"This is an honour Draco. My own nephew - chosen.." Bellatrix placed a hand on each door and pushed forward with vigour, Draco walked in slowly behind her and Theo and Dumbledore followed behind him. Through the memory there was no smell, but he could still remember how it had instantly suffocated him, like hundreds of rotting carcasses left to soak in the summer sun. He had bathed for hours when he got home, the stench remained with him for several days after. The heat only exacerbated it, choking him with every breath he took. Thick purple smoke emanated from a candle in the centre of the table, its circumference larger than a dinner plate with at least ten wooden wicks which burned and crackled loudly. He presumed it to be some sort of cleansing, or maybe it was purely there to mask the smell - of which it was doing a rotten job. It had taken all his might not to cough, choke, and splutter as he entered and all he had in him to remain upright at the sight - of The Dark Lord, sitting at the head of the table as though it was completely ordinary. Draco supposed even Voldemort had to eat, and had to sleep somewhere and of course Bellatrix would offer her home. If his father wasn't in Azkaban he supposed this could be the drawing room in his manor. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach and he was thankful he had skipped breakfast that morning. Draco looked up at Dumbledore, holding his breath as he watched him take in the sight of Lord Voldemort sitting so close yet so far. His face betrayed no hint of expression that Draco may be able to decipher. The man stood stoically as ever, a calming presence in an otherwise traumatic moment. Theo however, was looking between past Draco and present, as though seeing a Thestral for the first time. His eyes bugged out at the gruesome visage of Lord Voldemort, but held a fire for his best mate who had actually lived this - without telling him.