Draco can't see him anywhere.

From his spot in the corner, crouched between his tired, defeated parents, Draco Malfoy searches the Great Hall for any sign of the one face he needs to find. There is one single person he has to know survived the battle, and that particular dark head is nowhere in sight.

With a gentle tug, Lucius indicates that they are about to leave, but Draco looks at his father in askance. "Can we stay for a few more minutes?"

"No, darling." Narcissa sighs. "We have stayed our welcome, and it's time to go."

Draco glances around the room quickly, scanning for any sign of someone he never thought he'd give a damn about. As they pass through the doors, he hisses under his breath, "Boot!"

Terry Boot gives Draco a scathing look. "Fuck off, Malfoy."

Ignoring the barb, Draco asks, "Where is he?"

"Like you care." The sneer, however, is not enough to mask the way Terry's face blanches. "They moved the middle row into the staff room."

With that, Terry turns away and stalks back into the Great Hall, leaving Draco to process this information. Middle row. The words feel like gibberish to him, some code language he doesn't speak. It isn't until Narcissa covers her mouth with her hand and gasps that he finally understands.

"That poor boy," she says lamely.

For a moment, Draco fears that she knows why he doesn't want to leave, but he quickly realises that he does not care who knows. All he wants to do is run back through the Great Hall and see him one last time.

Draco gets almost three feet away before Lucius firmly tugs him back towards the doors. "No, Draco. We mustn't keep them waiting."

There is no question who 'they' are. All three of them know too well.

One last lingering look at the door of the staff room is all Draco gets as he is shuffled away from the longest, most torrid chapter of his life.

Besides, if anything has been proven in the past day, it is that dead is dead, and Michael Corner isn't coming back.

The procession of students arriving at Hogwarts was drastically different than in past years, Draco noted. The numbers were significantly smaller, but that was not the cause of the disturbing quiet that stole over the black-clad group of youths, marching towards the carriages (there were no boats this year) like a funeral cortege.

Perhaps it was the pair of Death Eaters bellowing at the short-legged first years to keep up with the group. Draco never thought he'd miss that great oaf, Hagrid, but he did that day. Draco knew these two, knew their methods and sick fetishes. The Carrows, Alecto and Amycus, were twisted, ill-educated, and they hated children. Well, they liked children, but more for their entertainment factor. The sight of them made Draco want to get back on the train and flee in the opposite direction — not home, where the Dark Lord was holding court, but certainly not in that bloody castle with those maniacs.

"Get your bleeding arses moving!" Alecto shouted at a particularly small student. The girl looked to have some sort of walking disability and could only hobble at half the pace of a normal stride. "You!"

Alecto strode up to the child and dragged her to her feet by the collar of her robes. "Walk any slower and I'll throw you in the lake for the Squid."

This girl, to her credit, notched her chin up and said bluntly, "I can't, as you can obviously see." She waved her hand at her legs as if revealing some profound fact. "If I had been allowed to keep my wheelchair, I could go a bit faster. That is, if you Death Eaters weren't allergic to Muggle technology and common sense!"

"You'll pay for that, girl. Mark my words."

The students around the scene looked at each other nervously, afraid to interject for fear of bringing wrath upon themselves, as well. Silently, Draco saw Susan Bones hook her elbow with the small girl's, and Hannah Abbott did the same on the other side. And, as soon as it had started, the display was over, and he could finally breathe normally without the fear of drawing attention to himself.

However, that did not stop Amycus from spotting Draco anyway, who had found himself surrounded by a flock of younger students, giving him no cover to hide from their attentions. "Malfoy!" Amycus called.

When the older man approached, Draco stayed the shudder that threatened to surface. "Carrow."

Amycus punched Draco's arm in what he assumed was a playful gesture, but Draco winced. "Life in that fancy palace of yours has made you soft. These little twats should be answering to you."

Unsure how he was supposed to answer, Draco offered, "Depends on the question."

The Death Eater laughed. It was repulsive.

"If you will excuse me," Draco said, looking pointedly at Crabbe and Goyle, who were pushing around some Hufflepuff boy, "those particular twats do answer to me."

