Author's note: Originally titled "33". Credit for opening lyrics goes to my friend ronwheezyrox. This was originally written for her, and still is—but it's been completely revamped. A lot of the reviews rang very true: the fic seemed unfinished, and I like the premise too much to simply leave it be. So, thank you to anyone who gave me suggestions.

Thirty-Three

Part I: lord tom

..

"A shot in the night and he cries, screaming for comforting words

how many days have gone by?

how many days?

Fighting this fight to end all fights

do you turn your head?

Whose blood stains your shoes

Now how long until his cries come to an end? Give him an answer."

-L.

"Father." With a start, Draco Malfoy rose up from his cot and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A putrid smell claimed his nose. He forgot where he was.

A murmur of sound is made, a mellow mutter, really, and a sort of spidery swooping of cloaks and fabric. "Oh, little Draco," sighed a desperate, yowling voice. "I'm not your father. I am not close. I am made of something far less pretty these days I am afraid—but something stronger." There was a soft laugh in the darkness.

The blond boy twitched in horror, and his stomach was a mangled mess of bile. He hadn't eaten much for nearly two days and when he did eat, he threw it all up so he's got nothing, nothing to puke up although he imagines black, tarry liquid spewing forth from his throat and never stopping because that is how the darkness here feels alone with Him.

He thought on Day One that it might be a nightmare but it isn't.

The awful, murmuring voice continued: "Daddy's not here."

drip.

Today is… Day Three, Draco knows, because the first day, he was treasured, he was the Chosen One for the winning side, pitted against Potter, and the pawn and everything to the man who requested that Draco call him Tom because if he knew him first as human, his inhuman appearance wouldn't seem so disgusting.

drip.

On the first day, Draco was allowed to eat.

"I was once as handsome as you," Lord Tom smiled, and flicked the blond against the cheek with a jagged, pale finger.

drip.

On the second day, though, Tom realized that Lucius' son was not Lucius, and was most definitely not Lucius' elder brother. Draco wanted to be loved, surely, but Draco was made of something different than that of Lucius and Hagawthe Malfoy. Draco was sharper in ways, except he was so foolish and, as Lord Tom soon discovered, Draco wouldn't be convinced so very easily.

"You are mine," the Lord told the blond boy delicately, and touched the top of Draco's head.

Draco, tired and hungry, declared: "I'm nobody's."

And for this, he was punished.

3.

The third day, Draco wagered, was today, but he wasn't for certain what time it was. By now, he was supposed to fall in love. Wasn't that what Aunt Bellatrix had said with such a great deal of emotion. Hadn't Mother said it's time ? And Father, stuck in prison, had fallen in love as a third year, with Riddle, and shouldn't Draco do the same?

However, when it came to love, Draco was noticing lately, that his loyalties actually lied with the Gryffindors. With Hermione Granger (he liked her curls and she was smart, so smart, so sharp) and Ginny Weasley and yes, yes, sometimes even Harry Potter (though he wasn't sure if that was love or obsession). Draco wanted to be in on the jokes, the conversations. He'd never thought of himself with anyone besides Pansy, because that was what They wanted, except Pansy was Pansy (loud laughs, and balls, and sloppy kisses stretched across the bed in her dormitory, slower Draco slower) and the Gryffindors were what Draco wanted.

The Gryffindors were who he was being trained to kill.

On the third day, on this day, Lord Tom made himself known and requested angrily that the blond refer to him as 'Master', 'Lord' or 'Lord Voldemort.'

Draco felt like spitting in his face, but resisted the urge. If he was the plan, he certainly thought Master was betting a lot on him. More than Draco wanted to be responsible for. Ever.

"I want to eat," snarled Draco, pulling on his binds with a moan.

Lord Voldemort slapped him hard across the face. "Lucius would be disgusted with you," he said, ashamed, but held out a molding slab of cheese in his open palm.

Draco wolfishly gobbled it right off. "No, he wouldn't," he told Lord Voldemort as soon as he was finished.

The Lord smiled, stoked Draco's flaxen hair, and then took him hard by the throat.

4.

Somewhere, Draco thought, Harry's going to get us out of this. (Wishes- on a star- with blood- cross your heart and hope to die wishes)

Funny how he mused about his enemy with such hope. Maybe that was part of the attraction. Draco's upbringing was never constant. Mother and Father had love for him but they also had lives- (society functions, dinners, meetings- leaving Draco sullen and ready to revolt), friends were more of acquaintances, and he wasn't allowed his own pets. Harry's successes, however, were constant, and Draco trusted him deeply.

