Good and Evil

by ihavetodothis

"You don't realize your weakness, do you? You care too much. You let your emotions rule you. You give second chances to people who don't deserve them. I'd have you, Potter. Then, no one would ever doubt that Draco Malfoy, always referred to as the son of his father and never as an entity of his own, is exactly who he was raised to be."

1. (Im)placable

"We're all caught up in circumstances, and we're all good and evil. When you're really hungry, for instance, you'll do anything to survive. I think the most evil thing - well, maybe that's too strong - but certainly a very evil thing is judgement, the sin of ignorance." - Anthony Hopkins

The first thing he notices is that his cheek is smashed painfully against something cold and solid; then his arms twitch, impulsively springing toward him to push him up, and he cries out, eyes snapping to the source of the pain and finding one of his arms bent in at an unnatural angle. So, he abandons the idea of pushing himself up and only uses enough energy to roll over onto his back and cradle his injured arm to his chest. Face contorted in pain, he breathes sharply and stares down at his body, robes tangled and filthy, small cuts and bruises prominent on the salt-white skin of his abdomen, visible through several large holes in what's left of his clothing.

Several images tumble through his vision: green flashes of light, his father's unblinking grey eyes, and his mother's long, yellow-white hair blocking a cascade of tears.

Something punctures his chest like a blunt sword and he clutches it with his unscathed left hand, surprised not to feel a wound, but rather the faint tattoo of his heartbeat under thin, dehydrated flesh. He imagines that the ghost of this wound slowly moves down to the pit of his stomach and lurches, causing him to gag and cough. But he doesn't become sick. His ears ring, a loud grumble of hunger wracks the room, and the harsh floor underneath him digs ominously into his bones.

As he goes over the situation in his head - no wand, no doors, no company but eerily-elongated shadows stretched across the walls - his breathing comes out more quickly, panic taking over. Then his face is wet...from tears, sweat, or blood, he's not sure, and he succumbs to sleep once more.

An explosion rips open his eyes - no, a door opening. A door? And a woman's body is flung into the room haphazardly. Bellatrix Lestrange? Her face is half-covered by a mess of knotted hair, but she's still easily identifiable.

"Hello? Who's there!"

His voice comes out broken and raw, but he tries not to let any recognition of weakness show in his jaw. A low, heartless laugh that crawls into the crevices of his spine emits from a familiar, temporarily-nameless man he now sees standing in the doorway, grinning and waving a hand in his direction. The man's teeth are sharp and white against his dark skin, spaced out unevenly like the open mouth of a Venus Fly Trap.

"Brought you a friend. Your auntie Bella! Guess where I found her?" he sneers with menacing joy.

Draco's lips move fruitlessly, struggling around words that fail to hold sound.

"Good lord, Draco. I told you to guess! You're never any fun. Crucio!"

The room disappears and brightness replaces it, distorting his vision as he writhes and screams, a thousand white-hot knives dragging through his skin all at once. Then the pain stops and the laughter comes again. The cold floor feels soothing for a moment.

"Found her in Diagon Alley. With her wand. Remember who had her wand last?"

A whimper fights its way out of Draco's throat and he shivers violently.

"You...y-you can't get away with this. My father..."

"Your father will what? Come back from the dead? Your father disappointed the Dark Lord too many times. He should be lucky to die by the Dark Lord's own hands!"

Still attempting to reserve his dignity, Draco's muscles contract with sobs that he doesn't dare release and he closes his eyes; nothing but pain seems to exist, drowning out the man's biting last words. Only when the door disappears and he and Bellatrix are left alone does he wish he had tried to negotiate with him instead of saying whatever useless thing came to mind.

Bellatrix lies facedown on the ground beside him, which is how Draco imagines he was before he woke up. He watches her for what seems like an eternity, but she doesn't stir. The steady rise and fall of her back is reassuring, though - at least she's still alive.

If this is even her.

He can think of a hundred people with whom he'd rather be trapped in a room right now...at least it isn't that Death Eater, too...Merlin forbid it's a member of the Order. He can't tell who would be more upset to see him, but he figures an Order member might take pity on him...

Yes, to a Death Eater, his loyalties lie in a dangerous sociopath who seems to have hypocritical ideologies, but to the Order of the Phoenix, he's just a child who made poor choices. He's gotten very good at knowing exactly which angles he needs to play, when.