He didn't miss the scathing looks sent his way from dozens of students, some of whom he didn't even know, and he wasn't the only recipient of these baleful glares. Tracey Davis, a quiet, mousy seventh-year Slytherin was wilting under the attention. Every one of his housemates, from Daphne Greengrass to Blaise Zabini, found themselves under similar levels of scrutiny.

Soon, Draco sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. He stared straight out as Professor Snape, the new Headmaster, described the plethora of changes coming to the school: earlier curfew, Dark Arts training, a new mandatory Muggle Studies curriculum, and two new teachers.

Though Draco was barely listening, he did manage to catch the highlights, as well as the inevitable outcries of horror that accompanied each announcement. However, one particular change had the Gryffindor table up in arms.

"And in light of the recent influx of new students and the departure of less . . . appropriate pupils," Snape drawled, "all prefect positions have been revoked and will be assigned by merit, not by house."

Draco could only cringe when the Gryffindor table revolted. Neville Longbottom stood, and all eyes in the Great Hall were on him. "Professor, th-that's not fair. There have been prefects from every house for centuries."

"Sit down, Longbottom," Snape said, his voice edged with steel that Draco was happy to not have directed at him.

However, not only did Longbottom remain standing, but he was also joined by four of his housemates. "Neville's right, Snape," Ginny Weasley called out. "You're letting Death Eaters run the school, and now you're handing over the rest of it to the Slytherins."

There were murmurs of assent around the hall, which drowned out Snape's angrily sputtered rebuke at the Weasley girl's slight at his title, but the loudest cries were from the five students standing and shouting at the staff table.

It was the first time he had ever seen detention doled out at the opening feast. He couldn't help but agree with one of the Ravenclaws, who was shaking his head in disgust.

The stench of charred, decaying flesh still lingers in the air at Malfoy Manor — a remnant of the Dark Lord's occupancy. If he sits still enough, Draco can almost hear his late aunt's mad cackling echo through the drawing room as he, Lucius, and Narcissa sit in wait.

Almost on cue, the Aurors walk through the unlocked front door, shouting the odds as if they expect a fight. One of them visibly starts when he sees the three of them, calmly sipping tea that has long since gone cold. Another one of them jabs her wand in their direction and orders them to stand. They comply, of course.

"Who else is here?" she shouts.

"Nobody," Lucius answers evenly. "Everyone left for the battle, and no one returned with us. We are, as far as I'm aware, alone in the house."

Taken aback by the lack of struggle, the Auror harrumphs. "We will be checking, regardless."

"Of course," Narcissa says with a nod. "All the wards have been removed inside the house. You can go where you like."

As the team of Aurors starts searching the house before the eventual arrest they will make, Draco stares at the small, flickering fire in the hearth. A couple of years before, he would've felt like a ponderous twat for brooding in front of the fire, but things are different; life is hard, and the slightly hypnotic properties of the dancing flames transfix him.

Michael Corner is dead, and Draco mourns him. Quietly, but he does nonetheless. Even as they are shepherded into holding cells at the Ministry later that night, Draco cannot take his mind off the unlikely ally he had found at Hogwarts.

"Useless gits," Michael mumbled as the unusually quiet students filtered out of the Great Hall. Even the Gryffindors knew to shut up after five of their ranks landed detentions and the honour of being the first house to end the first day in the castle with a negative points balance. Twenty-five rubies hovered outside the hourglasses as a reminder of that outburst and what it had cost them.

Draco had no love for any one of the Gryffindors, let alone the whole house, but he knew more than most the level of danger the students were all in merely by their proximity to the Carrows. If he had learned anything from his disastrous sixth year, it was that he had no taste for violence.

So, what was he to do with a summons to the newly-appointed Discipline Director's office on the first day at school except comply?

It was with a wary tread that he made his way to what had always been the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's office for his first teacher/student meeting with Amycus Carrow. With a timid knock, Draco entered when he was bidden, expecting to be alone with Carrow. He blinked in surprise when he saw two other Slytherins in the room, eyeing the very foolish Gryffindors from earlier.

