"Pansy, Pans, what did you do?" Draco whispered. He could barely see her through the tears in his eyes, but he could feel her. The blood matched the color of her lips. It stained her white blouse, drenched her hair.
Draco knelt down, nearly slipping on the slick marble floor but catching himself at the last second. He fumbled around her body, lifting her head to check her pulse.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Draco couldn't breathe.
Pansy. Pansy. Pansy.
Why?
He felt something.
It was too slow. She wouldn't make it to St. Mungo's. Was he even allowed to take her there? What would He do? Draco couldn't be punished, not again. Not if he didn't want to end up like Pansy.
Draco was hyperventilating. He couldn't see, tears were blurring his vision, panic clouding his brain.
A small part of Draco, the part that reminded him to study for school tests even in the midst of war, the part that forced him to keep smiling even when he couldn't breathe, for his mother's sake, for his friends.
The part that was now telling him to calm down. He was wasting precious time. Pansy was dying.
Swiftly tearing his robe, Draco tied the strips around her wounds, tight enough to stop the circulation, apply pressure, and slow the bleeding.
"Accio blood replenishing potion!" he yelled, voice shrill. He listened to the sharp crack! of the glass as it slammed into various marble pillars and walls on its journey before zipping into his sweaty, waiting palm.
"Rennervate," he hissed, and Pansy's eyes snapped open.
She promptly screamed.
"No, hush, Pans, shh," he crooned, hating himself for not bothering with a bloody numbing spell beforehand. He quickly cast one, then forced her to drink the potion. She kept choking and gurgling, and he was forced to sit her more upright, jarring her legs, and she choked and gurgled some more. "Dammit, Pansy, drink the sodding—yes, just like that, swallow—yes, yes-"
"What," Pansy croaked, jaw a loose mess due to the numbness spreading through her. "How...?"
"I found you here, like this. I need to go." He swallowed. "I need to find a spell to heal you up, I'll be right back."
Pansy, eyes widening in horror, attempted to clutch at him, but her numb body wouldn't cooperate. She began to panic, her pulse picking up, her breaths shallowing.
"Pansy, hush, I'll be right back-"
"Don't leave me here," she whispered, face white with terror. "He might be waiting for me-"
"He's out right now, Pans, He won't be back for another few hours. He took the other Death Eaters and-"
"He didn't want me to leave," Pansy whimpered, tears finally falling. "He heard me t-talking to Mum and He didn't want me to leave, Draco, He-"
Forcing her hands off him, he fled to the Library, ignoring her terrified cries, her pleas to not be left alone.
"I'm losing time," he told himself, convincing himself. There was no time for coddling or doubts. "This is to save her. I'll comfort her later."
That, and a dark part of him couldn't help feeling that the Dark Lord had already chopped off her legs, she was useless to Him dead or alive.
Served her right for being so bloody stupid.
As if there was any other life for them than this.
As if they made a difference. As if they mattered.
Draco sprinted to the library, pumping his legs, ignoring his protesting lungs and arriving in record time. He Accio'd all books revolving around Healing broken legs, then revised his search to books on post-amputation. He grabbed one with the spell he knew he needed and sprinted back down the stairs.
He risked a shortcut and leapt over the railing, flying to the floor with a single leap and dashing to the foyer where Pansy still lay, unmoving. Draco didn't bother waking her, or checking her pulse. He wouldn't. Couldn't.
Draco removed the cloth tied on her stumps, flinching when rivulets of blood poured onto the floor from the gaping wounds.
Pansy's body spasmed, and he set to work.
He cast a spell to taper her blood veins and then used the most powerful sticking charm he could muster to force the wound closed. He tied the hanging pieces of mangled flesh back over her wound, using the thin strips of bloody skin to assist in his next spell, which was to reform the skin around her knee.
Draco was already panting from exhaustion alone. It had been a time since he truly stressed his magic reserves, and he was using dark, powerful spells, but fuck, shit, the wound was reopening, and he was so bloody close, and if he could just reform the skin—yes, yes, just like that, yes—shite, it's tearing again, why is it tearing again—too much magic—slow and steady—I'm running out of time—I'll leave her with scars—She'll hate them—I'm trying to save her damned life-
Damned life, indeed.
Draco finally forced the wounds closed, sweat pouring down his face in sheets. He could scarcely breathe, his magic was so low.
He tried to cast a spell to lessen the scarring. He lifted his wand, hand shaking, and pointed, blinking hard to clear his vision. He couldn't see, and the spell failed. He tried again, relying on his memory of Pansy's body because he didn't have any other choice, and felt the spell connect.