Sometimes he truly wonders if things might have been different, had Dumbledore followed through on his bootless promises.

The brightness that fills the room without a tangible source begins to dim, a lack of light following Draco's increasing lack of interest in remaining coherent...he blinks more deeply until he sees the underside of his eyelids more often than curiously-stained walls and the slumped, broken-looking form of someone he hopes with the utmost insanity is his aunt…

Pontus, one of the many albino peacocks that roam around Malfoy Manor, walks in front of him and stops. It turns its beak toward him and cocks its head curiously, like an art enthusiast studying a painting. He takes a step toward it - on legs without bruises! - and it turns around quickly, scurrying off into a set of neatly-trimmed hedges. Instinctively, he runs after it and finds that his arm is fine now, healed completely, and the wounds on his chest haven't even left scars.

Beyond the hedges, another peacock and Pontus stand facing him, their heads cocked again, observing him. When he takes another step, they break off and run in two different directions, Icharus toward the garden and Pontus back through the hedges. He follows Icharus into the garden, running past towering roses that look as if the sunset were painted on them, tiny green stems sticking up from soil, and grapevines that weave themselves through a wooden fence.

Fleetingly, he wonders where the gardener has gone, since he's almost always here, and knows with a pang of irritation that the man will be fired for slacking on his duties.

Beyond the garden, at the edge of a magnificent koi pond, Icharus stops again, but does not turn to face him. The bird looks into the depths of the pond, completely still. There's a ripple at the surface of the water and Draco moves closer, expecting to find a koi. But there aren't any fish at all in the water, he realizes, looking around the pond, and it's become so deep, the bottom seems unfathomable.

Then there's an odd shape of white coming up through the water and Draco's heart races. The closer it comes to the surface, the more it starts to look like some sort of face, and terror makes his limbs grow cold and stiff.

All at once, the shape emerges in a nest of white hair: his father's lifeless visage, mouth and eyes open as if in shock.

A shriveled, burnt hand that could have been sculpted out of charcoal instead of skin grasps his shoulder and he jumps, unable to pry his gaze from the waterlogged corpse...a familiar voice speaks quietly in his ear, a voice that must be coming from the owner of this unfortunate hand…

"Your fate was my mistake, Draco. No one can erase what's been done, of course. Time is not under even the most adept wizard's power, but forgiveness is. I'm sorry."

When he is able to turn around, he's looking into the watery, sapphire-blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore and a vicious burst of anger and dejection washes over him.

"This is your fault, you stupid old man!"

The hand on his shoulder tightens and the vibrant garden becomes a dingy room, with cold stone pressed against his back instead of sunshine. There's a knife shimmering under his chin and the hand on his shoulder is shaking his entire body, along with his injured arm.

"Stop, stop it...please! My arm...it hurts, it hurts..." Draco whines pointedly.

The hand jerks away, but the knife remains under his chin. A set of dark brown eyes looms over him.

"Where are we?" Bellatrix's voice demands harshly and he cradles his arm to his chest again, wondering why she would be so unsympathetic, letting that comfortable, demented last bit of hope left in him cause him to believe it actually could be her and not a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Can't she see her nephew is in pain, lying on the ground? Where is her wand? Surely the Dark Lord has no reason to throw her in here...but, then again, he hardly sees a reason for himself to be here. He should be dead, like his father.

And most likely his mother, by now.

Tears well up in his eyes and his vision goes blurry. Bellatrix sighs and moves away from him to bang her fists against the wall where a door had once been.

"Urgh!" she bellows heatedly and by the time the banging has stopped, Draco is no longer holding back his tears, though his nose is now runny and he wishes he had something with which he could wipe it.

Sitting with her back against the wall and breathing heavily, Bellatrix's head is hung in defeat and she gives the wall one more hard punch for good measure. Draco sits up carefully.

"Do you have a wand?"

Bellatrix inhales sharply and whips her head toward him. She obviously had forgotten Draco was here. Shame bursts inside of him and he slumps slightly, feeling pathetic.

"He took it."

There's silence for a few minutes before Draco finds his voice again.

"And Mother?"

"What?"

Bellatrix looks down at herself bemusedly, then shapes her mouth into an understanding, "Oh".

He still wants to push away the idea that popped into his head when that Death Eater came back, so he frowns at Bellatrix and thinks of something he can ask her that only she would know.

