AN: So, basically, when I read "Redemption by Emeraldbuttercup, my review was just a rambling synopsis of what was supposed to happen once the onneshot ended. Turns out, I was the only one who guessed correctly what she'd had in mind. After months of working on it, I finally have the finished product from those first few conversations. You should definitely go and read Redemption, then come back to this. Trust me. And don't forget to review...

o.o.o.o.o.

When the suffocating darkness lifted, he stood on a dark narrow road, lined on either side with small cottages. A light snow was falling, that, along with the events that had led up to this moment, sent a chill through him. The weight in his arms reminded him that there was no time to simply stand around out in the open, and so, bending against the cold, to protect his charge as best he could, he began to walk.

Until the moment he saw it, he hadn't known exactly what he was looking for, hadn't even been sure why he'd picked this destination. But then it was there, the dark mass that stood at the very end of a row of houses.

The Potter's cottage.

Despite its having been empty for the past sixteen years, it looked remarkably solid. Trailing ivy covered the bulk of the structure, the verdant leaves showing up brightly in the pristine snow. There was a large hole in the outer wall on the second level, and the windows gave the impression of sad empty, blank eyes gazing out at the world that continued to move on as the house stood still, frozen in time. Otherwise, it looked as sturdy as any other house along the lane.

The late hour and the season meant that anyone with any sense was inside, tucked up in a warm bed, but he stood staring, oblivious to the cold wind, the snow seeping into his shoes.

This was the house in which the Potter's had lived, that, in another life, they would have continued to live, in which their son would have grown up. The garden, now overgrown with weeds, would have once flourished with beautiful flowers and practical herbs he was sure. Even Draco had heard of Lily Evans' skill at potion making. The house would have been filled with happy laughter - so different to his own home, in which all emotion was suppressed, whether it were a happy or sad one.

The house was so far removed from what it once was. And that hole… that had to have been Potter's room, he was positive. It had to be the spot where, all those years ago, everything had gone so horribly wrong…

A certainty came over Draco, almost as if someone was drawing a cloak about his shoulders. This was the safest place in the world to hide from the Dark Lord. He couldn't possibly think to return to the place that had borne witness to his greatest downfall. For as long as they kept hidden within the house and refrained from saying the Taboo they would be safe. At the very least, they would have shelter for the night in which he could work out the next move.

The peaceful, silent night was ripped apart by a bark-like laugh, coming from somewhere beyond the row of houses to his left and Draco fought the urge to cry out. As a pair of voices carried on towards him, he recovered his senses, and shifting the bundle in his arms, raised his wand to silence the rusted old gate before reaching out to grasp it. His touch seemed to evoke some kind of magic - a sign was rapidly rising from the ground.

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,

Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever

to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left

in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters

and as a reminder of the violence

that tore apart their family.

All around the neatly lettered words were messages of encouragement to Potter, some written in everlasting ink, others carved into the wood. Draco felt as if he was viewing something he'd never been meant to see, and so he pulled his hand away, after giving a quick push.

The gate didn't make a sound, as he'd hoped, and as he walked, slowly and carefully up the overgrown garden path, he flicked his wand over his shoulder to close it once more.

Inside, a thick layer of dust covered everything. There was an abandoned pram, pushed against the wall in the hallway, a bowl of ancient candy wrappers on the coffee table in the sitting room, a moth-eaten blanket draped over the back of the sofa.

Very gently, with more care than he could remember having done anything before, Draco Malfoy placed Hermione Granger on the old sofa, and pulled the thin blanket down to cover her, before conjuring half a dozen more to wrap her up in and keep her warm throughout the night. Her face was screwed up in a grimace, as if a part of her was still at the Manor, still at the mercy of his aunt Bellatrix, but otherwise she looked comfortable enough.

Tearing his eyes away from her limp form, Draco turned to the empty fireplace. Lifting his wand -putting his shaking hands down to the cold, though he knew that wasn't the only reason he was so unsteady- he muttered a quick incantation. Instantly flames roared to life in the grate. Weary grey eyes reflected the dancing flames and he brushed his silvery bangs out of the way, as he tried to organise his confused thoughts. For a moment, he lost himself in the flickering light and the heat that flooded the room as everything that had happened in the last few hours fought for a place at the front of his mind.

For five whole months, people had been searching for Potter. For five months, he had somehow managed to evade every single Death Eater, Ministry official, Snatcher and Dementor that the Dark Lord set upon him. But then finally the Boy Who Lived had slipped up and the Death Eaters caught him, along with his two sidekicks. When he, Draco, had been asked to come forward and identify the prisoners, he wanted to flee. He'd never liked the trio, bunch of do-gooders that they were, but he didn't want to be the one responsible for handing them over to the Dark Lord. He couldn't do it. His father was ready to call for Voldemort, as soon as they were identified, but he couldn't do it. As much as his parents urged, something else just as powerful and insistent was screaming at him to lie.

Lie, even if it meant that he would be tortured for it. It didn't matter that lying would most likely get him killed.