Pansy moaned weakly, and Draco choked on a dry sob. What was he doing, trying to lessen bloody scarring? She was missing her damn legs!
"A-accio skele-gro," he demanded, and with a few more clangs and the sound of a vase shattering somewhere in the distance, a new potion smacked into Draco's hand.
"Renervate," he cast again. Pansy didn't react, and Draco grit his teeth. "Rennervate, dammit," he snarled, and Pansy's eyes snapped open.
Her mouth followed suit, preparing to let loose another howl, but Draco swiftly cut her off by pouring the little bit of potion left in the bottle down her unsuspecting throat. She choked and flailed and coughed violently, vomiting, but Draco kept pouring because he wasn't sure he would be able to re-lift his arm if he stopped. He was so exhausted, depleted, and more of it got on her clothes than in her mouth, but soon she was swallowing and downed her four tablespoons greedily.
Draco dropped the empty vial, paying no mind as it shattered across the floor, mixing with the blood and vomit. He lifted his wand one last time, numbing Pansy again, and then the darkness at the corners of his vision was moving in, invading, and he was willing to let it succeed.
He couldn't see.
"Speak," the Dark Lord hissed.
Draco stared at his temples in favor of his eyes, swallowing thickly.
"I was not successful in fixing the Vanishing Cabinet," he whispered.
He could feel the Dark Lord's magic, thick and imposing, settling over him with promise.
"Speak up, boy. I mustn't have heard you correctly."
Draco glanced feebly to his mother from beneath his fringe, and even with her stoic facade, Draco could see the moisture to her eyes.
"I was not successful in fixing the Vanishing Cabinet," Draco repeated, a little louder.
"Try again," the Dark Lord replied gravely. "Something that I want to hear, this time."
Draco knew he was shaking, knew his sweaty palms would begin to drip if he didn't unclench his fists, knew his teeth would crack if he didn't unhinge his jaw, but he didn't dare.
"You had one job," the Dark Lord growled, lip twitching upward in a sneer. "One. Find a way to get my Death Eaters into Hogwarts. It was so easy, so simple, yet you cannot do even that!" He roared, and Draco screamed when the cruciatus hit him.
Doom. Doom. Doom.
Pain.
"You Malfoys are utterly useless. The wizarding world would benefit from losing one of you..." The Dark Lord's lips were peeled back in a maniacal grin, and Draco couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he couldn't see.
But he could faintly hear his mother's voice beyond his own screeching. Draco heard a dark laugh from Him, and then the curse was dropped.
Draco fell to the floor in a trembling mess, and for a moment, felt relief.
Then his mother screamed, and Draco's head snapped up just in time to see her fall.
"How noble," the Dark Lord mocked, amusement in his voice. "One failure sacrificing itself for another. As if it makes a difference who dies."
Draco vomited over the floor, convulsing violently, and he felt shame when he heard the spectating Death Eaters laugh. Laugh. The disgust with them and with himself mixed unappealingly with his potent, horrified sorrow. His mother-
He felt rough hands grabbing at him, and when Draco caught a glimpse of the perfectly trimmed nails, he sagged into his father's arms.
"Get up," Lucius hissed, "Move. We shan't stay here," he snapped, and Draco couldn't agree more, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the Dark Lord, who laughed and laughed and laughed, sipping his scarlet wine and stroking his serpent. As if none of them mattered.
Above his acute feeling of loss, anger rose.
Draco was often scared for his life, for his friends, for his family. Depressed, distressed, regretful.
But he so rarely had the courage to feel angry, and at that moment, when the Dark Lord spared him an offhanded glance as his father tugged him dutifully from the room, and Draco couldn't resist glowering just as the ballroom doors slammed shut behind them.
The Dark Lord hadn't even looked surprised. Bored, if not faintly amused.
Draco didn't make a difference. Draco didn't matter.
Lucius dragged them into the nearest vacant room before releasing his son. He looked at Draco, who stared back at him, before lifting his hands and looking at them.
They were covered in blood. His wife's blood, from when he leapt forward to catch her as she fell.
She'd been dressed in white, descending like a dove. And then she hit the ground, and she was dressed in red, and so were his father's hands, and his face, because Lucius was clutching his head as he dropped to his knees.
He began to cry, silently, and Draco had never seen his father cry. The stony expression fell away, then his tense shoulders, and then his tears.
