Summary

Seventh year. AU from December of DH.
Draco Malfoy has grown despondent, finding that life as a Death Eater is not as glorious as he'd once imagined. His family's reputation is tarnished, the Dark Lord has taken control of their home, and Draco, try as he might, cannot live up to the expectations set for him.

When Harry Potter escapes imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, Narcissa knows that she needs to send Draco away in order to protect her son's life. With the help of a long forgotten Portkey, Draco is sent into the protection of another. As Draco lingers in a strange limbo between the Light and the Dark, events lead him to question his beliefs, cultivate relationships that he never imagined, and learn more about his housemates than he ever expected. Meanwhile, as the final battle draws ever closer, he finds himself wondering if there could ever be a place for him in a certain dark haired Gryffindor's future.

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Important: Although this story is based on Draco's perspective, please note the following, which will help to explain the background to my version and why the plot diverges:

When Harry, Ron and Hermione visit Xenophilius Lovegood on December 28, the events are slightly altered. Xenophilius maintains his lie that Luna is down at the steam looking for Freshwater Plimpies. While the trio are waiting, Harry notices the art on Luna's ceiling (in DH, he notices this much later, while Xenophilius is preparing diner). Suspicious of the dust coating their friend's room, they force Xenophilius to explain, and he admits the truth to them. In exchange for information regarding the Deathly Hallows, as well as their own wish to rescue their friend, the trio head to Malfoy Manor on December 29, but are apprehended by Fenrir Greyback, Scabior and the other snatchers. For this reason, Dean and Griphook do not feature in this story (as in DH, everyone was captured during the Easter holidays).

Relationship Differences: No prior or current romantic relationship between Tonks and Remus. Past Sirius/Remus (unbeknownst to other characters). Past romantic relationship between Harry and Ginny.

Finally: Some smutty lemony stuff will feature early on (or, earlyish... Chapter 8!). More will occur, but not until much later in the story. I've got a sequel planned, and there will be a lot more action there.

Check the notes preceding each chapter for any necessary warnings re: sexual content/graphic violence/torture/etc. At the moment, anything could happen here; I'm working it out as I go!

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Thank you for reading!

Chapter One: Disillusions

The vast balcony on the third floor had once been a favourite place for the family to entertain guests. It boasted a magnificent panoramic views of the manor grounds, offering a glimpse into lovingly manicured gardens, tranquil fountains and bountiful orchards. However, the new guests had little interest in admiring the scenery, and that was one of the reasons – among others – that the upkeep had been abandoned in recent months.

Draco had developed a tendency to come and sit on the balcony when he couldn't sleep, which was quite often these days. He hadn't come here much before the war, especially not on his own. The fact that he'd taken the view too much for granted, that he hadn't come here quite enough over the years filled him with a deep regret, for now it was spoiled. But in some ways, perhaps it was good that he hadn't been known to frequent the balcony – perhaps that was why no one had come across him yet. Sitting outside, his back to the doors which were firmly closed behind him, he could almost pretend that the life on the other side of them didn't exist. Even if the land below him represented everything that they had lost, he could still escape in it, and that was good.

Draco shivered, feeling the early morning frost start to bite into him as he noticed that the Warming Charm he had cast over himself was beginning to fade. Wordlessly, he lifted his wand and recast it, letting himself be cradled by the gentle heat of his magic once more. He felt cold all the time now, and had done for months, even before winter had arrived. Due to this, he had quickly perfected the ability to cast the charm non-verbally. Perhaps he used the charm a little more frequently than was needed, but it was something simple that he could take comfort in. Something that could still feel good when so little did these days.

He cast his eye over the scenery below once more. Twigs poked pathetically from the dry and ruined earth of the flowerbeds, devoid of any life. Stagnant, murky water festered in fountains which sat silent and still, surrounded by browned leaves and other debris that gently rolled over the walkways in the slight breeze. The grass was patchy, thirsty, grey. The only signs of life were in the trees, but just barely. A few green leaves remained, the last reminder of a dying promise. Even though it was winter now, the grounds had never looked this way before. Their magic had seen to that.