On Day Four, Lord Voldemort would discover this fact and punish Draco savagely for it.

"Stop that now!" screamed Draco, paler than usual. "Quit!"

Lord Voldemort smiled gruesomely and tightened the clamps. "Say you'll devote yourself to me."

Draco shouted.

The clamps on Draco's legs tighten and stretch. He's going to break me, was Draco's thought as he stared into the snake eyes, the serpentine smile. When the Lord smiled, his tongue jutted out just a bit, just enough to show through his jagged teeth. "Say it," Lord Tom hissed.

"NO-OOOW," Draco shrieked, as his left leg was bending in an unnatural way. The hot white pain is unbearable, and Draco can't help but forfeit. "Yes!" he shouted, "Yes, yes, yes, I'll do it, okay? Just leave me be! Let me go! I'll kill all of them, I will!"

"That is good, Draco, that is very good," Lord Tom smiled, "but it took you far too long, so just a few more minutes, hmm?"

Bones twisted and broke and Draco howled into the empty darkness.

5.

On day five, Lord Voldemort is a hero because he fixes what he broke last night and he does so with such tenderness that Draco begins to feel a certain level of adoration for him. Not like the adoration (hatred/bitterness) Draco feels for Potter.

Just a small touch,
like you feel when somebody lends you a hand with your luggage
or gives up their seat on the train.

6.

And on Day Six, Draco is barely himself, he's a feeble ghost of someone who might have existed at sometime, but that is not a fact. His skin is the color of corpses (beige blue white) and his eyes are more black than steel. He has cuts on his knees, arms, and ribcage—Voldemort inflicted. And chew marks on his wrists and scratch marks on his neck—Self inflicted.

"You seemed so agreeable yesterday," commented Lord Voldemort in a soft tone.

"Please let me go," whispered Draco.

"No," Lord Voldemort laughed, and disappeared.

7.

"I will serve you faithfully," Draco said seriously on Day Seven. He figured that if he vowed his allegiance, Harry would save him anyway. Now Tom cannot hurt him. Harry will arrive soon.

"I knew you'd come around, sweet," the man told him.

Draco gave a weak smile. It doesn't seem so wrong anymore.

8.

Draco misinterpreted Lord Voldemort's ways, however, because on Day Eight the man told Draco it is time for task one, because Draco's first mistake "will not be taken into consideration."

"And what's the task?" asked Draco nonchalantly, over a plate of fine food. He was allowed food today- THREE MEALS- and he has never felt better, never felt more appreciative. There was jam and scones for breakfast, and stew for lunch, and now a good cut of steak and red wine that left a blood-red stain on Draco's dead lips. Food was grand, and so was sitting up, and so was having limbs free from shackles.

Lord Voldemort seated himself at the end of the table. "You will return to Hogwarts with help from my learnings, and there, you will murder Dumbledore's aid, Minerva McGonagall."

Draco choked. "McGonagall?" She wasn't his favourite because he wasn't hers. But he didn't want-

"Oh, don't worry. You can kill others, as well, but do save the best for me."

Draco exhaled. He didn't want-

Voldemort clucked his tongue. "What?" he snarled, and rapped white knuckles on the table.

"I—don't want-" Draco stopped talking immediately when Lord Voldemort's eyes flashed.

"Don't tell me you're scared."

"I'm not—I can prove myself, all right?"

Voldemort's lip quivered. "Teenage impertinence. I showed much of that in my own day. Of course, I knew my place."

Draco focused on eating. His head and heart are pounding.

Draco is made of weaker flesh and bone than the other Malfoys. Evil Abraxus. The promising, bold, strong Hagawthe who followed Voldemort secretly in Iceland until he was murdered in a duel with an auror, and the fierce, beautiful, desirable Lucius who has since fallen from favor but had glory days once. Draco is young for his years and thin, impatient and petulant. Draco is smart and crafty, but this doesn't bring him the Dark Lord's favor.

Draco has simple needs: to eat, to sleep, stay unharmed and do well (for himself).

"And to think, your father and uncle were so ambitious."

9.

On the ninth day, Draco wished he were made of something stronger.

Lord Voldemort played with his flesh. He peeled it off and put it back. Peeled it off, put it back. Draco chewed his own tongue, put a hole in it.

(drip!)

Lord Voldemort fixed him up before the day was over so he did not bleed out.

10.

And when Day Ten rolled around, and Draco was massaging the wounds upon his hips, he wondered if maybe, if perhaps, he'd made a lot of mistakes and all of this was something he deserved. Something he should take. Lord Voldemort seemed to hear his thoughts and Draco did not get supper. He no longer whimpered or cried. Now he was silent when he knew he'd disobeyed. He was learning. He was learning!