It was like watching something beautiful decay, degrading right before your eyes. His father was breaking down.
Broken.
Like his Mother.
Draco had never been misguided into believing he and his family would have front row seats for the Dark Lord's reign—for the Purebloods to prosper as everyone else, everyone inferior, was either killed or wishing for so. He didn't even want that, really. He just wanted to please his parents, to follow along with his friends.
He hadn't been misguided into believing he was doing the right thing, either. That Death Eaters were out and about for the Greater Good, or some such rot. But as long as his friends and family stood by him, as long as he had them...
His friends were either in hiding, too damaged to be of any use, or dead.
His mother was Dead.
His father was filled with regret and fear and was to weak to do a damn thing about it.
Draco was scared, and had no doubt in his mind he wouldn't live to see twenty, but at that moment, he was also angry.
He didn't believe in Pansy's nonsense of freedom, of forgiveness, of there being a Good Side and a Bad Side and a clear distinction between them.
But he did know which one opposed Voldemort.
"Tell us, Draco," Lucius demanded, and ever since Mother, that tinge of disbelieving hysteria hadn't left his eyes. "Tell us if he's Potter."
Draco stared blankly at his father. He couldn't even find it in himself to be disgusted, to be pitying or hateful towards the man.
He still loved his father.
"Draco," Lucius repeated, "Speak."
The other Death Eaters holding the wounded figure eyed him expectantly, excitement rolling off them in waves. They wanted him to say yes, they wanted to please their Lord.
Draco finally looked at the abused figure, who stared back at him defiantly through his muddy fringe.
Draco looked at the teen's hands, and knew it was Potter.
"It's not him," he said, and the room grew deathly silent.
"Take another look," Bellatrix insisted, jostling Potter and making him cry out. "We were sure-"
"I've perfect eyesight and memory," Draco sneered. "I think I would recognize Harry bloody Potter when I saw him."
The other Death Eaters hissed and raged, but Draco stared at Lucius, who stared back at him with a carefully blank expression.
Draco looked away from those suddenly aware, calculating eyes, and left the room.
It wasn't long until they found out he had lied, thrown Potter in a cell, and dragged Draco down there with him.
Draco wondered if it had been his father who gave him away.
They were in separate cells, directly next to each other, and Draco could barely see Potter's slumped form in the darkness, but he could hear his steady breathing. Potter was still wounded, but his breaths didn't sound erratic at the moment, so Draco wasn't overly concerned. Not that he had his wand, anyway, but perhaps he would have resorted to drastic measures if his only way out of Voldemort's clutches was dying a mere few meters from him.
"Potter," Draco called out, and the steady breathing quieted to nonexistence, which was uncomfortable, but Draco wouldn't show it affected him. "Why did you come alone?" he asked.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Draco couldn't see him clearly.
No response, no heavy breaths.
But then he heard the sound of distant chains scraping against the concrete floor.
Approaching.
"Why didn't you tell them it was me?" Potter asked, and his voice was barely a whisper.
"I didn't know," Draco said.
"Don't lie to me," Potter hissed, and his voice was dark.
Draco smiled wryly into the darkness.
"I didn't want them to lock you up," he said.
Potter didn't respond for a few minutes, supposedly digesting this comment.
He seemed to have decided it was truthful enough, because he then asked, "Why?"
"I need you alive," Draco breathed, and it felt somewhat exhilarating to admit that out loud. "He needs to be removed, and if you're the only one who can do that, then so be it."
Potter made a noise like a growl. "And why would I do anything for you?"
"Not you, Potter," Draco sneered, "your side. I need them to succeed. Voldemort can't." And it felt exhilarating to finally say that name as well. "You're just one man, Potter. Just a boy. We are mere children. I don't expect you to do anything for me. We don't matter, we don't make a difference by ourselves. What I need is your group," Draco insisted, feeling breathless and like he was close to bursting at the same time. When was the last time he had spoken to someone? Spoken to someone, and spoken the truth?
Not since Mother.
"Not that you're worthless," Draco said after a pregnant pause, wondering if he'd offended the other boy. "Even if you weren't you, realize that anyone's organs are very expensive on the black market. Your bone marrow alone is worth around five million galleons."
"What the hell, Malfoy?" Potter asked.
"Oh, good. I thought I had offended you."
Supposedly ignoring that little comment, Potter continued with, "What made you change your mind?" and he sounded boyishly, childishly, merely curious. As though he weren't trapped in the cellars of Draco's ancestral home, chained to the wall, and unlikely to see the light of day for some time to come.