Tears gathered in his eyes, not for the first time and not for the last. Once, he'd taken such joy in these views, proudly showing newcomers the beauty of the estate, of his home. Once, his parents had been a constant presence in the gardens, developing a mutual passion for Herbology and landscaping after his grandfather's death, slowly transforming the grounds into something of their own. His first kiss had occurred down there, and the shrubs and trees had witnessed other secrets over the course of his adolescence. Even though he was still underage, even though he was only an heir rather than the lord of the manor, his magic was tied into the place, as was the magic of all of the Malfoys that had lived there before him. But over the last months, that magic had been drawn away, siphoned and redirected for the family's preservation. For how could they refuse the wishes of the Dark Lord, especially when the evidence of their magic lay there for all to see?

It had happened slowly at first, hardly recognisable, but then one day the impact had been obvious, deadening. When he had returned home for a weekend visit one month into the school term, when he had first glimpsed the changed state of the grounds and the dying land had finally become apparent to him, Draco hadn't known if the pain inside him was real or imagined, but he had felt it. Now, it was December, and things were so much worse. The land could give no more, it could only linger silently. Where had the peacocks gone? he wondered, not for the first time.

Draco's presence at the manor this time had been commanded, not by his parents, but by his aunt. He'd been summoned a week before the beginning of Christmas break, and had been here for four tense, sleep deprived days. His attendance at Hogwarts over the year had been intermittent, punctured by regular summoning from the Dark Lord, Bellatrix, and various others. Often, he'd be called away to receive extra training, or to be tested more rigorously by members of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. He'd taken part in various missions, though he normally received minor, secondary tasks, such as stunning and binding Muggles, and searching the properties that they lay claim to for specific dark artefacts. Sometimes, they just called him so that he could be tortured, so that he could be reminded exactly where his allegiances lay, and exactly who it was that decided whether he deserved to live or to die. Eventually, he would be sent back, battered and trembling, through the Floo into Severus's office, where his godfather would be awaiting his return. His father never summoned him, no, never his father, for he was still being punished for his failings two years earlier. His father's status had fallen, perhaps even below his own. He no longer had the right to exert any kind of influence over what happened to his son, and was regularly reminded of this when forced to stand silent and simply watch as Draco was tormented. While Draco shared his name, shared his blood, he had been Marked, and this made him, first and foremost, the Dark Lord's. Lucius was rarely permitted to even speak to his son, and when Draco saw him, he would keep his eyes downcast unless ordered otherwise, his entire being resonating with shame and fear. The stint in Azkaban had caused irreparable damage to the man, but it was this latest imprisonment which had broken him. Sometimes when they stood there, so close together, Draco longed to reach for his father, to whisper something, anything. Other times, he just wanted to reach over and shake some life into the man. Both actions were too much of a risk of course. They would both be punished. And Draco also knew that the man he so desperately wanted to reappear wasn't there anymore.

Narcissa had taken on the role that Lucius could not. Once seen simply as a perfect pure-blood wife, she'd had to adapt to a situation where her husband had crumbled, where he was no longer imposing, and no longer had influence over anyone. It was up to Narcissa to step up and protect her family and the Malfoy legacy as best she could. The new version of his mother spoke with a cold, ruthless confidence, addressing her older sister more obstinately than others would ever risk when dealing with such an unstable woman. Sometimes, however, Draco thought that he could see small hints of the woman that she used to be. She never touched him, no, they could never touch, but sometimes she would cast a soft glance or a tiny hint of a smile in his direction. To any other onlooker, Narcissa would seem to be coping well enough with their situation, but as she was his mother, Draco knew better. While she was fiercely determined to maintain as impeccable an appearance as ever, Draco could see the frays starting to appear. Already petite, she'd lost weight in recent months, rendering her face sharp and gaunt. Her hair had lost much of its lustre, the skin under her eyes bruised from little sleep, and wrinkles hinted in places they'd never been before. He didn't question why she bothered to make the effort to present herself well. He knew already that this was all that she could do to remind herself that she was not yet broken, that she was determined to ensure that their family would claw their way back up from the dregs of the Dark Lord's ranks. And perhaps, it was an unspoken sign to her husband that it was not yet time to give up. Draco didn't know if Lucius had received that message, because the man was well and truly defeated already.