"What was the name of Mother's first owl?"

Bellatrix's eyebrows furrow and it's obvious she's confused again, but then her face relaxes and she looks away, gloomily.

"I don't know."

Draco's fingers twitch, threatening to ball into a fist at his side. His cheeks are flush with embarrassment at the thought of having cried in front of one of Potter's friends.

"Who are you?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Bullocks. Who are you."

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Polyjuice potion doesn't last forever, you know. The Dark Lord is keeping Bellatrix at my manor...she wouldn't be window-shopping in Diagon Alley. Whoever you are, you must have the brain of a troll."

"Well, you're certainly not the brightest bulb in the box, either."

"Not the brightest what?"

"See what I mean?"

Draco opens his mouth to retort, but can't think of anything. His arm is throbbing in his lap, unable to be moved.

"What were you doing there, anyway? Trying to get at the Black fortune? You must be a mudblood, then...they're the only ones who need gold these days."

"Why do you care? Going to strangle me with one arm?"

"I knew something stunk."

"We were talking about me, not you."

There's silence and Draco wishes he could come up with something better to say, just to ensure he has the last word, but pain surges in his arm again and he hisses, fighting the urge to grab it.

"You don't fool me. You had Bellatrix's wand, so you must be one of Potter's lot...and since you're a mudblood, that rules the other two out. Not so clever now, are you, Granger?"

Bellatrix rolls her eyes and gets up to pace around the room, probably looking for another way out. Malfoy watches her with a narrowed gaze.

"They'll kill you if they find out who you are."

"No shit."

The room feels a lot bigger and emptier as Bellatrix ignores him, again pounding on the walls, trying to find a way out of the room.

"Do you really think you're going to get out of here by banging your fists on the walls?"

"Well, what else am I supposed to do? Sit here and cry about my dead father?"

Bellatrix's face slacks with guilt after she says this and Draco stares back at her, his teeth mashing together angrily, more tears stinging his eyes, desperate to pour over his cheeks again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean -"

"Don't you dare bring up my father! It's because of your people he's dead! It's because of you I'm in this mess!"

"Oh, go ahead and blame everyone but yourself -"

"Dumbledore lied to me! He said they would protect me! None of you cares about anything but winning the war - casualties don't make a difference as long as the world is conformed to your ideals in the end!"

Bellatrix opens her mouth to respond, but closes it just as quickly. After a few more seconds, she opens it again, though her lips are now beginning to thicken and her face is bulging in odd places.

The Polyjuice Potion is wearing off.

Draco smirks, leaning back and enjoying the show, waiting for Bellatrix's hair to become lighter and bushier, for her front teeth to grow past her bottom lip...yet her hair begins to recede into her scalp, getting exponentially shorter until it's a bit higher than shoulder length.

Drastic haircut? Draco wonders, but he's no longer convinced. He swallows, his heartbeat jumping back into a panicked rhythm as he sees her eyes change from brown to bright green.

"No," he breathes, and a familiar feeling of hopelessness snakes its way into his stomach. It's immediately obvious to him which way the war will be headed now and he can't bring himself to deny that by this point, he wanted almost anyone but Voldemort to win. "Potter, you idiot!"

Using his uninjured hand to push himself off the ground, he runs full speed toward Harry, wanting nothing more than to tear his eyes out. He swings his left arm up under Harry's jaw, although it's not as hard as it could be since he's right-handed, and Harry stumbles backward in surprise before catching the next attempt at a blow that comes at him and pulling it behind Malfoy's back.

"Ah-! Cut it out! Let go!"

"In order for us to get out of here, we're going to have to stop fighting and work together. That means shutting your mouth," he warns, pausing before saying, "and trying not to beat my face in. Got it?"

"Yes - ow! - fine, whatever you say!"

Draco nods furiously, sweat forming like dew drops over his forehead - anything to make Harry let go. When Harry steps away from him, he flexes his wrist and winces dramatically, making sure to let the latter know how much it hurt for him to grab his wrist like that.

"Skeeter was right about you; you're mental."

"And you're a git. Now, can we figure a way out of here? I don't know if you've noticed, but there's still a war going on."

"A war that you think you're going to win. What makes you so sure? Why haven't you given up yet? The Dark Lord has hundreds of followers practiced in advanced dark magic you couldn't possibly imagine...how could someone like you ever hope to beat him?"