Careless.
Confident?
Draco liked the thought of that. He hoped Potter had a plan, because while Draco had a last resort, he would prefer it remained just that. Not only would breaking his hands be painful, but timely, and though Draco wasn't sure the exact deadline, he was perfectly aware he and Potter were on a time limit. If he had to resort to plan Z at the last second, he wasn't sure he would be able to pull it off. He'd never actively tried to shatter the bones in his hands, but he guessed that, between smashing them against walls and crushing them beneath conveniently placed cinder blocks, it would take at least a few hot minutes.
"Mother was killed," Draco said, and heard Potter's intake of breath.
"I'm sorry," Potter said immediately.
"So am I," Draco said. "If I hadn't been such bloody coward, she wouldn't have had to sacrifice herself for me."
"Sacrifice?" Potter asked, voice strained. "God, Malfoy, I'm so sorry-"
"If I had just completed my tasks-"
"Tasks?" Potter echoed.
"Fix the vanishing cabinet, let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, kill Dumbledore, kidnap-"
"What the fuck?" Potter spat. "You were-"
"I didn't," Draco said. "That's why I'm down here."
"And you didn't, because of your mother," Potter said.
"I was too cowardly to add the final touch to the vanishing cabinet," Draco admitted.
Understanding dawned on Potter's face. "The bathroom-"
Draco smiled darkly. "Yes, when you sliced me open-"
"I didn't know-"
Draco ignored him. "But the rest of the tasks, I didn't complete because I didn't want to. I'm not trying to tell you I'm a decent human being or anything," Draco assured with disgust at the mere concept, "but just. I love my mother," he said, and his voice was quiet.
Potter remained quiet as well.
"Your dinner," Lucius sneered, levitating a platter of mashed potatoes, salmon, and green beans. Draco eyed the plate solemnly. Such common food. Dry, pale, and cold.
Draco could remember five course meals, and that one Yule when the festivities weren't willing to cease and they devoured fourteen courses. He remembered fine wines, savory meats, and only the freshest of ingredients. He remembered the plethora of silverware, a new set for each meal, and his mother teaching him which ones to use and when.
Draco was snapped from his thoughts when he heard the cellar door shut ominously, and then peered into the next cell when he heard the shatter of a plate and the following sound of food being smeared across the opposite wall.
Draco sighed.
"Potter, it's been three days," Draco said.
Potter didn't reply, and Draco could just make out his neighbor curling into a ball.
"If you don't eat soon, you'll starve," Draco pointed out. "But, I'll concede, they may be trying to poison you. But realize, it's more likely the Dark Lord will want to have the pleasure of killing you himself, rather than something as common as food poisoning."
Potter remained silent, and Draco could see him faintly rocking back and forth.
"And if there were faint traces of something merely meant to weaken you, then I'm sorry to say, starving yourself is weakening you anyway. I've been eating, haven't I? And I'm perfectly fine. Of course, I'm chained to a wall in a musty cellar without any other company than my childhood nemesis and the creatures from my nightmares presenting themselves in the shadows engulfing me, but other than that, I'm perfectly okay."
Potter began muttering to himself, but otherwise, didn't respond. At least, not to Draco. The voices in his head, perhaps.
"So, yes, maybe they are poisoning you, but definitely not me," Draco said, and he didn't understand why he was talking so much. He craved interaction. Sunlight. Water.
His basic needs were reduced to those of a bloody plant.
He wanted human touch. Conversation. Banter. A reaction. Ever since their first conversation, Potter hadn't spoken to him at all, despite Draco's repetitive calls. That, and Draco was beginning to suspect that Potter didn't have a plan of escape.
Draco had decided Potter's friends had abandoned him, which was why Potter had initially been so eager to hear Draco's reasoning for conversation. He felt betrayed, and had been, so he was weary of Draco's sudden interest.
Draco had begun working on plan Z after realizing this, and had hyperventilated a bit when he realized there were cushioning charms on his cuffs so they wouldn't hurt his wrists should he get violent, and Salazar, wasn't that thoughtful? So kind of them?
But that had been two days ago, and instead of being disheartened by the shards of glass he'd discovered in the food Aunt Bella had delivered to him yesterday—his father hadn't resorted to such uncouth tactics of punishment as of yet—, he'd carefully hidden one in his mouth when she came to collect his plate later. He currently had it tightly clutched in the hands chained behind his back.
He would use it soon, but there was no way Potter would be able to manage an escape with him if he was starving to death.
