I know, I know, I'm doing the completely unforgivable and starting ANOTHER story when I still haven't updated, er, any of my other stories. Sorry. But this massive, rabid plot bunny appeared in my head and started attacking all my other inspiration... Sorry guys. So here it is, my first, slightly reluctant Drarry. Eventual fluffiness and lemons, but for now it's quite angsty. Please leave a review! They make my life worth living!

Not really.

But seriously. They do.

Love you all!

Xxx

Draco let his eyes follow the curves of his sculpted ceiling. Again. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, fingers futilely attempting to relieve the ache of the severe mental and physical thrashing that his aunt had just given him.

Good boy Draco, such a clever boy. You're going to make him so pleased. Crucio!

Draco winced, Bellatrix's genuinely mental screams of joy as she cursed him ripped through him again as he remembered. He thought about moving to retrieve his cigarettes, but decided against it. Just like he had been taught to chose his battles (only ones you can't run away from!), Draco knew he had to chose the moments to move his aching body. The less movement the better, and then hopefully he'd be alright to walk down to dinner tonight.

Not that he had any particular choice in the matter, but it was always nice to pretend.

A shudder rippled through him at the thought of dining with the Dark Lord again. Bellatrix would doubtless regale them with stories about how well Draco was doing, and then she might offer to demonstrate, and his parents wouldn't say no. And all through the dinner Draco would be thinking about the fact that the Dark Lord wasn't wearing any shoes.

The thought of this caused a ripple of a laugh to shudder through his body, which reminded him of a few forgotten aches.

Bollocks.

It was more than just a desperation to escape, now. It was a need. He needed to escape, or he was going to die. The impenetrable shell of enchantments around Malfoy Manor that had once made him feel safe now trapped him. There was no chink in the collective armour of the imagination of his ancestors; they had imbued the very walls with spells. The house could tell your ambition, your political stance and your star sign, probably. Unsurprisingly, it didn't react very well to Draco any more.

Painfully, slowly, Draco got to his feet and took the few steps necessary to reach his desk, where his wand lay. It practically hummed with magic; he hadn't had much occasion to use it, fixated as his family were on him developing his wandless skills. Draco still preferred the feel of the wood beneath his fingers, though. It made him feel more powerful and therefore safer. His index finger found the tiny imperfection in the length and rested there, his thumb slid against the shiny grove that constant use had made in the handle.

"Master Draco! Your presence is required by Mrs Malfoy in the drawing room, when shall Sir be making his appearance?"

Draco turned to the tiny house elf, "Tell my mother that I will be down as soon as I am dressed."

The house elf bowed. "Of course, sir. Is sir needing anything else?"

An entirely unrelated thought had just struck Draco. He glanced absently at the elf to reply, "Er, nah. Thanks."

The elf bowed again and disappeared with a pop. Draco sat down quite abruptly in his desk chair. His summons to visit his mother.

Very Malfoy.

Something else that was very Malfoy- it had happened a few months ago... Something that was very, very Malfoy. Their house was their castle; no Malfoy blood would be spilled in this house. Well, unless they were a blood traitor, but then they were barely Malfoy any more. Complex enchantments lay around this house, some of which were nearly obsolete (for example one that prevented any Malfoy from taking orders in his own house, hah!) but also some that were still very much in operation. For example the one that immediately ejects from the house anyone who spills a drop of Malfoy blood. A fairly archaic way of preventing murder on their own soil; it is perfectly easy to die, or be tortured, without losing a drop of blood, but the intent was there. And that was what happened to James.

Draco had always known that his father was bizarrely good at dreaming up cruel and unusual methods of punishment. Even when not directed at him one only had to make the distasteful trip downstairs to the dungeon to see the evidence of this.

Homophobia can make people do terrible things.

For example, on walking in on his only son and a 6 foot, tan, strapping, 20 year old half-blood called James Alexander Graham (whom, incidentally, his son thought he might be in love with) having passionate sex, his reaction was not - as most it may have been for most fathers- to shout and kick the offending male out of the house. Lucius Malfoy had a creative mind.

James had been given a choice; either Lucius would kill Draco, or James must cut him - not a lot, mind you. Just spill a little of his blood. At the time the deal seemed ridiculous and hasty. But faced with such a lopsided opportunity James chose option two, conjured a small knife, and made a small, neat cut on Draco's forearm. Seasoned skin with few nerves, the gash deep but straight; it barely registered on Draco's considerable pain threshold. But as the first few slow drops of pure blood oozed out of the cut and James apologised softly, rubbing his thumb over Draco's hand, something happened. First, the clasped hands of the couple were blasted away from each other. Then, James screamed. Not just a scream; the long, familiar, drawn-out scream of torture.

And then he disappeared.