11.

It was time for Draco to embark on his task but he shook his head and shut his eyes. Even though he was afraid, he still did not want to kill. He wanted his Mummy and Daddy, he wanted his friends. He felt small and he acted like it, too. He set his jaw and did not scream and for that he was proud. He wanted to say, Look at me, Potter! Could you stand this? Could you?

12.

Alone in the dark, Draco's thoughts began to enter Panic Mode. His cool attitude was no longer measurable and he was unabashedly afraid. For himself and his family. For his friends. For his enemies.

Enemies. For his enemies? Lately (Dark spells and cold kisses) he'd had a hard time deciding what to bestow upon most of them.

13.

Regret came fast like wand sparks. All the smashed down feelings were rising to the top like a bubbling potion. Draco, contrary to his own declarations, was not unfeeling. Draco Malfoy had a sharp tongue and a sharper memory and it was all falling into place now. He remembered it. He remembered it all. Alone in the darkness, he ran it all through his mind, a sordid timeline.

He remembered calling Longbottom "fat", and tripping Padma Patil.
Telling Pansy to get stuffed when she asked him out in third year and laughing in her face when she cried
("never would I date a girl with a nose like yours!").
He recalled pointing in Granger's face and calling her ugly
(when secretly,
he thought about her
when he was alone
at night
in bed)
He thought about his gibes toward the Weasley family
(jealous of their love)
Mocking Millicent's dress robes.
All of Finch-Fletchley's torn-up school books.
Imitating Finnigan's accent.
Trying to get Hagrid sacked, for fun.
Stealing Lovegood's shoes and burying them in the dirt.
He recalled wasting his mother's favourite lipsticks, melting them into goop with his Potions set
(at age 10, because she and Father were too busy) and he wished he could take this back,
because. because. this might be why she hasn't come to save him
and his father, he'd screamed at his father, oh my God, he'd screamed at his father
(age 13, when Lucius had accused Draco of being a poor student
he'd screamed, "I HATE YOU"
and "LEAVE ME ALONE")
and now, he'd trade anything to see his father.
Alone was not so great.

For all of this, he began to cry. The tears were good therapy but they also provided moisture and they tasted delicious, too. He licked them greedily off his own cheek like a dog.

14.

The days blended together and Draco did not realise he'd been alone now for nearly three. A bowl of water filled by magic within reach of his right hand and a plate held one scrap of dry bread once every 7 hours. After all, Voldemort was not trying to starve him. Voldemort was trying to change him.

15.

drip.

He was not certain if the sound was water or his own blood because the darkness was flooding him.

16.

drip.

He hated himself more than usual by now. His thoughts were no longer precious stones. His thoughts were shit. But the upside was he no longer felt the guilt associated with finding Mudbloods attractive, or with the pre-marital sex. He no longer worried about his hair or whether to smile for newspaper photos. He did not smirk anymore. He did not care about his clothing or humiliating himself because once you're used to toileting in a hole in the ground and never changing your pants, certain things become less important, less frightening. Vanity was no longer on the forefront of Draco's mind.

He just wanted to taste more of his own tears.

17.

The sound stopped and he cried because it had comforted him. The rats were his only comfort now and they were hungry. Were they rats? Maybe they were memories. Whatever they were, they were hungry.

18.

Draco could not remember what day it is. He remembered he had a birthday and that it was past. He had a girlfriend though now he didn't know why she'd wanted anything to do with him in the first place. He had parents, parents he loved, and he was certain they'd abandoned him.

But Harry Potter, Harry Potter could still find him!

Holding on to that positive thought, Draco practised wandless magic in the blackness. The bread stopped appearing soon after.

19.

Spiders tickle in the dark, bonds are tight, hurting wrists, skin picked clean, mouth constantly muttering, crazy? crazy? crazy? No, survive. Potter. Survive. Potter. Water. Mother. Father. They wouldn't like me like this.

Like what, Draco? Like bare bones? Like pathetic? Do better, Draco. Ace that quiz, Draco. Beaten by a girl of no wizarding family, do better, survive, water, Potter, pick the locks, split nail, water, Potter, drink deep, open cuts.

20.

Spiders are not very appetizing.

21.

The bread was back for a split second, but then it went away. Bye bye. Draco was past thinking he had deserved it. He now knew it was his punishment. He wanted to tell someone he was sorry so he tried to write it in blood. After all, he could see the bones, hadn't he said he was going to show them his bones? His bones were his sorries.

