The Oak Tree

When Draco Malfoy was sixteen years old, he told himself he'd make it out of this alive; that somehow, his willingness to bear the Dark Mark that so many others had before him in the name of blood purity and supremacy would prove him worthy of life. He had been fool enough to convince himself that it would spare him and his parents from the gruesome outlook of war and death-that if he was agreeable with the Dark Lord's commands and submissive when needed to be, then he could make it out of this ruddy affair as unscathed as possible. Once, he had thought the title of a Death Eater had meant everything-it gave certain Wizards and Witches an advantage in society; it unified the strongest and most superior of magical blood and linked them all to the one man who claimed he would give them the sort of power and superiority they thirsted for. But now...it stood for death; for destruction and war and the decaying scent of rotting corpses and deflated hopes that accompanied such vulgar words. It was a dirty term-something filthy that reminded him of everything he'd sworn to be. For the rest of his life.

It reminded him of his imprisonment to a cause he didn't even know if he believed in.

The world was in chaos around him-outrage and terror had erupted the moment Voldemort had made his presence known, and the cries of war and battle were growing more and more prominent with each passing day. And Draco, well...he kept to the shadows as best as he could. It was no secret among the ranks of Death Eaters and followers that Voldemort used Malfoy Manor as a base; there was a constant stream of people moving in and out of his childhood home, tainting any pleasant memories the young Wizard might have harbored for the institution that had become his prison. He couldn't (and wouldn't) return to Hogwarts, and he wasn't significant enough to the cause to be placed as Voldemort's right hand, like Bellatrix or Snape. For all that it was worth, Draco Malfoy had become an outcast-it was a mind-numbing sort of realization to come to; from his arrogance at the revered title that came with being a Malfoy to the quiet solitude of a life where one struggled to hide from the scrutiny and glare of those surrounding him, Draco Malfoy's life had flipped so entirely that he could no longer identify the difference between right and wrong.

Everything sort of just...blended together; smudging his world and erasing the carefully-crafted lines that separated him from the scum of the impure community. He supposed, really, that he had been ill-informed when it came to the glorifications of war and dominance that his father had painted for him as a young boy. He felt tricked, really-misled into esteeming a lifestyle he now wished more than anything that he could reject.

He hadn't known that cleansing the world would result in so much blood; the Death Eaters bathed themselves in the fluids of their victims-crimson red stained their hands and tainted their supposed pure blood. And Draco realized, despite how nauseating he found it, as the life drained out of the victims that fell into their merciless clutches, that the color of their blood wasn't so different from his own. It wasn't murky with filth and mud; it wasn't caked with grime and residue. It was red-deep pools of scarlet that smelt of rust and felt like a thick and sticky residue on his hands; on his robes; under his fingernails. It was everywhere-the stench of blood defined war. It defined the type of man he had been forced to become. He hadn't...killed yet, but it was what he was designed to do; what all of them were designed to do.

There was little over a month left until they were meant to attack Hogwarts.

They had captured the Mudblood during the skirmish at Malfoy Manor; Draco was hesitant on referring to her by her given name-it would make things far too personal for him. More personal than they'd already become. Bellatrix had been eager to kill her straight away-surely the Dark Lord wouldn't approve of keeping someone with such filthy blood among their company. But Voldemort had insisted, and Dolohov had backed his decision; surely it would be most beneficial to the Dark Lord and his army if they were to keep the girl as prisoner. It was well-known that she was a friend to Potter-and intelligent, too; if anyone would know where he and the Weasley boy were hiding, it was going to be her.

Granger.

His mother had insisted they lock her away in the dungeon as they had done with the others before the Trio had come along to rescue them. They were down to one captive now-Granger-and while no one felt particularly comfortable having her in the Manor, it was law. Voldemort had proclaimed it, so it was.

Naturally, Draco had been in charge of keeping an eye on her. There had been talk among some of the elders that perhaps the Mudblood would be more willing to see reason and relent in the face of someone she knew between...questioning sessions. He wanted to point out-desperately, in fact-that it would be useless; that Granger was more mentally sound and quick-witted than any of the Death Eaters gave her credit for, but he bit his tongue. He knew what would happen; he'd be accused of empathizing with the prisoner-he might have been called a Blood Traitor. He might have even been compared to his father; called a coward, a snake, a false follower. So he stayed silent and carried out his task, just like the dutiful little soldier everyone expected him to be. He avoided being near her if he didn't have to-only checking through the iron bars of the cell door to ensure that she was still there and still alive. He was responsible for bringing her the scraps of food and filthy water that was meant to keep her alive, but even then he refused to face her.

As he'd stated before, it simply made things too personal.