"Am I in trouble, Professor?" Draco asked as he repeatedly switched his gaze from his housemates to the nervous-looking Gryffindors.

One of them was Longbottom, and another a girl whose name Draco couldn't remember, as her only defining feature was being joined at the lips with Ron Weasley for half the previous school year. The third was the Weasley girl, and the other two did not ring a bell at all. Vincent Crabbe looked at them with a glint in his eye that Draco had always assumed the larger boy reserved for pastries, and Blaise Zabini looked bored.

"Not at all, my boy," Amycus answered with a laugh that made the hairs on Draco's arms stand on end. "You're here because you know the way things ought to be done. It's time we took some of the more . . . remedial students and brought them up to speed."

Hiding revulsion was a talent Draco had honed by living in the same house as the Dark Lord for two full summers, and it held him in good stead at this moment. "Yes, Professor," Draco agreed, his even tone laced with the barest hint of contempt for good measure. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

Nodding in approval, Amycus barked, "Longbottom. Step forward."

Longbottom did as he was told, crossing his arms defiantly as he stood with his back ramrod straight. He didn't look much like the pudgy boy who stuttered and bumbled his way through school for as long as Draco could remember. Draco could have almost respected it had it not been so stupid and dangerous.

"Malfoy," Amycus said, notching his wand in Longbottom's direction. "Teach these miscreants how the Dark Lord deals with that sort of attitude." The accompanying smile made Draco's belly roil.

Slowly drawing his wand, Draco asked, "You want me to use that?"

Amycus narrowed his eyes at Draco. "Yes, 'that'," he spat. He whipped his wand at Longbottom and hissed, "Crucio."

For five seconds, Longbottom's screams pounded against Draco's nerves, but it could have very well lasted five minutes for all he could tell.

"Now, it's your turn."

Draco gripped his wand until he was sure his knuckles were white in an effort to appear nonchalant. He had never cast a Cruciatus Curse before. Bellatrix had instructed him how to do it and left him alone with a stray dog to practise. When she returned an hour later and the dog was unharmed, he received a first-hand demonstration of the proper method. Draco hadn't been able to stand for the next four hours.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Draco gasped the incantation. Longbottom convulsed and fell to the floor, shouting. His spell did not carry anywhere near the amount of power Amycus's did, but Draco knew that Longbottom was still in agony. Draco closed his eyes and cast the curse again.

Soon, the trio of Slytherins found themselves opposite five now-shaking Gryffindors, with Unforgiveables passing through their lips like so many Shield Charms.

The screaming clawed at something inside Draco; he had to keep himself from retching several times until Amycus finally declared the lesson a success. Two of the Gryffindors looked to be in need of a hospital wing visit, but the sight of blood made Draco dizzy. With a wave of his hand, he said to Blaise, "Take care of that, will you?"

Draco made it to the loo in time to throw up in the sink.

A wry chuckle came from the corner of the room, bouncing off the gleaming granite and echoing in a hideous way. Its owner stepped out from behind one of the stalls, his face twisted into a sneer. "What's the matter, Malfoy? Have you decided that half-bloods offend you, too?"

"Fuck off, Corner," Draco hissed, his breath tasting of sick. "One might question why you're harassing blokes in the loo. Tongues will wag."

Michael's angry smile faltered slightly enough that Draco thought he might have imagined it. "Not even pervs are that desperate, Malfoy." He stepped closer in what Draco assumed was supposed to be a threatening manner. "I know what you and your mates did in there."

Draco shuddered at the memory, unable to hide his reaction. "You said yourself that they were stupid. They got what the professor thought they deserved."

"You make me sick, Malfoy," Michael said, his head shaking is disgust. "You're un-fucking-believable."

Weary from nearly a half hour of listening to pathetic screams and pleas, Draco gritted his teeth and ground out, "Then tell your mates to shut up when they've no business speaking out of turn." With that, he left the room to escape Michael's intense gaze, which was disconcerting in its ability to scratch open old memories Draco would sooner forget.