"So I'm thinking," Draco licked his lips nervously, "why don't I give you some of mine?"
Potter abruptly stopped all motion.
"How?" Potter rasped, and Draco listened to him rattling his chains.
"I can scoot over to the bars," Draco said, "I could pass you some green beans from between my teeth."
"Green beans," Potter repeated, voice faint, though Draco suspected it was more from incredulity than wonder.
"From between my teeth," Draco repeated, "that way, we won't have to touch mouths, and I don't have to lick the food. And, you know, you won't die of starvation."
Potter didn't respond for a while, and Draco grew impatient.
"Come on, Potter. You don't have to eat much, and I'm sure you've survived longer on less than some bean pods, but I need you relatively able to assist me when I decide the time is right to escape."
Potter's chains rattled a bit, quietly, before they grew louder, and Draco could see Potter crouching just beyond the bars of his cell.
"Fine," he said, and Draco carefully slid the plate over as he scooted closer to the bars separating them.
Potter looked like a wild animal, up close.
An animal in a cage.
"Ready?" Draco asked. "I'm sorry for the strangeness, Potter, I really am, but when we get out of here, we can pretend this never happened, yeah?"
Potter nodded, still silent, and Draco decided that was enough.
He bent down and bit some of the vegetables between his teeth before turning towards the bars. He leaned forward, awkward and unsure, but Potter showed no outward hesitation before leaning in and taking them.
Their lips did brush, very lightly and briefly, but neither reacted. This was necessity.
Draco ended up sharing half of the dry salmon as well, and though he offered the rest of it—and didn't bother offering to share the mashed potatoes—, Potter refused to accept more than half.
With a shrug, Draco began scooting back towards the center of his cage, but was startled into a stop by Potter's shaky blurt of, "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, Potter," Draco murmured, "I haven't gotten us out yet."
Potter didn't say anything, but by the way he hunkered down into a ball once more, his opinion was obvious.
And you never will.
"I have a plan," Draco insisted haughtily.
Potter still didn't reply, but Draco noticed he remained curled up against the bars, closer to Draco's cell.
"Dammit," Draco cursed as soon as Jugson left.
"What?" Potter asked. After their first 'meal together', they had taken to sharing every time. Potter had also spoken to him more.
Not about the War, or his friends, but the little things. His favorite kind if weather (winter), his favorite sport (Quidditch), his favorite dessert (Treacle Tart), his love of gardening, his discomfort in small, tight spaces, his desire for a dog in the future, his secret love of bird watching, his insomnia.
And Draco had opened up as well. His favorite kind of weather (summer), his favorite sport (Quidditch), his favorite dessert (Red Velvet anything), his love of clockmaking, his fear of spiders, his desire to take dragon-care training in the future, his adeptness at healing charms, spells, and potions, his homosexuality.
"How did you know?" Potter had asked after that particular admission.
"On a purely sexual level, I don't find much appeal in the female body," Draco said simply. "Romantically, however, I would never refuse to accept the person I love, even if they were a woman."
"That's..." Potter trailed off.
"Difficult for some to understand," Draco said, "but not anyone else's concern, really. If I get turned on by blokes, then so be it. You can't please everyone."
"But what if you have to?" Potter had asked.
"You can't," Draco repeated. "Potter, you could be the juiciest, tastiest, most attractive damn peach on the planet, but you know what? There will always be those people who don't like peaches. And that's alright. Because the people who mind don't matter, and the people who matter won't mind."
And Potter had made a strangled sound that Draco rather thought sounded like a startled laugh.
But that had been days ago, today-
"What?" Potter repeated. "Why'd you say, 'dammit'?"
"Jugson brought bloody soup again," Draco muttered.
"That's fine," Potter sighed.
Draco blinked into the darkness, surprised. "Is it?" he asked.
"I'm hungry," Potter said, and Draco nodded even though the other likely couldn't see it.
Jugson had a particular dislike for Potter, so whenever it was his turn to deliver their dinners, he somehow 'forgot' to bring Potter any. And Jugson had served yesterday as well.
"I'm very hungry, actually," Potter admitted. "So, if you're willing to suffer through it, yes, I'd love a bit of soup."
Draco swallowed, nervous. "I don't want to cross any lines-"
Potter laughed, and it sounded strained. "Honestly, Malfoy, at this point, if I had to kiss anyone to get some soup, it would probably be you. I know you won't make it any weirder than it has to be."
Draco shut his eyes. Where was Potter when he said he was gay? The twat probably thought that, just because they weren't best friends or anything of the sort, Draco didn't find him attractive.