The sun was beginning to crawl over the horizon now, taunting him with the prospect of a world that couldn't be, a world of light and warmth and life. Draco let out a shuddering sigh of resignation and pushed himself to his feet, cracking the muscles in his aching back. He'd had no sleep again, but he'd allow himself a few drops of Pepper-Up Potion to rouse him. His supply had grown low after going with limited sleep for so long, but it was all that he could do for himself. It was time to return to his quarters and prepare for the day.

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The manor was quieter than normal because the Dark Lord was away, and most of his inner circle was absent too. They were on a mission presumably, but Draco was not permitted to know the details. Apart from his parents, only Bellatrix and Wormtail lingered, and if he ignored them, sometimes Draco could nearly imagine that things were almost as they once were. Almost. Lucius had practically taken up permanent occupancy in the drawing room, sitting in an armchair by the fire and staring blankly down at his clasped hands. Occasionally, he would scratch absentmindedly at his Dark Mark with ragged nails, digging into the skin as if he believed he could tear it away. Sometimes a mug of firewhisky would be positioned beside him, and although he'd take drunken gulps from time to time, he maintained his silence. When he had no other duties to perform, Draco would join his father and sit a distance away, various books from the library cradled in his lap, watching the man from the corner of his eye. Lucius never turned toward him.

Narcissa tried to stay away from the man that resembled her husband but was anything but, disappearing for hours at a time and occupying herself with whatever she could. When he was not engaged in menial tasks or roaming the grounds in his rat form, Wormtail hovered, reeking of both desperation and an infuriating smugness for being favoured over Lucius. And Bellatrix explored at her own leisure, taking pleasure in searching out secrets, knowing that Lucius no longer had the power to prevent this and that Draco was too afraid to, until Narcissa would finally find her, ordering in a firm, clear voice for her sister to get out.

Draco had returned home for training purposes this time, and he spent long, terrifying portions of the day with his Aunt Bellatrix as she drilled new, chilling spells into him and duelled with him in the courtyard. The woman had been a stranger to him until two years earlier, as she'd been in Azkaban for most of his life. There was no familial bond between them even now; she did not see him as a nephew, and, beyond acknowledging the title, she wasn't an aunt to him either. Although she referred to Narcissa as her sister readily enough, Draco was simply a tool that needed to be sharpened and refined so that it he could be of sufficient use to the Dark Lord. Bellatrix was a powerful witch but not a natural teacher, and was quick to exact her anger when mistakes were made. Draco was lucky to be both a fast learner and an accomplished wizard, otherwise he would have suffered greater punishment at her hands. Of course, he never managed to emerge from their sessions entirely unscathed; some part of him always ended up bruised, scraped or bleeding.

It was strange to remember now that there had been a time in his life where he had held a desperate wish to become a Death Eater. He had been a naïve fool back then. He had idolised his father, worshipped him, to the extent that he'd been blind to the man's flaws. To him, Lucius Malfoy had always been the epitome of success – strong, intelligent, charismatic, ambitious, feared and respected by friends and foe alike. He had not been raised with the knowledge of his father's background and his role during the First Wizarding War, but when he had learned that the most infamous wizard in modern history considered his father among his most trusted, Draco had yearned to follow him. When his father was captured and imprisoned in Azkaban, Draco had felt so powerless and distraught. So when the Dark Lord's gaze had turned to him, Draco had stepped forward readily to accept his fate, eager to redeem his father's name and also win the man's respect in the process.

The realities of being a Death Eater had set in quickly, however. Many would consider it a privilege to be in his position - to be invited into the Dark Lord's inner circle, and as an underage wizard too - but Draco soon grew despondent. He had received strict and meticulous instruction from his father from an early age, allowing him to be groomed into the perfect Malfoy. However, some vital part of him seemed to be missing, because he seemed incapable of being the perfect Death Eater. He could be cold, he could be detached, he could be cruel. He knew what his place was in the wizarding world, and his ideals aligned with the Dark Lord's cause. But they had given him a mission that he couldn't fulfil, one that Severus had had to carry out for him in the end. Eventually he had come to suspect that the Dark Lord had known all along that he would fail, that this was simply another way to punish Lucius and his family.