As the Aurors cut a swath through the house, Draco can hear the tell-tale sounds of furniture crashing to the floor from careless handling. Lucius's jaw twitches, but Narcissa still sits placidly through the cacophony of destruction.

Draco can understand. He doesn't care much, either.

All of them know what the Aurors will find: dark artefacts that have long since been illegal, evidence of the Dark Lord's extended residency, some items belonging to dead Mudbloods in the cellar, and probably a few other things to cement society's new-found hatred for the Malfoys' ilk. But these are merely things, and if Draco knows anything for certain, it is that any attachment that he once held for this place did not survive the war and the prolonged siege from within the house.

There is just one thing in Draco's robe pocket that he hopes they do not find, but it isn't likely to mean anything to anybody except him. It's innocuous enough that they might even let him take it with him to Azkaban.

The first night back at Hogwarts was not the last of its kind. Gryffindors were apparently slow learners, which seemed to be infectious, as Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws soon found their way into Carrow's office. Draco wanted to rail at their stupidity.

It was not the last time Draco found himself administering these 'lessons', as well. Those screams banged around his head for days after each session, even after he lessened the strength of the curses to barely anything. Maybe they were only crying out to spite him. That's what he would've done.

Draco didn't throw up anymore after these sessions, but the boys' bathroom on the first floor was still a favoured haunt to collect his thoughts and composure before returning to the Slytherin common room. After about a month, he finally decided to discontinue this practice when he realised he was being watched.

After an entire year of dealing with the Dark Lord, Draco knew what it felt like to have eyes on him from seemingly nowhere. "Skulking about the shadows isn't very Gryffindor of you," he called to whoever was stalking him, wholly sure it was one of Longbottom's lot. Drawing his wand, he sighed emphatically and added, "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

When his stalker stepped into the light, Draco was surprised to see Michael again, wearing the same sour expression from the last time they'd interacted. "Not very Gryffindor at all, then," Draco mumbled.

"Move it, Malfoy. If you want to be able to walk to your common room, I suggest you leave now."

Draco's hackles rose at this threat. He forced down his anger and reverted to an almost reflexive sarcasm. "Is this what you do with your nights, Corner? Lurk about the shadows until you come up with a decent line?"

Michael stepped closer to Draco until they were only inches apart. "I wait for you lot to leave so I can get them medical attention. Don't assume that you're remotely worth my time."

A heavy lump of something he would later identify as guilt rested itself in Draco's stomach. Since that first night, Draco had made a point out of being one of the first out the door, not wanting to stay around for the aftermath of prolonged torture. Merlin knew he'd seen enough at home.

With a gulp, Draco lowered his wand and tucked it into his robes. More levelly than he ever thought he could manage, he said, "Crabbe, Hawkins, and Bulstrode were in there, as well. Crabbe usually takes about ten minutes to clear out. He'll be by here any minute."

He didn't bother looking back at Michael, but Draco could almost feel the look of shock as he strode away towards the stairs.

Well, at least it's not Azkaban.

Thin lines of dampness trace down the walls of the holding cell, where Draco is kept apart from his parents. He wonders if they might be able to use the other two units they are wasting by enforcing solitary confinement on compliant captives. However, for the moment, he is glad for the time alone and for the utterly ridiculous portrait on the wall casting a shock of moonlight through painted bars.

They hadn't found his little keepsake. Or, rather, they had done and didn't find it worth confiscating after a brisk round of revelation spells. It is now to his captors exactly what it looks like — a slip of parchment with a few things scribbled on it. This, of course, isn't entirely true. It's nothing dangerous. There used to be a particular spell to unlock its secrets, but it holds no more secrets and Harry Potter still holds Draco's wand. And the person holding the other half of the parchment won't be sending any more missives.

So there it sits in his hands, with nothing but the last message sent to him frozen in time. H2G3R1. It's nonsense, really. Michael had wanted information from Draco he wasn't ready to give, and the reply had gone unsent. For a moment, Draco wonders how much amnesty it would create for him had he done what this paper had asked, before he realises he disgusts himself.