"Fine, fine," he snapped, carefully scooting himself and the bowl closer to Potter's cell. Once close enough, he nervously leaned down, prepared to suck up a mouthful, but his nerves got the best of him. "How are we going to do this, exactly?" he stalled. "Shall I simply... open my mouth, and let it pour in? Like a mother bird feeding her baby?"
"That's... disturbing imagery, but maybe?" Potter shrugged. "I've never done this before," he said, as though Draco needed the disclaimer. "We'll wing it?"
Draco sighed. "If that was a pun, it was a poor one, but appreciated nonetheless."
Potter snorted.
With another sign, Draco leaned down and sipped some of the cold liquid into his mouth before sitting up once more and leaning towards Potter.
Their lips touched, and Draco felt warmth grow in his stomach. Ignoring it dutifully, he parted his lips after Potter did, and jumped when a hot tongue reached into his mouth to spoon some into the other.
They parted, and Draco swallowed the remaining broth in his mouth.
They stared at each other, then averted their eyes.
Potter jerked his head towards Draco's bowl. "Just a few more," he said, "please."
"Well, if you say please," he mumbled, ignoring Potter's scoff and leaning towards the soup to draw some more into his mouth. When Draco returned, Potter was on him quickly, parting his lips and impatiently plunging his tongue down Draco throat.
Draco leaned back quickly, and could hear Potter's swallow.
"Thanks for this, Malfoy," Potter said awkwardly.
"Don't mention it," Draco implored sarcastically, and he knew Potter smiled. He sucked some more soup into his mouth, and they continued like this a few more times.
Potter swallowed, and when they parted, Draco noticed some soup trailing down Potter's chin. He leaned in and lapped at it, just because he could, and this time when he leaned back, Potter was staring at him.
"Sorry?" Draco asked. They had already crossed all sorts of lines, and this one felt somewhat mild. He could still taste Potter's salty skin on his tongue, and rather felt he didn't regret it.
Potter shrugged again, and even in the darkness, it looked forced. "Once more?" he asked, and Draco was nodding without thinking about it.
Draco leaned down to gather some soup into his mouth for the last time, and then his lips met Potter's, and his mouth was being invaded.
He could feel Potter swallow against him, but this time when he tried to lean back, he could feel desperate hands grabbing at his shirt, yanking him back against the bars, and then his mouth was being ravaged.
"Fuck," Draco panted, and when the eager pressure returned, he could feel the pleased curve to Potter's lips.
They kissed, and Potter was grabbing at his shoulders and face and whatever he could reach through the bars. Draco wanted to touch him back, to reciprocate the desperate groping, but his hands were still chained.
What the hell?
"Potter," he tried, but said teen was insistent, swallowing all his words with ease. Draco wanted to melt into him, because he'd been craving human touch, affection, stimulation for so long, but couldn't because he was still bloody chained.
"Harry," he tried, going for a demanding tone, but Potter just moaned and nipped at his swollen lips, pressing against the bars as if hoping to squeeze through them.
Draco turned his head, using all of the little self control he had left. Potter licked along his cheek and nibbled at his jaw, and Draco leaned into it, but his mouth was no longer occupied.
"Potter," he said, slowly, "why aren't your hands chained?"
Potter's kisses slowed to a stop, but his lips remained silently pressed against Draco's fluttering pulse.
"Harry," Draco tried again.
Po-Harry leaned back with a sheepish sort of grimace. "Accidental magic?" he asked. "I've done it once before," he admitted.
Draco stared at him, mind racing.
"You randy bastard," he whispered, awed, "you just used wandless magic!"
"Accidental-"
"Is the same sodding thing, you pillock. But nevermind that, this is perfect! Merlin, I could kiss you right now, but we've already done that so let's skip to the part where we decide today is The Day, yeah?"
Draco was practically vibrating with excitement, exhilaration rolling off him in waves.
Today. Today they would escape.
"What?" Harry asked, recoiling slightly. "How?"
"If you can magic off my cuffs-"
"Malfoy," Harry whispered, "I can't control it, I can't-"
Draco shook his head violently, slightly crazed grin overtaking his features, because this was okay, he could work with this.
"That's fine," he assured, "I have another plan-"
"Wh-"
"Hush," Draco cooed, "I have everything under control, Harry, but I need you to do something for me, okay? I need you to play dead for me, Harry, I need you to play dead until they're close enough, and then I need you to attack them."