"You want him to win, don't you? After all he's done to you. To your family. You still think you're on the right side."

"I'm finished choosing sides! I never wanted any of this to happen! I just want it to be over so I can go home!"

"But it won't be over until someone wins. People will continue to die." Potter's eyes darken intensely, but he swallows as if hesitating to say what comes out of his mouth next. "I'm the only one who knows how to defeat him. If I die in here, Vol - he wins."

"Why should I care who wins and who loses?"

Malfoy hates that his voice is shaky, knows Harry can hear the doubt in it.

"Because the world doesn't revolve around you and your mum, Malfoy. It will never be what you want it to be if you sit back and let someone else fight your battles for you. Then they're not your battles, but they still affect you, whether you like it or not."

Draco narrows his eyes, jealousy and rage coursing through his blood, spreading to every point of his body. Harry's eyes catch the dim lights overhead and twinkle at him mockingly. He hates those eyes. That sleek, carelessly-unkempt hair, straight nose, hard eyebrows, and masculine jawline. He hates the way Potter sounds so much older, as if he knows things Draco doesn't...that he's somehow always more significant than Draco in every way.

"You think you're so wise. Harry Potter, The Chosen One, constantly saving the day by compensating for talent with mindless heroics and sheer dumb luck.

"Dumbledore is dead. He and his friends can't swoop in and save you at the last minute. Now that the fight is yours alone, The Dark Lord will win. He will kill everyone you love until you wish he'd kill you, too. You're making it easier for him with your foolish Gryffindor bravery, your impulse to put yourself on the line for people who aren't important."

Harry's face reddens and he clenches his teeth; Draco simpers, knowing he's struck the right cord - his first victory in a very long time.

"Shut your mouth, Malfoy, before I -"

"Before you break my other arm? I'm no stranger to pain, Potter. You do what you want with me. But the day I help you with anything is the day I die."

After his initial belligerence, a kind of pity is apparent in the dancing lights of Harry's vivid irises as he locks eyes with Malfoy, an embarrassing moment suspended in unmarked time. When he looks away, Draco is more confused and ashamed than angry - that even Potter feels sorry for him, a feeling Draco usually triumphs in bringing out in others, but now only makes him want to hide away where no one can look at him like that ever again.

Draco turns his back to Harry and walks shakily to the other side of the room. There's nowhere he can go to escape this new, unsettling self-disappointment he's developed. He can feel Harry staring at the back of his head, reminding him of the one thing his so-called enemies have been able to give him that Voldemort and his followers never have.

Compassion.

He feels the memory of his mother's soft velvet robes encompassing his shoulders, her reassuring grip on his arms and soothing voice telling him she won't let any harm come to him as long as she lives.

Well, where are you now, Mother?

It hurts to point any blame at all in his mum's direction, but the thoughts are there all the same, bitter and stagnant. The more he wills himself not to think of it, the more he does.

"We need to get out of here. Lestrange might come back at any minute," Harry's voice breaks into his thoughts.

"What Lestrange? You mean the man who locked us in here?"

"I thought you were cozy with your in-laws."

Draco scoffs, color now slowly seeping into his cheeks to turn them a light pink.

"You know nothing about me."

"I know more than you think."

This statement scares Draco more than he'll ever admit. Potter's always been nosy and sneaky, able to find out things that he has no business knowing, especially when it comes to Draco. Harry is one of the rare things that can make him lose his cool, although that list seems to be getting longer recently.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Potter," Draco snarls, instinctively.

Even though his voice comes out strong and confident, as he intended it to, Harry somehow still looks at him as if he's unfazed by Draco's impulsive bluffing, as if his words don't mean anything at all, passing right through him like boiling water through a colander.

It's more than perception, he thinks, slightly terrified...it's understanding. Empathy.

No wonder he's been such a thorn in The Dark Lord's side.

He wishes he could go back to seeing Harry as the smug, self-satisfied dunce who slung petty insults at him over a cauldron of incomprehensible sludge, but the man standing in front of him has changed somehow.

Or maybe Draco's the one who's changed.

"So...I think," Harry starts, clearing his throat and switching his scrutiny from Draco to the wall again, "we should wait until he comes back, then jump him and grab his wand. Do you remember how we got in here?"

Draco nods and walks over to where the door had been when one of the Lestranges entered, gesturing toward it with his left hand.