But one day, all of that changed. It had been a stormy spring morning, and the wind that occupied the thunderstorm was ruffling the hedges and trees that surrounded Malfoy Manor. It was the most out of shape the estate had looked in all of Draco's life; green tendrils of vegetation curled up and around the aged stone structure of his childhood home, masking the once regal Manor with its thick green fingers. The hedges were in desperate need of trimming, and Draco's favorite oak tree in the backyard was starting to droop; withering away as a product of neglect. It was eerie to see something that had once been so full of life die right before his very eyes. It was one of the many factors that deflated what little hope he had left. Bit by bit, he felt as though he was grinding to dust; as though the very morals and pride that had fueled his discrimination and hatred had dried up and evaporated. Now...he didn't have anything; no cause, no hope, no purpose. Not in this war anymore-it had transformed him.

And he was terrified to admit it.

It was on this day, though, that Draco received the news. Voldemort had been in his private quarters for days now, going over plans in secret with his most trusted advisors. Draco, being nothing more than a ridiculous boy who had failed to complete the single task assigned to him thus far, had been left in the dark. His father, too-the Dark Lord had yet to forgive Lucius' folly in the Department of Mysteries. So while Draco was ignorant of what went on behind closed doors, he was intelligent enough to assume that something of great magnitude had occurred. And his suspicions had been proven correct when Bellatrix emerged that morning and informed them that they had a lead on Potter and Weasley-that they were nearing Hogwarts. The promise of bloodlust and battle had Bellatrix practically shrieking with excitement, and as the unstable woman left their presence to inform the rest of the troops of this newfound knowledge, Draco turned to glance at his parents. Lucius had paled considerably, and Narcissa was struggling to compose herself.

They were just as terrified as he was.

"Now now...don't panic," Narcissa had insisted in that cool, soft voice of hers; the same tone that she had used to lull Draco into a state of comfort when he was a child. She was wringing her hands together desperately, and no sooner had Draco reached forward to place a reassuring hand on her arm than he was disrupted by the presence of their master: Voldemort.

His bare feet padded quietly against the hardwood floor that covered Malfoy Manor, and Draco froze instinctively. There was something serpent-like about the Dark Lord; perhaps it was the distortion of his face, or the knowledge that he could speak Parseltongue, but the pale and cruel tyrant took the traits of Slytherin House so true to heart that it was difficult to believe he was anything but a snake. His high, cold voice was always enough to send small tremors shooting up and down the base of Draco's spine, and try as he might to stand still and appear submissive in the face of the Dark Lord, his knees were buckling underneath his weight. Voldemort's calculating red eyes swept over the Malfoys carefully, and finally...he spoke.

"We have no more use for the girl."

It didn't take much brain power to understand what he meant: death. Now that they knew where Weasley and Potter were headed, Granger's imprisonment was more of a burden than an advantage to their cause. He had been hoping that he wouldn't be forced to watch it happen; he'd witnessed so much death and destruction...his frayed nerves surely couldn't handle any more. But when Voldemort informed them to take care of the girl and Lucius hesitantly stepped forward, the Dark Lord lifted a hand and ordered him to stop, pointing a filthy, bone-white finger at Draco instead.

"No...the boy. The boy will do it."

It was as though all the life had fled Draco in that instant. It wasn't as though he was particularly attached to the young Witch or anything, he simply...didn't want to watch her die. Didn't want to be her murderer. There was something chilling about this-the knowledge that he was being forced to kill the same Witch he'd spent so many years of his life teasing and harassing...it put things in perspective for him a bit. But Draco knew his duty-he knew that if he refused, the Dark Lord would grow angry; he would punish or kill him. Maybe he was a coward...maybe he was more like his father than even he wanted to admit, but...he had told himself he was going to make it out of this war alive.

Sometimes that meant sacrificing who you were.

So he nodded and replied with all the courtesy of a man who knew his rank, and after agreeing to dispose of the body afterwards and casting a quick glance in the direction of his concerned mother, made his way towards the dungeons he knew so well. He could hear them all begin to converse with one another the moment he left the room, but just barely; it was difficult to hear anything over the thunderous pounding of his heart. He knew the trek down to the dungeons-he'd made the very same trip hundreds of times before. Try as he might, Draco couldn't calm his racing heart or lubricate his dry and scratchy throat; he was nervous beyond all repair, and the quivering in his movements made sure to illustrate that. On the way down, he desperately tried to think of a way out-keeping an eye on Granger while she was a captive was one thing; killing her was something else entirely.