22.

Impure thoughts were of no consequence now.

Clever Granger, efficient in everything, was she better than, ... (he struggled) ... her name was Pansy, wasn't it? It was, he was certain. He felt hazy as though this wasn't a reality. Did memory leave the body so soon? He didn't think that was right but sanity was flipping on and off like a switch. Pansy... the girlfriend... had black hair she got styled every Hogsmeade weekend and she like to play with Draco's hair- or was it, no- he'd never-

Was it the opposite?

No, he'd never gotten to take Granger out because it was immoral it was bad it was the big bad thought but it no longer seemed so crazy, it seemed quite normal compared to this and the realization made him crack up laughing. What was this war even about?

23.

Being on the losing side was no longer funny. It was agonizing. Draco had taken to cursing loudly and revelling in the sound of his own voice against the walls. He was still a person, though he hated that person more than ever.

24.

The dripping.
was driving.
him bloody.
insane.
today.

25.

He listed all of his memories aloud, beginning with the first he could remember
(Father was happy, smiling, and Mother was holding his hand and they were
somewhere safe, and somewhere warm, somewhere Draco couldn't place)
and he recalled his first magic, startling the peacocks and peahens
his playdates with Vincent and Gregory (which led to a flash of Vincent's face, bones exposed)
can't think that way!
how beautiful Mother looked in silver
visiting the Ministry with Father
Pansy in her pale pink dress robes
Pansy in her pale pink lingerie, do you think we really should
yes, I'll be careful. i promise I'll be careful.
and of course,
Potter.
Potter.
Always,
Potter.

If Potter had been his friend this never would have happened!

Anger kept him focused for the rest of the night. He didn't have to pick himself on day 25.

26.

It wasn't Potter's fault! It was Draco's! It was all Draco's! Everything was Draco's fault!

"Please!" he shouted, his voice scarily deep in the darkness. The rats scattered off his toes. "Please! Just give me something to kill myself! I want to die. Anything! A wand. A knife. Or do it yourself. Hello? Hello! HELLO!"

Draco was demanding and petulant even when arguing against his right to be alive.

27.

Shadows started speaking on Day Twenty-Seven. They didn't have very nice things to say.

28.

Draco became entirely apologetic. He wanted to give Harry Potter something, something to make him see that he meant it, he meant these sorries, he was ready to admit it was all his fault and he wanted to give him something- but he had nothing, nothing but the bread and water that had appeared again except for his bones and try as he might he still couldn't quite chew up his arms enough to offer those.

29.

There was no longer a smell and it was more of a home, really. Sometimes lights flickered and and off but it didn't matter. He couldn't see anything anyway. He had picked enough at one cuff that it swung open but he wasn't ready to move. Not yet. He had to be punished further.

30.

Cunning. Ambitious. Right. Maybe when the mood struck but really, can a personality be fairly sorted into one category of four? Four is a very small number but eternity is long and Draco no longer felt like a Slytherin. Of course, he also was not brave or chivalrous or terribly brainy- he was crafty and cruel, not an egghead. And he most certainly was not loyal. Not to Lord Voldemort. Not to anyone but himself. But it was freeing. It was no longer self-hatred that felt good. It was real hatred, real annoyance, not teenage petty I want to kill myself it was I am going to die alone, right here, in my own shit.

31.

He had a pang of realism there on the floor that this would be the last room he'd see. All those things his mother and father wanted from him (success, grand-children, purity) were not going to happen and although Draco generally made faces at them when they suggested such things now he had a certain sadness that he'd never learn how to love anyone properly.

Day Thirty-Two.

Draco knew for certain that Harry Potter most definitely was not searching for him. In fact, no one was searching for him, and no one was ever going to make this alright. Even if they were, no one was going to look in the basement of a filthy, old Muggle apartment, between boxes and old generators and rats for Draco. Lord Voldemort had given up, moved on after the raw turnout of the event, left the blond boy to pick at his skin and scratch his bloody wrists, to wish for food, and to wish he had been made of something much, much different. But wishing would not change a thing and so Draco lay back against the bricks and cinderblocks that had been cutting his back for almost a month and he choked one word into the darkness: "Sorry".

Day Thirty-Three.

And then, that was when the door opened and the light shone in. But he did not move. It could not be real. It was only a pretty picture.

"Mister Malfoy," a voice said, and it was piercing and stern and came from somewhere above or inside his head, "Mister Malfoy, it is over. It is time. You will now wake up."

And then Draco's eyes flickered open and he was suddenly in a blank, white room. And it was then that he remembered.