellar door, felt his heart beat faster when Yaxley had hissed, "Alohamora," and heard Alecto cry out, but could not see what she had seen beyond the threshold. Nonetheless, she was led downwards, past the doorframe and out of sight.

But Alecto was not the first, and certainly had not been the last. Almost traditionally, Malfoy's nights would be spent sleeplessly. He could hear them, could hear their cries and bangs as they pounded up against the cellar walls. When their fellow Death Eaters would clamor down to them at night with their poorly proportioned dinner, he relished in the fact that, for a moment, they would be silent. Yet when the captives were greeted by the likes of an angry visitor, Malfoy would be once again awoken to the sound of, "Crucio!", and even at seventeen years old, he had to hide under the covers.

Outside the scene seemed to shift. Hermione was led away and the two conscious boys heard the front door of the Malfoy Manor slam shut. A scoffing of feet slid against the floorboards and Draco was certain as to where the Death Eaters were heading. The Cellar Door, it was the room directly under the floor from Malfoy's. He could hear everything, he could imagine everything. And as he stood waiting, his ears were filled of the creaking door as it was pulled open. He heard the hollow steps as they descended, and tried to keep his footing when he heard them shove the girl's body in the corner.

When he lost his balance, Crabbe's mood was too far lifted for him to express concern. "You're bloody drunk!" he said, proudly. "Atta boy!"

But Malfoy was not proud of himself. Eventually, when Draco's head couldn't truly take any more of being conscious, he felt that he was finally going down.

And thus the feeling of loss sunk in. He stared at the pile of Gregory Goyle at his feet, glanced back at the top of the stairs, and heard the sounds of the door closing again, of Goyle's breathing.

He realized dizzily that he couldn't feel his chest, couldn't feel his legs, couldn't feel his head. And he remembered the Cellar as the ghosts of his childhood past danced around him fleetingly. But he was not a child anymore; as a matter of fact, he didn't really know what he is. Perhaps he ws a pile of lanky flesh; or a concoction of lungs, liver, and a heart. Perhaps he was a collection of molecules, or a figment of someone's twisted imagination. Perhaps, out of all things, he was a set up of nothing more than bones.

He didn't pass out, but instead remained conscious. With his hands at his skull and his feet on the floor, he considered that fact that, it is only a matter of time until both he and Hermione are dead and buried, and the thought sickened him.

And, with that, he asks himself: what will he will be then?

Vonne: Please review!