Just outside the entrance to the holding cell was a chest that her wand was located in-Bellatrix had eagerly offered to snap it in half and deprive the Mudblood of the wand she "had no right possessing", but Voldemort had insisted they keep it as bait; a way to taunt the young girl into giving them the information they needed. After casting a long glance at the chest, Draco acted on impulse and reached for the wand, grabbing it and tucking it safely into the pocket of his robes. Maybe he had gone insane being cooped up in this house for so bloody long, but it was the only thing he could think to do. He wanted to turn around and flee the scene immediately, but he knew he couldn't; he was a soldier, for all intents and purposes, and he was expected to head into battle.

The iron door that separated Granger from society was heavy and rusted; creaking loud enough to disrupt the entire bloody Manor as he threw it open. Stepping inside the cold, dank dungeon, he had to blink rapidly to try and make out anything through the thick blanket of black surrounding him. It was enough to make a man go blind, and though Draco struggled to make out anything in the dark, it was useless. He wondered, briefly, how Granger had managed down here. The remembrance of her presence was enough to jolt him into a state of alertness, and as his silver eyes swept the dark grounds before him, he struggled to make her out in the shadows. He couldn't find her in the small space, and just when he'd felt panic seep through his skin and spread through to his very bones, he felt a pair of dainty hands curl themselves around his neck. The grip on his body was weak; he could feel his opponent's limbs trembling underneath the grip she held on him. Though she was unable to muster the strength to choke him as she so clearly desired to, he could feel her long, dirty nails claw at his flesh. Draco sputtered, his eyes bulging wide. He dropped his wand, just barely hearing the instrument clatter to the floor as he lifted his hands to enclose around his attacker. No sooner had he pried the creature's small, dainty hands away from his form and shoved at her than he knew exactly who it was: Granger. A loud, shaky breath escaped her lungs as she went staggering backwards from the force of his grip. He could hear her body collide with a wall, and for the moment he knew she would be otherwise occupied. Glaring down at the ground, he murmured an 'Accio' for his wand, feeling comforted when the wooden object flew to his grip.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He spat, rubbing at his neck and turning to face her. Worried silver orbs flickered towards the stairs that led up from the Malfoy dungeons; almost as though he feared someone would come down now at any moment and punish him for not having the job finished by now. His eyes were slowly but surely adjusting to the absence of light, and he could make out Granger's trembling form. She was undoubtedly weak from the lack of nourishment and proper exercise; she had been in here for weeks, and it shown on her features prominently. Soot and debris caked itself into her matted brown hair; smudged across her face and accentuated her emaciated form. The clothes she had been brought to them in hung loose off her body, torn and tattered from days and weeks of constant wear. He couldn't deny that the dungeon smelt of piss and filth-she had been forced to urinate down here and had been denied the luxury of bathing...like some sort of caged animal. Because that was exactly what she was-that was what the Death Eaters all regarded her as.

A weak, defenseless animal. And they were meant to be her masters.

"I know what you're doing down here, Malfoy," She said quietly, her voice hoarse. It had been the first time either one of them had spoken to the other since her capture all those weeks ago, and Draco couldn't deny that it unnerved him. He swallowed heavily, his throat aching at the action as his fingers curled themselves more tightly around his weapon. He didn't want her to speak-didn't want her to finish the thought that terrified him into silence. But she did. She spat the words with such venom and malice that Draco swore he had never felt so hated in his entire life.

"You're here to kill me."

Being given the order was nerve-racking enough, but to hear the victim claim it for what it was nearly destroyed him. It wasn't as though he felt any sort of attachment or fondness of her, but...he didn't want to see her killed. And he sure as hell didn't want to be the one doing it, either.

"Think you're so clever, do you, Mudblood?" Draco spat in defense, his fingers quivering as he jabbed his wand in her direction. As though she was acting entirely on instinct, he watched as Granger pressed herself against the cool wall, her nostrils flaring with pent-up rage. Despite how weak and fatigued she must have felt, she still possessed enough of that damn Gryffindor pride and nobility to stand defiantly in the face of death.

"It doesn't take a genius to understand how Death Eaters work, Malfoy," She replied coolly, her fingers scraping against the damp stone walls of her prison. The marks on his skin burned from where she had urgently clawed at his flesh, and he just barely resisted the urge to brush his fingers across the red marks that she had undoubtedly left in her wake. Draco shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his brilliant grey eyes meeting her heated brown ones in the darkness that separated them. He could hear her shallow breathing; she was weak and defenseless. It should have been easy, killing her-one quick flick of his wand and an utterance of the curse meant to silence life forever, and she'd be gone. It would be quick and painless; just a flick of his wrist. Just one incantation. He...he could do it, right? He could make up for where he had failed before?

"Well?" Granger managed, her voice raw and scratchy as she spoke up. The syllable seemed to echo through the vast chamber, and it took every ounce of willpower that Draco possessed to keep from shuddering in disgust. He licked his chapped lips, swallowing noisily and lifting his wand to point at her, as if in self-defense. Just when he thought neither one of them would ever muster the courage to speak, she parted her lips and said the six words he would have never expected to hear.

