Chapter 1. Draco's Error

Disclaimer: Neither the wonderful Wizarding world, nor Middle Earth, nor the characters thereof, belong to me.

Hey! So I thought I'd try writing a crossover for the first time, though I am aware that I still have two other stories that are very much unfinished. I'm not abandoning either 'Vois Sur Ton Chemin' or 'Out of the Woods', I promise! I've just been busy (See author's profile) and thought I'd post this to get back into the swing of writing.

Hope you enjoy!

AND ONE MORE THING, just in case this is an issue: Potential trigger warning.

Draco Malfoy was losing his swagger.

Despite his position as a prefect, the Slytherin sixth-year no longer walked so insolently through the corridors of Hogwarts. He was increasingly seen without his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, who were often nowhere to be found. Sometimes, when he knew the corridor was deserted, the haughty chin drooped a little, and his grey eyes, always wary, became fearful.

The truth was that Draco Malfoy was scared. Far from giving him confidence, the Dark Mark on his forearm had become like a heavy weight pressing down on his peace of mind. He could never forget the pain as it was burned into his pale skin, or Voldemort's red eyes looking into his as he claimed the boy as his own.

Draco had no illusions as to what this meant. As a naïve fifth-year, he had prided himself on his indifference and disdain towards the Mudblood population. But the Christmas holidays had been the worst few weeks of his life. He had already lost count of how many Muggles he had been forced to torture. And if he couldn't even torture a few…animals… then how was he supposed to cast the Killing Curse on the greatest wizard he would ever know?

Draco was worried that the strain he was under was showing in his face. The face that stared back at him out of the mirror in the mornings was looking thinner and paler than ever. Nervy. The adjective sprang to mind. Lately, he'd started imagining noises that weren't there. Once, he could have sworn he'd seen a pair of tennis-ball-shaped eyes gazing at him from the corner of his eye, but when he spun round, they were gone.

It was after that shock that he first encountered Moaning Myrtle in the boys' bathroom on the sixth floor.

Leaning his forehead against the grimy mirror, he began to cry in hysterical, shaken sobs that shed no tears and could have been mistaken for laughter. At first his hands rested on each side of the cracked sink, but he needed to lash out at something, even himself, so he recklessly turned on the hot water tap and shoved his hands under it.

In a few moments, however, he pulled his hands back with a small yelp of pain. He stared at them, noticing that the normally pale skin was now red.

"So there we are," he said aloud, with a shaken little laugh. "I can't even hold my hands under boiling water for more than a few seconds, and I'm supposed to kill – "

He stifled the thought before it could go any further. He was afraid that even in this deserted place someone might find him out. This was what was slowly driving him mad – the need to watch every thought, every word, every action.

"Kill who?"

The owner of the voice had floated out of a nearby cubicle and paused, suspended in mid-air, eyeing him curiously. It was a short, squat female ghost with a pointed face and small eyes half-hidden behind thick, pearly spectacles. Her pale, lank hair had been gathered into two long pigtails that streamed over her shoulders. Draco had heard about Moaning Myrtle, the gloomy ghost of a Hogwarts student who haunted the girls' bathroom on the first floor. But he had never actually seen her in person.

"Kill who?" the ghost insisted petulantly.

"Nothing…no-one," muttered Draco, turning away and cowering over the sink. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, so he focused on trying to make them stay still. After a while, he felt something cold and insubstantial brush his cheek, and gave a start.

"Don't be afraid of poor Myrtle," crooned the girl, her transparent face very close to Draco's own. "She might be able to help you."

"Help me!" Draco laughed. "No-one can help me – no-one – he says I have to do it all myself."

"And who is 'he'?" The hoarse, sibilant whisper was oddly soothing to Draco. "What could you possibly be afraid of, with your shining silver hair and that noble jawline? And so perfectly lovely to poor Myrtle – quite unlike those inconsiderate mortals who…who laugh at poor, forsaken, miserable Myrtle!" Her voice had risen to a shriek, and Draco saw that she was crying insubstantial, pearly tears. He watched, speechless, as, with one more shrieking sob, she dived headfirst into the nearest toilet and vanished with a splash.