During the months that followed after Dumbledore's death he had spent more time among the members of the Dark Lord's inner circle, and had determined that his father had been a fool to swear fealty to the lunatic. Although he agreed with the Dark Lord's sentiments regarding blood purity, he hardly felt the need to support this man's pursuance of his own immortality. At times, Draco believed that it took unwarranted precedence over what should have been the main cause – restructuring and cleansing the wizarding world. Indeed, Draco had been raised within a pure-blood family where he had learned that his blood status was superior to those of mixed or Muggle-based blood. He had been born into a family of the 'sacred twenty-eight' – those remaining pure-blood families – and a particularly noble one at that, and that was something that placed him on a higher platform to other magical folk. He believed that the use of magic should be restricted to those who actually deserved to harness it – those of pure magical heritage – and that the presence and continued integration of Mudbloods into society unfavourably diluted the wizarding population. However, he wasn't entirely certain about the methods that were employed. Perhaps he was weak, but he struggled to support the concept of continuously torturing and killing Mudbloods and their sympathisers, and was more revolted by the idea of raping and enslaving them than anything else. He would find himself wondering - just how far was the Dark Lord willing to go to win this war? And what would come next, once Harry Potter was dead and all of his scum eradicated? Would there really be an ending, a point where the Dark Lord would finally be finished, satisfied? After months and months of the same questions swirling around in his brain, a surprising realisation had surfaced in Draco, arising more and more often despite his attempts to push it back: he wasn't sure that he actually wanted the Dark Lord to win.

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He made the discovery three days before Christmas.

Lucius was indisposed that morning, so Draco had been sent down the stairs and into the cellar to check on the prisoners. The house elves were responsible for replenishing the captives' food and water and controlling the heating in the room, but they needed to be 'checked on' – or more precisely, intimidated – from time to time. With a manic grin playing across her haunted features, Bellatrix had suggested that he go downstairs and 'play' with the prisoners, but not so roughly that he accidentally killed one of them – it would not be wise to displease the Dark Lord, after all. He'd never had much to do with the prisoners after they were caught, though sometimes he had followed the others down the stairs and watched as they were tormented with a sickening fascination, unable to tear his eyes away. Draco had returned Bellatrix's veiled command with a nod, his face bearing no expression, before descending into the cellar that served as a dungeon. Inside, his heart was pounding as he wondered what he could possibly do to these people that could satisfy his aunt without adding to the plethora of horrors that were steadily accumulating and feeding his nightmares.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, quietly. For some reason, he didn't want to make a sound, didn't want to hear the echo of his own footfall as he made his descent. He wondered who these people would be, whether they'd be Muggles, parents of students, members of the Order, or ministry officials. He wondered if they would know him, but of course they would – apart from his hair, which was shorter, he closely resembled his father. His boots made contact with the floor and he stood there a moment, flexing his toes and tensing the fingers that wrapped around his wand, still in his pocket, feeling a small comfort from the smooth hawthorn wood. He let out the breath that he had been holding, bitterly realising the fact that he was trying to comfort himself about the fact that he was expected to torture some prisoners. But then again, he'd always been considered self-absorbed, hadn't he? He needed to move forward, he needed to do this. Eventually, his Death Eater responsibilities would become more demanding, and he would need to be strong if he wanted to stay alive. If he couldn't do this, then how would he succeed with others' eyes on him?

He gripped his wand tighter, seeking that comfort once more, and stepped forward. He couldn't see the prisoners from where he stood, so he would need to move beyond the stairs; the room was L shaped and he guessed that they were against the wall around the bend, as far from the entrance as they could possibly get. He passed the poor excuse for a latrine and wrinkled his nose, reminding himself absently to call for a house elf to clean it when he'd returned upstairs.

"I hear you." A voice rasped through the gloom, startling him. He didn't recognise the voice. It sounded as if it belonged to an old man, but he couldn't be entirely certain.

Draco swallowed and moved forward, feeling stupid for being so quiet, so cautious, for feeling self-conscious even though these people were their prisoners. Theirs? Well, even if he was a pathetic excuse for a Death Eater, he was still one of them.