Another night of detention left Draco with a dull roar between his ears. He forgot to even pretend to enjoy torturing his fellow students — a fourth-year Gryffindor this time — for Carrow's benefit. No one had been looking at him, anyway. Most of the attention had been on Terry Boot, who Carrow had mentioned being in need of extra credit. Boot had refused to perform the Cruciatus Curse on some random Hufflepuff as commanded, so he received his punishment from Carrow personally. Even Goyle, who was finally on course for his one and only Outstanding mark of his school career, had winced at the sound.

Draco had been so eager to leave that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he was pulled roughly into a darkened alcove. He felt a hand slide over his mouth, and what felt like an envelope was thrust into his palm.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he heard Michael hiss into his ear. "Follow me, and be quiet."

Unsure of Michael's duelling capabilities should he choose to struggle, Draco allowed himself to be tugged into a darkened room in the dungeons. Draco had never gone into it, but he knew a few students in his house who used it to slip out for a quick grope.

Michael's wand flashed, and a soft blue ball of fire cast a glow throughout the room, reminding Draco that he had something in his hand. "What the hell is this?" he mused as he looked over the nondescript slip of parchment, one brow quirked in question.

"A chance to do something decent."

Draco glanced over the top of the paper, expecting Michael's usual sarcasm, but to his surprise, the other boy seemed completely earnest. "Seriously? You really think I would help you?"

If Draco didn't know better, he could've sworn he saw the beginnings of a smile on Michael's face. "There are more of us than there are of you. You cooperate and we might be inclined to not make your life a living hell this year."

"Might?" Draco scoffed, crossing his arms.

"Might."

"Well, now that you've offered that, how could I possibly say no?" Draco said as he rolled his eyes.

Michael's expression didn't change as he regarded Draco. For a moment, Draco wasn't sure if Michael wasn't in some sort of trance, before the latter finally said, "Because I've seen you after. It sickens you."

Choosing his next words carefully, Draco replied, "It does to a lot of people. Your point?"

"Because you've been a selfish piece of shit for as long as I've known you," Michael said bluntly. "This year, you have a chance to be a halfway decent human being."

Anger swelled inside Draco. This one was more of a sanctimonious twat than Potter. With a growl, he pushed Michael roughly against the wall and tossed back his left sleeve. Shoving the Dark Mark that stood out achingly against his skin at Michael's face, Draco said, in a low voice that surprised even himself, "Look at this. Look at it! What does this tell you?" When Michael averted his eyes, Draco shouted, "Look at it!"

They stood there like that for a small eternity before Michael quietly slid from Draco's grasp. "Looks like you've chosen, then. I'll leave you two alone," Michael said softly, his expression tinged with disappointment. However, Michael stopped at the doorway and said, without turning around, "Still recruiting."

After Michael left the room, Draco gave his wand an angry wave, extinguishing the little blue flame, and stalked off to the Slytherin common room. He was relieved that no one was about, and none of his roommates mentioned his later-than-usual arrival.

It wasn't until hours later that echoes of agonising shrieks roughly ripped him from his troubled sleep. A cry of his own bottled in his throat, Draco gave up on a decent night's rest and found his thoughts clinging to one of the few things that weren't about people he didn't care about crying on the floor and robbing him of sleep. He'd tucked Michael's paper under his pillow, hoping a house elf would take it without his fellow Slytherins seeing whatever was on it.

When Draco thought about it, he had no idea what it said. His curiosity overruling his annoyance with Michael, he pulled out the slip of parchment and found absolutely nothing written on it. It wasn't until he had balled it up and prepared to toss it out of his drawn curtains that Draco remembered what Michael had said earlier that night before they parted ways.

Curious more than earnest, Draco touched his still-lit wand to the parchment and whispered, "Still recruiting."

A few random letter and number combinations appeared on the parchment, which made even less sense to Draco than the blankness that had been there moments ago. It took several minutes of close study to notice a pattern to the letters. They no longer seemed so random. G2 H1 R1. Two Gryffindors, one Hufflepuff, one Ravenclaw. Those had to have been the students who were in detention that night. Boot, of course, didn't count, as he had been expected to administer punishment rather than receive it.