"Them- Who?" Harry asked.
"Whoever comes to check up on us," Draco said.
"Why would they-"
"Because I'm going to scream, and they're going to come and check it out," Draco explained in a rush. "I'll say you haven't moved for days, and they'll have to go in and check on you if a rennervate doesn't work. Then, you'll strike, and take their keys, and open up my cell, and we'll take their wand, and I'll lead us out of the Manor, and we'll break for the treeline."
"I- You- What?" Potter repeated, eyes wide.
"Come on, Potter," Draco urged, "I can't do this without you."
Harry, still staring at him incredulously, began to slowly shake his head. "No, Malfoy, there are way too many ways your plan could go wrong. You're going to get one of us killed."
"I'd rather be dead than continue this," Draco whispered, and his eyes darted around as though paranoid someone else would overhear such an admission. "As much as I enjoy your company, Potter, I'd much rather enjoy your company without the cages, the omnipresent darkness, the shackles—you know. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm willing to risk my life for that. I guess I just thought you would, too."
Draco's eyes burned into him, and Potter wavered.
"Of course I'd be willing to risk my life for freedom, Mal-um, Draco," he said carefully, "but have you thought this through? Do you have a backup plan?"
"Of course," Draco sniffed haughtily, "I always have a backup plan. I'm a rather talented escape artist, I'll have you know."
"Yeah, well-"
They both shut their mouths with an audible snap when they heard the sound of keys rustling.
"What now?" Potter whispered anxiously.
"That's probably Jugson coming to collect my bowl," Draco replied, biting at his lower lip in an attempt to stifle his grin. He noticed Potter staring at him, bewildered. Draco rolled his eyes. "You worry too much, Potter. I promise. I have everything under control."
"Malfoy," Harry growled, "please, just this once, keep your promise, okay?"
Draco winked at him, and when the door opened, they scooted away from each other. By the time Jugson reached the last step and peered into their cells, Potter was face down in the cement, unmoving, and Draco was rocking back and forth, muttering to himself, and clutching the shard of glass behind his back.
"What on earth?" Jugson muttered to himself, and when he made a move to step closer, Draco threw his head back and screamed.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw Potter jump, obviously startled, but Draco assured himself Jugson was too busy trying to shut him up to have noticed.
"Malfoy, shut the hell up!" Jugson demanded. "What's gotten into you?"
"The voices," Draco rasped, tugging at his hair and shaking his head, "they're too loud-"
"Oh, Salazar, not now," Jugson hissed. "You can't go crazy now-"
"And Potter's voice isn't among them," Draco whispered, and Jugson paused.
"Potter? What about him-"
"Hasn't spoken in days," Draco said gravely. Then, he giggled, and it was a musical sound that came off more than slightly deranged when it echoed off the walls. "Now it's just me and the voices," he sang.
Jugson Stiffened. "What? No, Potter can't be dead yet, shite, today is not my day." As the Death Eater yanked out his keys and hastily threw open Potter's door, approaching carelessly, ignorantly, Draco continued giggling, and when Potter leapt with the accuracy of a predator, snarling and kicking and tearing, Draco's laugh became more of a bellow, because this was perfect.
He stopped laughing when he heard a second set of footsteps tearing down the stairs, because no, that was not good, and Potter was too distracted with Jugson, and there was no way he could take on two Death Eaters simultaneously.
Draco cursed to himself as he gripped the glass in his hand and cut, and if he screamed and distracted Aunt Bella, no one had enough time to react because then Potter was releasing a battle cry of his own and attacking her with Jugson's wand as said wizard was unconscious, bleeding, on the floor.
Draco's scream died down to a whimper when he'd finished cutting, and then he couldn't hold the glass anymore and it fell to the ground with a silent clatter, drowned out by Potter's yell of, "Stupefy!"
Potter was panting, shaking, and turned to Draco. He unlocked the door with a silent spell, and made a move towards Draco as if to unlock his handcuffs, but then a spell was shot down the stairs, and Potter fell.
Draco watched him fall silently, descending like a crow with a screech of terror and rage, and when he hit the ground, Draco slipped his blood-slickened hands through the cuffs and approached. Once out of the cells, he felt his magic pulse freely, and swiftly accio'd both their wands and a skele-gro potion.
They flew in swiftly, and while the wands easily dodged the baffled Death Eater slowly coming down the stairs, the newly-filled potion slammed right into him, making him tumble, and by the time he, too, hit the ground, he was perfectly unconscious.