He rounded the corner, pausing at the junction to eye the two bodies that were positioned against the wall. The old man who had spoken was sitting, leaning over a smaller shape that was curled by his feet. The old man pressed a gentle hand to the back of the other figure, murmuring to them as he tried to rouse them. The person that was lying down inhaled sharply as they woke, pushing themselves slowly upward. The old man lifted his head, staring up at Draco.

"Mr Malfoy. I was wondering when you would be visiting."

Draco stared back at the old man and stepped closer, taking in the lank grey hair and filthy clothing, trying to imagine him without the grime as he attempted to place him. He'd met him before, long ago, he was sure of it. His finger absentmindedly stroked his wand as he continued to think, and that motion helped to stir the memory.

"Garrick Ollivander." He murmured as he realised, finally.

The other occupant was revealed to be a girl of a similar age to him, her long white blonde hair matted, and dirt smudged on her cheeks. Like Ollivander, she was filthy, but apart from a few scrapes here and there, she seemed relatively unharmed. Her large silver eyes blinked up at him sleepily.

"Lovegood." She was one of Potter's, a Ravenclaw student in the year below them. He'd seen her at Hogwarts this year, but he wasn't sure when. It could have been months ago.

"Hello Draco," she said softly, "You don't look so good."

He snorted lightly. Obviously the girl hadn't looked in the mirror lately.

"They've sent him down to remind us who is in charge here, Luna." Ollivander commented, not taking his eyes away from Draco. It felt as if those ghostly pale eyes were boring into him, seeing everything, knowing all of his truths.

"Ah," Luna cocked her head to the side, regarding him solemnly, "Have you done this before, Draco?"

"That's none of your business!" he snapped, defensive.

Perhaps he hadn't been sent alone to torment prisoners before, but the old man didn't need to know it, didn't know that Bellatrix likely expected his attempts to be paltry at best. Even if he had let the other Death Eaters into the school last year, Severus had needed to finish the job, had needed to kill Dumbledore for him.

Bellatrix suspected that he was soft, he was sure, and that was dangerous. She could exploit that. He needed to make sure she didn't.

"He has to do it," Ollivander told her softly, "He knows they'll kill him if he doesn't."

"I've chosen my fate, old man," Draco told him, gritting his teeth, "These choices are my own."

Ollivander gave a short nod then simply gazed back at him expressionlessly. Draco knew the man was disbelieving, but neither commented on this.

Draco had hurt people before, of course he had. He hadn't subjected anyone to an Unforgivable under these kind of circumstances though. There had been that attempt to Crucio Potter in the bathrooms last year, where he'd been practically shredded apart as a result. He had also had ample practice during Amycus Carrow's Dark Arts classes, and during Prefect duty when he'd helped to monitor detention sessions. And then, there had been a few times, at the command of the Dark Lord. But this was different. This was being done in cold blood, with no one standing nearby to make sure he got the job done, but with the threat of repercussions for failure lingering nonetheless. That time in the bathrooms, he had wanted to destroy Potter, and hatred made it easier to cast the curse. He barely knew these two.

"Draco," Luna murmured, "I haven't seen you at school; did you leave for Christmas break early?"

It was strange that she'd noticed his absence at school, but perhaps she was a spy for Potter. "Something like that."

"Ah."

"You'll have to start soon," the old man spoke up, "They'll be checking on you, and if you haven't done enough to please them, you'll be punished along with us. I'd prefer it if that wretched woman stayed away."

"Stop it!" Draco hissed at him, "I am in charge here, not you!"

"You have to do it."

"I know, I-"

"A cutting curse, perhaps," Luna mused, "I think I could handle that."

Draco swung to stare at her, open mouthed. The Ravenclaw blinked up at him, her expression impassive.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"A cutting curse?" she repeated, ignoring his stunned expression, "I think I could handle that, just... not on my face, if it's all the same."

Draco could hardly believe what he was hearing. Luna Lovegood was suggesting her preferred method of torture to him, suggesting curses for him to use on her. And she sounded so neutral, so detached from the situation, as if she was recommending a particular swatch of fabric or something equally banal.

Ollivander sighed. "Mr Malfoy," he said gently, "It's all too obvious that you're not cut out for this task. I really hope that you manage to put on a better mask when the other Death Eaters are near. This type of hesitation will get you killed."