Draco could only speculate what information Michael wanted in return. Who was set to dole out punishment? When they left? Who was in the worst shape? He silently cursed Michael's ridiculousness; if he wanted Draco to reply to this, he bloody well should've just said so.

Without knowing whether it would even work, Draco prodded the code on the page and replaced it with a message of his own, hoping Michael would see it.

Ravenclaw git.

After three days, an Auror comes in and tells Draco that he has been deemed a non-hazardous offender and not at risk for flight, so he will be under house arrest along with his mother.

Draco momentarily contemplates asking about his father but thinks better of it. Lucius has been on the Auror Department's persons-of-interest list for years, so it is unlikely that they will overlook both that and his unauthorised release from Azkaban the previous summer.

The house elves are gone, as every valuable asset tied to the Malfoy estate is frozen pending investigation and trial, so Draco and Narcissa work together to mete out a meal they barely touch. It surprises Draco how calming the art of cooking is; its resemblance to Potions makes him temporarily forget the fact that he is cooking his own food for the first time in his life.

Soon, Draco looks forward to these chores. They give him something else to think about besides the slip of parchment that feels like lead inside his pocket — heavy and poisonous against his thin skin. Michael would've found this funny, Draco thinks after finishing the washing up after his third day of house arrest.

The revelation hits him in the chest like a truckload of bricks.

He absconds in his room, grateful that Narcissa will not come looking for him here. They had agreed to one private space apiece, and Draco is grateful for it now. He huddles under the bed covers, still fully clothed, and forces his eyes to close so he can sleep. It's not even half seven, but he doesn't want to be awake anymore.

Of course, he doesn't sleep at all.

Behind his eyelids, spots of colour clash around the face he tries to forget — one with smooth black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, and an omnipresent sardonic expression. A ghostly hand with long, dextrous fingers reaches out to Draco, and without hesitation, Draco takes it. Those downturned lips creep upwards into a slight smile, and all the air freezes like cement in Draco's lungs.

I'm sorry, Draco tries to say, but when he opens his mouth, he hears nothing but screaming.

He bolts upright in bed, only to find that it is his own voice ringing in his ears.

Draco wasn't assigned to detention the night before Halloween, but his re-established prefect position landed him on patrol, instead. His route took him past the Dark Arts classroom at least twice, and each time he traversed that hallway, he found himself peering into shadows in search of his usual tagalong Ravenclaw.

Finally, when he could not spot Michael on his own, Draco hissed, "Corner!"

Almost on cue, Draco felt himself jerked into a darkened cupboard. Closing the door gingerly, Draco cast an Illumination Charm in time to see Michael's form melt into sight.

"Disillusionment Charm," Draco said, feeling ridiculous for not having guessed.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Michael said, his tone lacking the hopeful undertones that it had carried upon their last meeting.

"I want to know what you want from me," Draco replied, holding up the charmed parchment Michael had given him. "Why would I agree to help you if you won't even tell me what it is you want me to do?"

Michael pushed the parchment, clenched fist and all, towards Draco's chest. "All I want to know is who is slated to give the curses." At Draco's look of surprise, Michael continued, "Each person who casts the curse shows similar patterns in their victims. And since Madam Pomfrey isn't allowed to treat them anymore, a few of us have been doing what we can. I just need to know what I'm facing."

Draco's brows shot up in surprise. "You don't want me to refuse to curse them or anything?"

Shaking his head, Michael said, "That wouldn't help anyone." He sighed heavily. "Neville and Ginny have good intentions, but all of this obvious resistance is only landing the lot of them in detention. Look at that fiasco at the welcoming feast!"

Michael's words were one of the few sensible things Draco could recall hearing all year. "The Carrows are twisted. They don't even know who they're dealing with. Snape is as benign as Flitwick next to those two."

His mouth pulling into a taut, stern line, Michael asked, "You know them well?"