Draco could not condemn the trio, no matter what would become of him. Whether he lived or died meant nothing if the three of them didn't go free. They were the only hope the wizarding world had of salvation. The only thing that stood between Voldemort coming to full power was Potter and his two friends. Whatever mission they were on, they needed to complete it in order to stop the evil and he had to help them, ever so slightly, to get away.

Lie. Save them and surrender to the death that was rightfully his. He deserved it, after all, after the things he had done. He just had to lie and make it possible for them to get out. Nothing mattered beyond that.

And so Draco had done his best, evading questions and refusing to give definitive answers. But of course that couldn't be the end of it. Because it was at that moment, Bellatrix saw the sword of Gryffindor.

He'd always imagined that there would be a great sense of satisfaction in hearing Granger beg for mercy, pleading for freedom. If it couldn't be him forcing those cries out of her, he'd told himself, it would be enough to just be present while she experienced excruciating pain. But as he listened to her screaming that she didn't know anything, it was all Draco could do to keep himself from joining her.

With every yelp that escaped her, he wanted to scream too. Every shriek tore at his very core and it took the greatest effort to bite back his own pleas to make it stop. No one could deny that she was in great agony.

Every time she opened her mouth, every sob she let loose, forced a thought to repeat within his mind.

He wanted it to end. Needed it to be over. Now.

For exactly thirty-seven minutes he listened to her, plead with his mental aunt. She was sobbing that she had never been into her Gringotts vault, that the sword was a fake. Her ability to keep up the ruse while being so sufficiently abused was uncanny. Every minute or so Weasley screamed her name, louder and louder each time from the dungeon below.

Draco had retreated to the kitchen, trying to distance himself from it all and organise his thoughts, but it didn't do any good. He knew that he would still hear her, no matter where in the house he went. And even if he were to leave, if it were permitted, the sounds of her pain would continue to haunt him, no matter how many miles he put between them.

Then the fight broke out. Potter and Weasley had escaped somehow, and a battle ensued in the drawing room. In a moment of desperation, Draco sent Greyback flying across the room, away from Granger. He couldn't stand by and watch it happen again. He couldn't allow another innocent person to die for this cause he wasn't even sure he'd ever really believed in. The house-elf, Dobby, appeared then, and Draco found himself staring into Potter's bright green eyes from across the room, and holding Granger in his arms and-

All of these memories flitted across his mind in a matter of seconds, before he tore his gaze from the fire and turned back to face the broken and battered girl, unconscious on the sofa. She had stopped shivering by now, but she still looked as if she was seeing and experiencing horrific things. From all he'd heard that night, he knew that she would be severely injured. Draco stepped forward and knelt beside the couch, carefully pulling the blankets away. Steeling himself for what he was about to see, Draco also removed her jacket.

Granger's left arm lay at an awkward angle and he balked at what he saw there. Grey eyes widened in horror at the wound displayed before him. His mind instantly flashed back to a moment that occurred in their second year.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he'd spat at her, surrounded by the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams.

It had been a miracle he'd survived that afternoon considering the entire Gryffindor team looked set to murder. His own teammates managed to hold them back until Weasley cursed himself and started vomiting slugs, and then all attention was diverted away from him and what he'd said, at least for the moment. The memory caused him no pleasure now as it had done in the past. He wanted to take it back along with a thousand other sins, but it wasn't possible. His only hope now was attempting to repair some of the damage that had been done.

Though Draco knew of healing spells that would help with Granger's smaller injuries, he was unsure of how to deal with the larger ones. It had only been recently that he'd read of this particular branch of magic, on late nights when he refused to go to sleep. And while he had repeatedly read passages on what to do, he had never performed or even seen any of it done before, save for a few visits to the Hospital Wing, but this was in no way the same thing.

Using the lesser magic, and desperately hoping he remembered it correctly, Draco focused on the smallest of her injuries for the time being. Minor cuts and bruises faded as he stood over her, wand out, muttering spells he'd only read of. The deeply scratched, hateful word on her arm remained. It looked to be growing more intense as the rest of her skin healed around it, and Draco felt bile rise in his throat. As he continued to stare, forcing down the sickness, he realised it was only his guilt magnifying it.

Suddenly he couldn't see, for the blinding pain that seared from his own arm. The Dark Mark was on fire.

"He knows," Draco croaked, gritting his teeth against the agony he felt. The Dark Lord, must have just arrived at the Manor, and discovered that they had lost not only Potter, but that Draco was gone as well.

He's going to kill me, Draco thought, his breathing shallow.

There was no doubt in his mind, if he slipped up now, if he were caught, he would surely be killed for his betrayal. Switching sides at this crucial moment, saving a Muggle-born so closely connected to Potter - these crimes would result in Draco's former master killing him personally, rather than send another of his minions to do it.

The burning was so intense. Draco clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms, desperate to feel anything other than the Dark Lord's fury. The skin breaking in his palms was a tiny relief from the scorching that had filled his arm and seemed to be travelling throughout his entire body. He couldn't breathe. It was as if the flames that engulfed his arm were spreading to every other part of him, even his lungs. Not for the first time he wished it would end, for his life to be over so he didn't have to endure anymore.