"Of course I'm cut out for this," Draco snarled, "I was chosen, by the Dark Lord himself. How dare you speak to me with such disrespect?"

The man tilted his chin, "Because you don't deserve it, Mr Malfoy."

"You don't know me at all! Incarcerous!" and ropes shot around the old man, binding him.

Not giving himself any more time to hesitate, he let his rage fuel him. He stepped backwards, aiming his wand at Luna, whose eyes had widened slightly at his sudden movements, "Diffindo!"

Three times she was slashed – the first on her shoulder, the second on her upper arm and the third across her stomach, tearing through the fabric of her dusty pink jumper. She let out a small yelp and flinched each time she was cut, then sat there gasping softly, her head lowered as she pressed her arms against her middle. Draco inhaled sharply, his eyes widened in horror.

"And what shall you do to me, boy?" Ollivander's cold voice interrupted his thoughts, "I think you know what you need to do, but I don't know if you've got the stomach for it!"

Draco swung towards him, furious, a small part of him wondering why this was what the old man wanted him to do, but persisting all the same, because he had to, damn it. "Finite Incantatem," the ropes binding the man disappeared, allowing his body to relax slightly; then, "Crucio!"

Luna lifted her head at the words, crying out and scurrying to the side as Ollivander fell to the ground, his screams ringing hoarsely through the cellar as he writhed and thrashed about on the floor. Draco watched, panting as he counted in his head, and when he reached a certain number he released the man, watching as he collapsed and then lay there, trembling. In the process, Ollivander appeared to have bitten through his lip, and blood dripped down from his mouth, staining the collar of his shirt. Draco crashed to his knees, burying his face in his hands as reality struck him and the anger fell away. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could hear the panicked sound of Luna's voice but couldn't make out her words.

He'd crucioed Garrick Ollivander with the very wand that he had made and then sold to him six years before. The man was a genius, his family steeped in history, world renowned. And this instrument, this gift that he had brought into the world, that he had created for a wizard such as Draco to wield, this instrument had betrayed him. And perhaps, it would need to do so again.

"Pliant." A voice murmured weakly.

Draco raised his head slowly at sound of the word, fixing his eyes upon Ollivander, who gazed up at the ceiling, his head cradled in Luna's lap. The Ravenclaw bent over him as she stroked his hair softly, soothingly.

"Ten inches, hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core. Reasonably pliant..." The old man's voice faded to a whisper now as his eyes closed.

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. Was he-

"He's sleeping now." Luna said gently, interrupting his thoughts.

"I didn't-"

"I know," the girl said softly, saving him from having to say it, "You needed to. He knew that, so he goaded you to make you angry, so it would be easier for you. He's normally a very mild mannered man…"

"A fool."

"Perhaps." Luna commented thoughtfully, fixing him with those dreamy silver eyes of hers. His eyes wandered to the torn fabric of her jumper and the blood that had oozed from the cuts. "I forgive you, Draco."

"What?" he tore his eyes away from her injuries, staring at her.

"I forgive you." The girl repeated, her voice calm and steady.

He couldn't believe these two. Weren't they both Ravenclaws? Yet Ollivander had taunted and pushed him, something that many would consider foolish but some would also see as brave. Despite what the man had implied - that torture at Draco's hand was much preferable to that of Bellatrix - he could see little reason for the old wandmaker to do such a thing. And Luna's calm acceptance of her fate... both of their actions had seemed positively Gryffindor. First they'd allowed him – encouraged him, even – to injure them, and now Luna was telling him that he was forgiven?

Draco rose to his feet, feeling shame and other emotions that he didn't want to think about right now. He pointed his wand at them one last time. "Tergeo," He murmured, and watched as the blood cleared from both of their wounds. He fumbled in the pocket of his blazer jacket, emerging with a small bag of dittany, which he tossed at Luna, landing by her feet, "In case you need it."

And then he turned his back on them, making his way out of the cellar as quickly as he could. He hoped that he had done enough to satisfy Bellatrix, because he wasn't sure that he could handle any more, and he wasn't going to stay to find out. He made his way back up to the third floor, and it wasn't until he had reached the balcony and cast a silencing spell around him that he allowed the tears to fall.

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It was the fourth day after Christmas when the course of Draco's life irrevocably changed.