"No, wait, come back!" called Draco. "I need – " He finished the sentence in his mind. I need to tell someone, or else I'll go mad.

"Yes?" Myrtle poked her head cautiously out of the toilet. "You were talking to me?"

"I have to tell someone," said Draco rather desperately. "Promise me you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. It could get me killed."

"Killed…oooh, how exciting! And then we could be together for always in my bathroom…." With an obvious effort, Myrtle pulled herself back to reality. "How lucky that you chose to confide in me! I will take your secret to…to the grave! I will never betray you!"

"It's the Dark Lord," said Draco. He had slumped to the floor with his head in his hands. "My father's in prison, and…and I don't give a damn about my father, but I can't…. The Dark Lord took me on as a replacement. He said that if I proved myself…if I did everything he told me to do…then…we wouldn't be completely disgraced. He's made me torture so many Mudbloods…at the Death Eater meetings…over Christmas…their blood on my hands. But it doesn't look like mud. It's as red…as anyone else's. And then…he told me to kill…."

Draco's head jerked up, and he stared at Myrtle with eyes wide and dark with horror. "I can't even tell you," he said. "I can't tell anyone…who I'm supposed to kill."

He got to his feet and stumbled blindly out of the bathroom. "Maybe I'll come and talk to you again, Myrtle," he called over his shoulder; and added, more softly, "if I'm still alive."

One night the following week, Draco was summoned to a Death Eater meeting. Though it was past midnight, he was awake when the summons came. These nights he would lie awake, sometimes until dawn, staring at the dormitory ceiling and letting all the dark thoughts that he suppressed during the day rise to the surface.

He rose silently. These days he didn't bother to undress, but slept in his uniform. He felt too unguarded and unsafe in his pyjamas, and so he never used them anymore, preferring instead to be ready for any summons that might come.

Crabbe and Goyle were snoring loudly beside him. They slept like boulders, so Draco was not overly concerned about waking them. Zabini, Nott and Pike were another matter. Blaise in particular slept lightly, and never snored, so that Draco could never be sure if he was quite asleep. But Draco was light and quick on his feet from long practice as a Seeker. He silently donned his boots and, wrapping his cloak about him, started across the dormitory floor, wand in hand.

He was just passing Zabini's bed when his toe caught on a pile of books on the floor, and he stumbled, treading on a loose floorboard. It creaked, and, to his horror, Zabini stirred and sat up. "Draco…" he mumbled sleepily, the dim moonlight shining onto the other boy's hair showing all too clearly who it was. "Whazzamatter?"

Draco's heart clenched in panic, and all sensible thought escaped him. Instead of answering, he pointed his wand at Zabini. "Somnus."

"What? Malfoy, are you daft? What's going on?" Blaise's voice rose. The Sleep Charm had evidently not worked; they were notoriously difficult to execute. What was more, Draco realised, if not silenced, Zabini was likely to wake the entire dormitory. "I'm…I'm just going to the bathroom." His voice was strained. He had to get to Professor Snape's office so the two of them could go together. The Dark Lord would be getting impatient – and so would Severus.

"Like hell you are. It doesn't explain why you were pointing your wand at me just now."

"There was…a spider on the wall behind your bed."

"It's not there now."

"That's because I got rid of it, you idiot. It was about to crawl on you."

They eyed each other warily in the moonlight. To their left, a quick glance showed that Nott and Pike were beginning to stir.

"You're a Death Eater," said Zabini with absolute certainty. "And there's a meeting tonight. I already knew that from my father. Poor Draco Malfoy, the Dark Lord's youngest, lowliest servant, because someone's father was stupid enough to get himself thrown into prison…."

So they knew. Knew, too, what vile deeds he had been ordered to perform as Voldemort's lowliest henchman. They probably knew (and this thought was too awful to bear) of the times he had been so sickened by the carnage he was inflicting that he had been unable to cast the Cruciatus, and had been himself subjected to it as a result. He hated that their fathers had probably seen him, Lucius Malfoy's son, screaming and writhing on the ground like a common Muggle.