Draco stared at the four unconscious beings on the cellar floor, his cellar floor, and felt it was some sort of poetic justice.
Then he heard the commotion going on upstairs, downed what he estimated was a tablespoon of skele-gro, and dropped the bottle carelessly. He then used the wand in his left hand to stop his own bleeding and rennervate Potter, ignored the thrill that went through him when he realized he'd used Potter's wand itself and it responded to him eagerly, then hefted the slowly waking Gryffindor up.
"Come on, Potter, we need to move quickly," he hissed, letting the other boy lean heavily on him as they ascended the stairs, finally.
When they reached the top, Potter was more alert, and Draco was duly impressed when they came face-to-face with another Death Eater, and Potter took less than a second to react and stupefy him.
"Gee whiz," Draco breathed, eyebrows raised, and Potter spared him a cocky smirk before they began making their way towards a side exit. "Over here," Draco whispered, turning down a long, narrow hallway before abruptly tucking into a corner as a group of Death Eaters ran past them. Potter's Notice-Me-Not charms would only do so much good when the entire Manor was on high-alert.
Then they were running again, and when Draco saw the portrait he was looking for, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Mother," he called, and the elegant woman turned to him, surprised.
She looked just as beautiful as the photo they based her portrait off of. Said photo had been taken before the start of the War, so her portrait was without the perpetual darkness beneath her eyes, the limpness to her hair, the hollowness to her cheeks. In her portrait, the only thing commemorating her death, she was just the beautiful woman Draco remembered her as.
"My dragon," Narcissa breathed, her eyes watering at the sight of him, "my sweet baby, what has happened to you?"
Draco smiled at her sadly, and if his eyes watered, Potter had the decency not to mention it.
"I can't talk right now," Draco admitted, "Potter and I need a way out of the manor."
Narcissa eyed Potter, and at his similar state, her narrowed eyes softened. "You boys must realize, your journey will not be easy."
"Things worth fighting for usually aren't," Draco said, and when she looked as though she were about to cry, Draco laid a dirty hand gently against the canvas of her portrait. "I love you, Mum," he whispered, and at the informal title, the tears began to fall down her porcelain face.
She looked at Potter, and wiped delicately at her eyes. "Take care of him," she said.
Potter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked from Narcissa to Draco, and nodded determinedly.
Draco forced a smile. "I will, Mother. Merlin knows, this one needs me."
Narcissa smiled shakily back, and then her portrait swung forward to reveal a passageway out of the Manor.
Potter went in first, and when Draco went to follow, he stopped at the sound of footsteps. Turning back, Draco froze when he saw his father.
Lucius stared at him, opened his mouth to undoubtedly announce their departure to the other searching Death Eaters, then seemed to realize exactly which portrait was allowing them to escape.
He shut his mouth silently, and Draco's tears began to fall. He nodded to his father, but Lucius merely clenched his jaw and turned, striding silently from the hallway.
"Come on," Potter said gently, tugging at Draco's wrist. He had likely missed the entire exchange between Draco and his father, but the blond didn't feel the need to tell him, so he merely followed.
When they exited the manor, they did dash for the treeline, and only after another hour of running and ducking and throwing hasty looks over their paranoid shoulders did they come to an exhausted stop.
"We can," Draco panted, gasped, clutched at his trembling knees, "we can apparate from here."
Wordlessly, Potter grabbed his hand and Side-Alonged him.
They landed in a confused heap on a wooden floor.
"Where-?" Draco began.
"Grimmauld Place," Potter muttered, rolling off Draco with a pained groan and plopping on the floor next to him. They both took in the ceiling silently, save for their laboured breathing.
And then, "We made it," Draco said. Then, he was smiling, and laughing exhaustedly. "What did I tell you, Potter? I always have a plan B."
Potter turned to regard him, and Draco met his stare. Draco couldn't resist grinning at the way Potter's cheek, squashed against the hardwood floor, made one of his eyes crinkle behind his smudged, cracked glasses.
"How did you get out of your handcuffs?" Potter asked, frowning. "I was hit, and then suddenly you were waking me up."
Draco lifted his hands, showing off his regrowing thumbs. He wiggled the stubs. "I had to cut them off so I could fit them through the shackles-"
Potter turned around and vomited, his entire body shaking, and Draco couldn't help laughing again.
It had been a long day.
A/N: This fic has 3 parts! I plan to post the second part next week, but everything's all typed out, so I mean? The more reviews, the faster I'll update.
GASP! Me? Open to bribery? Sound the alarms.