Draco shouted, begged his father to tell him what had happened. He pleaded with his mother, even tried to reason with the notoriously nutty Bellatrix. He threatened to tell the Dark Lord about the curious phenomenon. His father locked him in his room for 19 days for that one. Eventually, Draco was deemed stable enough to be let out. They let Bellatrix take him off to Wales for a bit to teach him some respect, and then his father finally told him. The magical ejector-seat, the safeguard of cowardly Malfoys who wanted insurance against better wizards than themselves. Obviously, his father couldn't tell him much about what was at the other end of the rabbit hole, but it did seem that any attempt to find out would be foolish and probably impossible. His father seemed of the opinion that wherever the magic took you, it was somewhere extremely painful, unpleasant, and probably full of muggles.

But now Draco wondered. Did the enchantment work on Malfoys who harmed other Malfoys? Probably, considering the level of inbreeding in his family. But who would it favour in a face off? Probably the higher-ranking Malfoy. So in relation to Draco, his father? His mother?

Could he ask this of his mother? Could he face his father in a duel? Because that was what it would come to.

No. He couldn't.

What about if he spilt his own blood?

Now that was a question; generations of Malfoys had lived in this house, was it really possible that none of them had ever deliberately hurt themselves?

Of course it was possible, Malfoys thought bleeding was beneath them. Far too muggle. And wasting all that lovely blood!

So.

Draco's hand shook as he opened the second drawer of his desk. Under a few rolls of parchment and a book on poisons, there was a small leather pouch with a knife in it. He glanced at the clock- five minutes since he'd been summoned. Quickly, quickly. He slid the knife out into his palm. It was small and simple, and very very sharp. James had wanted to cause as little pain as possible when he conjured this. Not wanting to waste any more time where a house elf could appear, he placed the tip of the knife directly along the pale scar where James had cut him. It wasn't necessarily sentimentality, he just didn't want to take any chances. Problems flashed before his eyes, where would he go? What if the magic got confused and something happened to him? What if nothing happened to him?

Draco decided that the answer to the third question concerned him more than that answer to the first two, and that he had absolutely no chance of getting past the wards any other way. Gripping his wand securely in his hand, Draco pushed down, hard.

This was not like last time, the droplets did not ooze. He pulled the knife back out of his arm and watched as the cut welled instantly; blood flowed freely from the cut and it ran in rivulets down his arm. He watched the path of the blood, fascinated, waiting. Something was happening to his vision, but he wasn't necessarily concerned. It almost reminded him of smoking weed with Blaise. And then the pain in his arm intensified, it intensified so that it took over all other sense data. He heard himself grunt with pain, ignorant of his surroundings until a bright light and cold wind alerted him to the fact that he was falling. He conjured a sloppily-executed air cushion to break his fall, and landed clumsily on his feet. In the Ministry of Magic. Draco almost laughed; the spell had obviously been put in place at a time when injuring a Malfoy was an offence worthy of Azkaban without trial. As it was, he was in front of the head Aurors' office, with a dozen curious Aurors peering over the tops of their cubicles at him. None of them looked especially friendly.

"Draco Malfoy." a deep voice from behind him seemed to want to do no more than pronounce his name; it neither confirmed nor questioned his presence. Turning with some trepidation, Draco was relieved to find a face that he vaguely recognised.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

Kingsley inclined his head, "Hello, Mr Malfoy. I'm afraid I'm going to treat your presence at the Ministry as suspicious." To Draco's great relief, Kingsley indicated with one large hand to the office door they stood in front of. "After you."

The Head Auror's office was large-ish and circular. It was slightly cooler than the room outside and a big window with a very convincing conjured view of London took over the main wall space directly opposite the door. Kingsley strode around his disproportionately small desk to sit in the simple chair behind it, and gestured to the similar chair on the other side. Draco wondered snidely if he'd brought in the desk and chairs from his old cubicle out on the main floor, then shook off the though. He was going to have to persuade this man - who undoubtedly hated him - to give him a hand. Gifted as most Malfoys are with words, Draco had not had much experience in the field; he was fairly used to getting what he wanted out of people because of, not in spite of, his surname.

He tried to relax.

"Mr Shacklebolt,", he paused, deciding which angle he was going to have to take. "I'm going to be honest. I need... Help." Even in these circumstances Draco loathed begging. Especially begging for help. Kingsley made no response, but raised one eyebrow, and gestured for Draco to continue.

And so Draco explained. Starting with James, briefly passing over his aunt, (the mention of whom Kingsley frowned at) and ending with his own quick decision in his bedroom.

Kingsley did not ask any questions until the end.

"Do you still have your wand?" Draco nodded, and held it out. Kingsley smiled. "It would be useful if you could provide me with some memories, I think they might sway the jury in your favour if you're hoping to be acquitted of the charge of willing Death Eater."