"Go on and do it, then."

An invitation for death, then-her last final words that echoed the strength and bravery that members of that damned House she reigned from prided themselves on. It should have been simple after that, then; his wand was lifted and aimed at her, and he was certain that if he tried hard enough, the words would come to him. Two words and that was it-it would be over with.

But he couldn't do it.

Sighing in defeat, Draco slowly lowered his wand. His hands were trembling in the aftermath of what he had (once again) failed to do, and for a long moment he wished for nothing more than to crumple to the ground and block out the world around him. But such a display of weakness would surely spur Granger on further, and the last thing the youngest Malfoy was going to allow was a moment of defeat in the face of the enemy. Dragging himself towards her, he lifted his arm and enclosed his slender, alabaster fingers around her dirty sweater. Without so much as a word, he clasped a hand over her mouth to prohibit her from shrieking, dragging the filthy girl out of the cell and up the steps of the dungeon. She was kicking and thrashing in his grasp, though her movements were weak and half-hearted. She had withered away before his very eyes, just as the oak tree in his backyard had; she was a product of neglect just as it was. The resemblance was uncanny-disturbing, but uncanny nevertheless.

By the time Draco had crept up the stairs, he glanced down the narrow passageway of his home that surrounded the dungeons, relieved to find that no one was there. He led her through the small hallway towards a back door that led to the outskirts of his family's property. Rain fell down from the sky in thick and heavy pellets, smacking against the ground and covering the Earth in a blanket of precipitation. The guards that were typically stalking the grounds had chosen to stay inside for the day, making Draco's task of escorting them from over-grown hedge to over-grown hedge a lot easier to manage. His loafers were sloshing against the muddy Earth as he led them to the gates that separated Malfoy Manor from the rest of the world, and just as they were about to approach the exit, he grabbed the young woman more tightly in his grip and pulled her behind a large tree. Releasing his hold on her mouth but maintaining a firm grip on her blouse, he forced her to look at him.

"Get out of here," He demanded, his voice harsh and low. She merely stared at him in confusion, her matted brown hair plastered against her face. In daylight she looked even worse-the dark circles under her eyes and the bruises that lined her body from various encounters with Bellatrix and her entourage of torture weapons were dark and prominent against her pale skin. She didn't seem to understand his request, and Draco huffed in aggravation, shaking her slightly and gesturing towards the large gate that kept them all locked in this stone prison.

"You have to go and find Potter and Weasley at the school-you have to go now," He barked, his eyes urgent. Realizing he needed something to send her over the edge, he fumbled around in his pocket, retrieving her long-neglected wand and shoving it towards her. She reached for it with fumbling hands, her gaze flickering back and forth from the weapon in her hands to the captor who had delivered it to her. She seemed as though she wanted to say something to him; anything, but the words couldn't work their way past her lips. Her eyes met his, though, and while aggression and anger still lingered in the depths of her chocolate orbs, but there was also...understanding. And a slight hint of gratitude.

"Malfoy..." She managed, her voice almost mouse-like against the storm raging around them. Draco stilled immediately, his grip on her soaked blouse loosening. His hand fell to his side, and he stared at her in bewilderment for a moment. Realizing his role in this and the execution that would await him should anyone find out how wretchedly he had disobeyed the Dark Lord, he quickly added-

"Just don't expect me to stick my neck out for you again, Granger; I mean it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Malfoy," She answered finally, gripping her wand in her hand and giving the pale Slytherin one last glance before making her way towards the gate. She slipped through the faulty lining in the fence's protective enchantments, limping towards the thick edge of forest that lined his family's Manor. And as Draco watched the deteriorated form of Hermione Granger making her way to a life where she wasn't discriminated against for her upbringing or her bloodline, Draco couldn't help but realize that he longed for the life she led. One without unrealistic standards of purity and filth; one where he didn't feel ashamed of what he felt or confused about who he was. To live in a world where he was as sure of what he wanted as someone like Granger was...seemed impossible. What was left of Draco were the withered remains of a boy who had been overly-confident in a cause that lacked any real depth and purpose.

Perhaps he was the oak tree, too.

a/N: Hello, everyone! I decided to participate in what is known as Ollivander's Challenge on the simplypotterheads' tumblr account; there were a list of prompts to choose from, and the one that stuck out to me the most was the fifth one: "I won't stick my neck out for you again." Originally I had just planned to publish the oneshot/drabble length piece onto my tumblr account, but I ended up deciding to publish it on here, too. I hope you all like it! It was more hastily written than some of my other more in-depth stories, but I hope it suffices. Comment and review to let me know how you enjoy it!