"Not very," Draco admitted, "but I've heard stories of what they do for 'fun'." He could tell Michael's curiosity was piqued, but it was only hesitantly that Draco recounted the tale as he had heard from Goyle, the Carrows' nephew.

Once Draco finished, Michael's jaw was hanging open flaccidly. "They fed them their own baby," he repeated when he finally seemed to regain the ability to speak. "They let those lunatics into a school?"

Draco nodded, as he didn't trust himself not to vomit after telling a story that had given him nightmares for a week after he had heard it. More than that, however, an immense feeling of relief came over him that he no longer had to carry the burden of this knowledge alone.

"Thank you for telling me, Draco," Michael said quietly before poking his head out of the room to look for passers-by. Casting a fresh Disillusionment Charm, he slipped out into the hall and left Draco alone.

The idea of Michael calling him by his first name disconcerted Draco. The only people who called him 'Draco' were his parents, the Dark Lord, and a few of the older Slytherin girls looking to catch his eye. Everyone else called him 'Malfoy', but Draco found that he preferred it that way.

Soundlessly, Draco mouthed Michael's name, as if trying out whether to reciprocate the gesture. It felt odd in his throat, but not uncomfortable. Naturally, he would never say it to Michael's face, but Draco would not grant him the satisfaction of being the only one to dare to do it.

Confident that his composure had been restored, Draco exited the cupboard and continued his route down the Dark Arts hallway. The classroom door muffled much of the screaming and crying, but Draco could hear enough that he could almost tell who was serving detention and who was delivering the punishment. Crabbe was there for sure, and one particular shriek of pain he knew belonged to Parvati Patil.

There was another cry, though. This one was a keening wail, which sounded like it belonged to a much younger student. Almost on cue, the door burst open, and out stumbled the crippled girl that Draco had seen Alecto target on the way to the carriages that first day.

Emily Gamp was her name, and she had been a home-schooled student before being forced to attend Hogwarts. She had been sorted into Ravenclaw as a fifth-year, and Draco recalled the students of that house going out of their way to accommodate her disability. He imagined the large, sprawling layout of the castle and the shifting staircases didn't do her any favours, but to his knowledge, she had never served detention before this night, so she must have managed it well enough.

But not tonight, he mused bitterly.

As she fell to the floor, Emily reached out to him, her screams twisting into one single word: "Help!"

Crabbe followed her out of Carrow's office, his wand trained on her steadily. Casting the curse over and over again, Crabbe's face was almost orgasmic as Emily's twisted limbs writhed on the floor like those of a dying spider.

Her shrill cries reached into Draco's psyche and shook loose something he had tried very hard to close off. Slowly, her cries became his, and Crabbe wasn't Crabbe anymore.

Draco stood in front of the Dark Lord, his head bowed in defeat as Snape's hand rested on his shoulder. He could feel the Dark Lord peering into his mind, pulling out memories and feelings from his failed efforts to kill Dumbledore, but Draco made no effort to hide them. It would've been useless, anyway; nobody had that sort of Occlumency ability.

"You disappoint me, Draco," the Dark Lord said with a tsk. "Your efforts were childish and unworthy of the honour bestowed upon you with this task. It is fortunate that Severus is not as weak-willed as you are."

Each syllable he spoke chilled Draco to the core. If all of his worst nightmares had an incarnation, the Dark Lord was twice as frightening as every one of them. Draco learned this for sure on the unfortunate occasion that he had found a Boggart in the broom shed that took the Dark Lord's form, and he had cried in the grass until Lucius found him an hour later and banished it.

"Yes, my lord," Draco replied quietly. "I was unworthy of the task."

Snape's hand tightened on Draco's shoulder, who would have thought it a comforting gesture if he didn't know better. "My lord," Snape said carefully, "I fear I may be partially to blame for the boy's misfortune in his efforts. It was my responsibility to ensure the deed was carried out, but in my over-zealousness to proceed, I may have pressured Mr Malfoy into less advisable courses of action."

Draco was so shocked, he wasn't sure if he did not gasp out loud. Snape tried to cover for him, to deflect the blame. He recalled feeling gratitude towards his prickly godfather, though he was careful not to mention it.