"A door appeared, right here."

"Okay. So, you sit over there," he demands calmly, pointing to the left side of where Draco indicated, "and I'll sit here. We can sleep in shifts, and if one of us sees the door start to open, we'll wake the other up."

"Why do you get to make all the demands? Do I have a say in this?"

"All right. If you have a better plan, then let's hear it."

Draco rolls his eyes because he's unable to cross his arms, adopting an absurdly-childish demeanor as he admits silently that Potter has won this argument.

"Fine. You take first watch."

"You're going to sleep already?"

"Yes. Have you got a problem with that?"

Harry pauses minutely then exhales and sits on the floor, cross-legged.

"No. None at all. Go ahead."

"Thank you, oh gracious Potter, for giving me permission to sleep."

"Don't worry about it," the latter responds with an exhausted, sarcastic drawl. Draco doesn't feel nearly tired enough to sleep yet, but he lies down and closes his eyes, anyway, if only to have an excuse not to communicate with Harry. After only an hour, however, due to the relaxation of his breath, or the unsettling silence of the room, he ends up drifting off.

When his eyes are open again, he's shivering and a wave of cold air attacks his body as if he's stepped through a ghost. Harry is in the same place as before, shivering as well and leaning with his back against the wall now, his dark circles prominent against his Winter-paled skin.

The steady rhythm of teeth chattering against teeth overpowers the silence of the room and Harry must hear it, too, because he looks up at Malfoy and frowns. His jaw is twitching, as if his teeth are also chattering.

Great. Just what they need, another way to die.

His stomach rumbles violently, reminding him of the first way, and he shuts his eyes tightly against the nausea and pain of hunger. Potter is hugging himself so tightly it looks as if he's trying to hold his ribs in place; Draco follows suit, but the small bit of warmth that comes from it isn't nearly enough to appease him. It doesn't seem to be working for Harry, either.

"Shouldn't he be back by now?" Draco says irritably through his teeth. He wishes now, more than ever, that he had a wand, or somehow knew how to cast wandless spells.

As though Draco's said this out loud, Harry is flicking his finger about in front of him, as he would a wand, and muttering different spells for conjuring fire. Nothing is happening.

"Incendio! Callus proximus!"

"It's not going to work."

"Incendio!"

"You can't -"

"We have to try!" Harry cries out deafeningly, his fists slamming against the floor at his sides. "It won't end like this!"

Draco looks down at the ground, fear swallowing his heart after hearing the word, "end" pass through Potter's lips.

Hugging himself more tightly, he thinks this is probably the perfect time to die. His father is gone, and his mum likely is, too. He's been torturing people for You-Know-Who and trying unsuccessfully to be a murderer - constantly doing what others have told him to do, but never doing it well enough.

Too many truths have dawned on his inherent sense of importance: A muggleborn has beaten him in every school test for six years; being a Death Eater is more terrifying and degrading than it is exciting, as he'd desperately hoped it would be a year ago; and his enemies have shown him more kindness than even his father had.

He's had to learn that death is traumatizing, not exhilarating, and wants to stay away from it at all costs.

What is he left with? He's dedicated his entire life to supporting rationales that seem to have huge, unavoidable flaws. He hasn't been spending his time at Hogwarts preparing for an actual career because he thought all he wanted to be was a Death Eater like his father. He isn't ready to speak his mind to anyone - he's not even sure what that would entail, since not one of his opinions, it seems, is set in stone.

He's been thrown carelessly into this room to die of hypothermia or hunger. There may be no one out there wondering where he is, because nothing would change if he were to make it out of this situation alive, unlike Potter, who carries the expected outcome of the war on his shoulders like a flag to which people blindly salute. They don't see an inexperienced, foolhardy, seventeen-year-old boy when they swear their allegiance. They only see a mysterious prophecy that no one's actually heard, yet is somehow accepted to mean that Harry is the one chosen by fate to vanquish The Dark Lord once and for all.

Even without the prophecy, Harry still has real friends worrying about him somewhere - friends he made through common interest, and not through politics. This is something Draco has never really had. Even if Harry had accepted his offer of friendship in their first year, it would not be because he was fond of Draco in any way. It would be because Draco offered something he thought Harry wanted, a familiar face in a hall of strangers, and Draco would always know that this offer was predisposed, not something he'd decided to do on his own.