He turned viciously back to face Zabini. "Don't call my father stupid!" he hissed. "You'll never understand what sacrifices he has made to serve the Dark Lord! And I may be the Dark Lord's lowliest servant, but I'm already doing the his work, and doing it ten times better than you could, Blaise Zabini! I'm proud of being a Death Eater, Zabini, and if you can't understand that, then go and live with the Mudbloods!"

He stepped, head high, to the door, and scorning secrecy, slammed it shut behind him.

Snape was waiting impatiently for him in his office.

"What took you so long?" he demanded, black eyes boring into his godson. Draco looked down and didn't answer.

"Idiot boy! The Dark Lord may punish us severely for being late. As his servant you must be constantly at the ready, you must learn this, Draco! You have been spoilt…."

"They know." Draco's voice was soft, despairing.

"Who?" Snape couldn't quite keep the worry out of his voice. "Who know? Draco, tell me."

"Nott and Zabini. They know I'm a Death Eater. They know what I'm doing, where I'm going…. And they all hate me now."

They were now walking at a brisk pace towards the place where the anti-apparition wards around Hogwarts ceased to operate. "Of course they know, you fool," Severus snapped. "And as for them hating you, do you dare to tell me that you have become weak enough to care? Draco, you are Lucius Malfoy's son. You cannot afford to feel or show any weakness, or you will not survive this. Come, take my hand."

Draco pulled back sharply. "I can Apparate alone!"

Snape glared at him. "I am sure you are perfectly able to do so, Mr Malfoy; but to avoid unwanted accidents that could make us even later, would you please take my hand?"

The Potions master's steely black eyes and commanding frown were not to be argued with, and Draco did.

Later that night, emotionally exhausted and aching all over, his silver hair soiled and matted with blood and dust, Draco staggered back up the stairs to his dormitory. This time, no one stirred as he entered. All was silent.

Tomorrow, he thought, another tragedy would be reported in the Muggle newspapers, the neighbourhood watch would double, and a number of wizarding families in rural England would also be among the bereaved. And he, Draco Malfoy, would be in the Room of Requirement, working on the Vanishing Cabinet. Voldemort had looked down at him, sprawled there at his feet, with unutterable disdain. He had promised Draco a gruesome death, from which only the killing of Dumbledore could save him. Then he had swept his cloak around him and turned away, leaving Draco lying there in the dirt, shaking uncontrollably and unable to rise. Dimly he had heard the jeers from the circle of Death Eaters, before Snape had stepped forward and pulled him roughly to his feet. He had looked desperately in his professor's eyes for some emotional foothold, but they were expressionless as black obsidian. Draco turned away.

As always, the morning after a Death Eater meeting, Draco felt as if the blood hadn't washed off properly. He felt as if the people who stared at him in the corridors could see it on his hands and on his forehead. Twice that day he passed Katie Bell in the corridor. Although he himself had never touched her, and she had no way of knowing of his guilt, he felt that she looked at him accusingly.

He did not feel like facing everyone in the Great Hall for lunch, but instead went straight to the Room of Requirement. The sight of the Vanishing Cabinet, still far from complete, made his heart sink with despair. It was an impossible task, and Voldemort had meant him to fail. He couldn't fail…couldn't endure the Cruciatus again. They had taught him, too, other Dark curses – Digitum Sectareo, which severed the fingers from the hand, leaving a bare stump behind; Exta Extracorpus, whereby the victim was disembowelled alive; Dextram Pulvero, which turned your right hand instantly to dust. All these were irreversible. All these might soon be used on him.

He had been kneeling at the open door of the Cabinet, lost in thought, when he heard a loud scuffling noise, and with a start of horror he thought that someone had managed to break into the Room. Panicking, he tried to scramble to his feet, but some malicious force must have been at work – instead, he fell headfirst into the Cabinet, which suddenly had no floor or walls but had become one giant, dark abyss.

His last thought was to curse himself for what a bloody idiot he'd been.

So what did you think? I hope this chapter wasn't too slow! Please leave a review, whether to praise, critique or both - I always appreciate feedback. Next update: I have no idea! It mightn't be for a while, but I am definitely continuing this! Hope you have a very happy Christmas and New Year if I don't update before then.

Oh, and one more thing - This will be mainly book verse as I am more familiar with the books of both series. (Haven't even watched all the HP movies yet!)