It was all for naught, however. The Dark Lord swept Snape aside and sharply bade Draco to look him in the eye. "Perhaps you were not ready, but we should not look past an opportunity to know a lesson has been learned, shall we, Draco?"

No longer able to still his trembling, Draco whispered, "No, my lord."

"Quite right," the Dark Lord agreed. "Crucio."

Pain that Draco would never find the words to describe drilled its way through every nerve in his body. His own screams hummed in his ears like wasps, and he felt blood seep out of his body from several different orifices.

And, just as Draco was sure this agony would never end, it did.

"Never forget this, Draco Malfoy," the Dark Lord drawled. "Never forget the price of failure in my service."

Emily's floundering body was more than Draco could bear. He turned from the scene and ran as fast as he could until he found himself in the first floor bathroom, just in time to fall to the floor, unable to force air into his lungs.

His breaths came in short wheezes, and his chest felt like a leaden elephant had rested its great haunches on it. He couldn't think or swallow or breathe, and his heart beat wildly against its ribcage prison as Draco tried in vain to cry out for help that he doubted would come.

He barely registered the arms that wound around him and forced him onto his stomach. Strong hands briskly rubbed his back as a disembodied voice murmured for him to breathe. Draco wanted to scream at the voice that he couldn't, that his lungs didn't work anymore and his heart was done for, but as he tried, the words caught in his throat and he choked on them. The flagstones that monopolised his vision began to darken, and Draco closed his eyes.

"No," he gasped before spitting blood onto the floor. He realised that he had bitten his tongue at some point, hard enough to wound himself. "No," he repeated, stronger this time.

His breathing gradually returned as his heart eased to a less torrid rhythm, and Draco felt himself being shifted to a sitting position. The room no longer swam in front of him, and the darkness abated to show Michael Corner's calm face. He was breathing deeply. Draco could not help but do the same, and soon, he was able to sit up on his own.

They sat there quietly, save for Draco's greedy gulps of air, for no less than an hour. Finally, Draco was able to speak. "I thought you were here to help them."

Michael shook his head. "I let the rest of them know they would have to handle it." It was then that Draco noticed that Michael's hands, which had seemed so steady earlier, were trembling. "I thought you were going to die."

"So did I," Draco said honestly. "I . . . I remembered something, and suddenly, my chest just wouldn't work."

"Panic attack," Michael supplied. "They can happen to anyone, but usually, someone either gets them regularly or has one triggered by a certain event."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I know what it is," he said with a bite to his voice. "Just never had one."

If Draco's tone irritated Michael, he gave no sign of it. "A few of the detention victims have had them. Nothing like the one you had, but still really nasty business." Michael shivered. "I can only imagine what brought it on."

"It was him," Draco said coldly. "I was supposed to kill Dumbledore last year, and he doesn't like failure."

"I'm sorry," Michael muttered.

"Yeah."

Silence reigned once again as Draco looked anywhere but at his companion, who was still sitting with barely a hair's breadth between their respective shoulders. He did not understand how Michael could be so calm and collected, when all Draco wanted to do is hide under his covers, his bed curtains drawn tightly, and never come back out.

The damning little puddle of blood, where Draco had lain on his belly, was cleaned up with the swipe of his wand. Looking over himself to make sure he bore no more evidence of his episode, Draco was dismayed to find that his bladder had betrayed him. He shifted to hide the dark stain on the front of his robes, his face burning with shame. To his surprise, Michael turned to him and offered a kind expression that Draco was sure he had never received from anyone.

"It's okay," Michael said softly.

Wielding his own wand, Michael cast a few non-verbal cleaning spells, and Draco felt his robes and pants dry, and the stale scent of urine he hadn't known he was smelling abated.

Draco did not know how to react to this attitude of Michael's, which he could only term as decency, so he soon stood and made his way to the bathroom door. He wanted to leave without saying anything, but something stopped him.

Turning slightly, Draco said, "Thank you, Michael."

This time, the words felt right.