And then, after what felt like hours -hours in which he was tormented by hot pokers and hellish fires that felt like razor sharp tongues- the pain began to recede. Gasping for breath, knowing the pain wouldn't completely go away unless he was to answer the call, Draco scrabbled around on his knees, searching for his wand. It was tolerable, he decided, helpful even. At the very least, he was confident that the pain would help him stay alert. Glancing down, he saw the Mark was darker against his pale skin than ever before. Hastily pulling down his sleeve to cover it, he shakily climbed to his feet and resumed healing Granger once more.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Light was beginning to filter in through the filthy window that looked out on to the yard. Draco hadn't slept all night, but had stayed beside the sofa, on a stiff chair he'd brought in from the kitchen, muttering spell after spell, watching as Granger appeared to return to her normal physical state.

A sound outside had Draco whip around, his wand clenched in his hand and pointed at the window ready to Obliviate whoever had stumbled upon their hiding place so severely they wouldn't even remember which planet they lived on until he realised what he was hearing.

A bird sat on a branch so close to the house it would be in the room if not for the glass. Breathing a sigh of relief at the sight, he allowed himself to relax slightly and return to his task. As Draco turned to face her once more, he saw that Granger was beginning to stir, finally.

He had spent the entire night alternating between the hope that she would soon open her eyes, and that she would remain blissfully unconscious until Potter worked out where they were and came to collect her.

While her eyelids slowly began to lift, he stepped back, into the last remaining shadows in the room and quickly cast a Disillusionment charm upon himself.

She would be frightened, he knew. And his presence… it would only make things worse. He needed to assure her that she was safe, that he was there to protect her and not a threat, before revealing who he was. It's better this way, he told himself. Even though he knew she would be alarmed not being able to see her companion, he was certain she'd prefer that than waking up from all she'd been through the night before and having his face be the first thing she saw.

It was another few minutes before she was able to open her eyes fully. Minutes in which she moaned in pain. His heart gave an uncomfortable tug as Granger even began to cry, as, he guessed, memories of what had happened to her the night before began to surface. Praying that she wouldn't recognise his voice in her current state, Draco knelt next to her and began to whisper in her ear, his breath disturbing loose hairs that tickled her cheek.

"You're alright. Everything is alright. You're safe here, I promise. Please, don't cry." She was becoming hysterical; more details must have been developing. His voice becoming constricted -watching her this way was almost worse than the things he'd heard the night before and he felt a sickening loathing aimed at himself and his entire family- he reached out and stroked her brow, continuing to whisper words of comfort as his brows drew together in worry. When he had repeated himself for the third time, her tears began to ease up slightly. He watched a frown crease her face, while she looked around for the owner of the soothing voice.

"W-who are… Who?" her voice was hoarse, all the screaming and crying she had done the night before probably made it raw and painful to even attempt speech now. Instantly Draco stopped speaking and hastily withdrew his hand as if he'd been scalded. It was one thing to soothe her while she'd cried and only been half conscious, but he couldn't risk her recognising his voice. What would she think of him? How much could she truly remember?

How much would she blame on him?

"W-water," she rasped as, he repeated his earlier words of comfort, and used Legilimency to press them towards her. Conjuring a jug and two glasses, he poured some for her and held it to her lips. She stared at the place where the glass hovered, as if thinking if she looked long enough the Charm obscuring him would fade. Draco knew, however, that he was safe until he removed the Charm himself.

"Thank you." After a third glass, her voice became clearer and stronger. Tapping the jug to refill it he took a drink himself and only then realised how thirsty he was. And how hungry.

"Who's there? Who are you?" she asked as he felt a growl rumble through his gut. Again Draco only dared use Legilimency.

'I won't hurt you. Please know you're safe.'

"Where are-" Potter and Weasley's names were on the tip of Granger's tongue, that was obvious. She had spent months with only those two boys for company, her best friends. Suddenly being without them was probably just as frightening as finding herself alone with a disembodied voice, if not more so. But she knew the danger of telling a stranger who had just performed magic that she had been with them. That was good. She hadn't allowed herself to say the names, meaning she was being cautious. That was very good. Unable to find a way around it, Draco consented to speak once more.

"They're safe," he told her, in a tone he hoped was gentle while attempting a Manchester accent to disguise himself further. He wanted to explain properly, but didn't trust himself to be able to keep the voice right.

"They're safe," he repeated.

"And…" she was trying to sit up, but fell back against the couch as pain ripped through her. Panting with the effort of not screaming, she squeezed her eyes shut for a few moments before finally being able to continue. "They left me with you? Do we… Do we know you?"

I'm going to find food, Draco thought, projecting his thoughts to her once more, desperate to get out of the room. He wanted to remind her to stay still and rest, but refused to open his mouth again.

Rushing from the room, amid her protests, and repeated questions, he flung himself outside into the bright white snow. Leaning against the front door, barely able to hold himself up, he let out a groan as he tiredly ran a hand up over his face and through his hair. How was he supposed to do this? How could he keep her safe, heal the wounds that were inflicted by his own flesh and blood, all the while keeping his identity from her?

And how was he supposed to find Potter? There had been no time to discuss a meeting time or place, how was he supposed to get her back to them?

o.o.o.o.o.o

TBC