Notwithstanding the obvious 'willing' prefix, Draco immediately conjured three vials, siphoning out and placing memories of James - non-explicit as possible - his time in Wales, and his last minutes in Malfoy Manor into them.

Kingsley accepted the vials silently, and then asked to see the cut on his forearm. Draco had almost forgotten about his wound, and unthinkingly shoved his left arm out for inspection, remembering too late the mark on the other side of it. His neat cut was not neat any more; the edges were curiously dead-looking and burnt, and some apparently corrosive black substance was leaking out. Draco recoiled, but Kingsley looked interested. He reached out his hand to touch the arm - "May I?" - and gently turned it over. Draco sucked in his breath; it probably wasn't a good idea to go around flashing his dark mark if he wanted people to stop thinking he was a Death Eater.

But interestingly, his Dark Mark wasn't so Dark any more. It was more of a grey, and getting paler all the time. It no longer writhed against his skin, either; it was almost as though it's life force was being drained. Kingsley turned Draco's arm back over and examined the black substance that was oozing from the wound. It was a dark, malicious black, moving almost as though it were living. Kingsley conjured a vial and, without asking permission, scooped some of the liquid into it, plugging it with a cork quickly.

Draco was nearly unique in he hadn't passed out from the pain of receiving the tattoo. His father had been proud of that, Draco wasn't certain it was worth the praise to remember the pain. But at least he knew first hand that all the dark mark was made of was ink. Just like any tattoo. It made it easier to bear, somehow.

He pointed his wand at his arm shakily. "Evanesco."

The ink that had been mingling with his blood disappeared, though some still filtered through from the still-fading dark mark.

Kingsley sat back in his chair and studied the vial of ink in his hands. "Well, Mr Malfoy, I can certainly help you a bit. It's within my power to ensure you get a fair trial and a place to stay, but not much more than that."

Draco nodded curtly, and then remembered that he really needed to act more grateful. He looked at the carpet, and muttered "Thanks" shortly.

Kingsley continued as though he hadn't heard, which Draco was grateful for. "Considering your past I think a place to stay will probably be harder to come by, so we may have to go slightly... off the books."

Draco shrugged. "Fine by me. Anywhere's gonna be better than the Manor."

Kingsley looked grim. "Don't count your dragons, Mr. Malfoy." He stood. "Please excuse me, I'm going to make a call."

Draco nodded, and Kingsley turned and threw floo powder into the fireplace beside him. He dropped to his knees with more dignity than anyone Draco had ever seen. Even when all he could see of Kingsley was his headless body crouched beside the green fire, the image wasn't absurd as it undoubtedly would be if it was anyone else with their arse in the air. Kingsley withdrew and replaced his head twice more in the next twenty minutes. Draco was becoming increasingly bored and considered pick pocketing the Head Auror and legging it more than once. Wisely he decided that stealing from his one and only ally was probably not a good idea

When finally Kingsley withdrew and stood up, he looked satisfied but grim. He walked back behind his desk, but did not sit down.

"It has been decided-"

"By whom?" Draco interjected, feeling impetuous and annoyed that decisions about him were suddenly being made without his inclusion.

Kingsley blindly ignored the interruption. "-that you will stay at the home of the Weasley family for the duration."

Draco stared at the Head Auror. He couldn't- wouldn't- surely he wasn't stupid enough...?

But evidently he was. The Order of the Phoenix. Fan-bloody-tastic.

He restrained his voice with some difficulty. "But Mr. Shacklebolt, you can't be serious. They hate me. I hate them too, to be fair. You can't seriously expect me to go and live in their hovel, having to pander to them like I'm some sort of-"

Kingsley, again, ignored the outburst, merely continuing his monologue with slightly more force.

"They have offered to take you in for as long as necessary, but I have been told to inform you in no uncertain terms that if you exhibit any bigoted behaviour you will be, I quote: "out on your arse before you can say 'Quaffle'." You will be have minimum contact with the family until you are considered by the Weasleys and their friends as fully trustworthy. I'm sure you realise the significance of this; many of the Weasley family are members of the Order, as are their friends, and we will not allow safety to be compromised. Is all of that quite clear, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco was fuming. Literally fuming. Being told to go and live with blood trai- Weasleys, taking orders from someone whom he would, two hours ago, have probably attempted to kill on sight (and failed, a small, honest part of Draco said), taking orders from a Weasley! Not being given any say in his allocation, in fact, decisions being made over his head generally - it made the part of him that was well and truly Malfoy seethe. And yet- he didn't have a choice. He had asked for help. What had he expected? Applause for defecting, an Order of Merlin and his own room in the Minister's country house?

Well, perhaps.

But this was what he had; a secret, cordial approval from a ministry official, a burning cut in his arm, and hopefully a mattress in the Weasley shack.

Well, at least things can't get any worse.

Surely.

Let me know how you found it!