As his hands start to go completely numb, he tucks his left under his armpit (unable to move the right), if not to save his life, then to save himself from the unpleasantness of frostbite.

His watery grey eyes drag toward Harry and see, again, that he is doing the same thing. The most primal instincts of humans are identical.

"Why didn't you tell your friends how to defeat him? You just believed you'd never die?"

Harry doesn't respond, either because he's shivering too much or he doesn't know what to say. It's then that Draco sees the white flecks falling onto his torn robes. Disgusted, he thinks of dandruff, but then he tilts his head upward and sees that the flecks are coming from the ceiling. Snowflakes?

He makes brief eye contact with Harry, trying to see if it's snowing on him as well, but the minuscule balls of frost only seem to be falling onto his own head and not in any other part of the room.

"Are you making it -" he starts, but Draco interrupts him.

"- Snow? Apparently. Oh, for Merlin's sake..."

"So, this room locks in everything, including temperature."

"But it was cold before it started to snow!"

"Well, you must be doing something!"

"I swear, I'm not doing anything!"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot that snow can conjure itself."

"It's not as though I want to freeze my arse off!"

Draco rubs his hands over his upper arms and tucks his chin into the high collar of his shirt, which was once white and tasteful, but is now shredded and covered in his own dried blood. He wonders how long it will be before an infection starts to set in, but knows that dehydration will be the thing that kills him first.

Another flurry of snowflakes drops into his lap and his eyes widen excitedly as he realizes what a miracle it actually is to have frozen water falling from the ceiling!

Immediately, he holds his mouth open for the snow, allowing it to fall onto his tongue and melt into drops of drinkable water.

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaims, rushing over to join Malfoy with his hands cupped.

As his shoulder is pressed up against Malfoy's in pursuit of water, the warmth of another body seeps in through his clothing and the grin he's sporting in reaction to finding out he won't at least die of dehydration fades into a contemplative frown.

Harry must sense it, too, because he pulls away from the snow and leans his back against the wall, silently. After staring out at the room blankly for a good three minutes, they dare a glance at each other and an unwelcome idea presents itself without words: using each other for warmth.

When this idea is understood, they quickly divert their gazes to the floor, but remain where they are.

"I'll just, er -" Harry starts.

"What? No, you..." Draco reacts as Harry turns suddenly, raising his arm for some kind of embrace. He catches the arm with his left and manages to keep Harry where he is with an unconvincingly-dark expression.

"You stay there. Don't do...that. Whatever you were trying to do."

"I thought...nevermind."

Malfoy feels his face start to heat up, but Harry doesn't notice.

"Let's not get too comfortable yet, yeah?"

There's a pause, and then Harry starts laughing quietly; Malfoy finds the corners of his lips twitching upward of their own accord, followed by an uncontrollable chuckle.

The warmth coming from Harry seems a million times more potent and when they stop laughing, their teeth stop chattering, although they continue to shiver. Something foreign has connected them for the time being, and maybe it's just the physical feeling of sitting so close together, but Draco thinks their seven-year-long feud doesn't feel quite so ominous anymore, judging them like a set of eyes in the corner of the room.

In his mind, he goes back to his first day at Hogwarts. He knows now, after many years of revisiting this memory, that the old saying is true: You can't choose your friends. Even if he had phrased his offer differently, or been nicer to Potter, their beliefs would have inevitably clashed.

Draco was never meant to be brave and daring, to stand alongside Potter as he risked his life without thinking first. No, he's a Slytherin through and through, just like his parents. Harry and Draco, because of the people they were raised to be, were never supposed to share jokes instead of curses. They have been on separate paths from day one.

"Why did they put you in here? Why didn't they just..."

Harry holds back the rest of his sentence, but Draco knows exactly what he was going to ask. Why is Draco here and not dead?

"I don't know. I woke up and I was here."

His throat constricts painfully; he hadn't noticed he was holding back more tears. In truth, his last memory was the piercing wails of his mother's grief as Lucius' consciousness left his body.

Draco finds himself leaning negligibly closer to Harry as more snowflakes fall onto their tattered clothing, just because he can. Even if it's Potter, he's thankful for someone whose every shaky breath reminds him that he's not alone. Oh, well. It's optimistic to think he'll have plenty of time to feel bad about it later.

Somehow, he feels safer now that Harry is here, because he knows Harry is always stubbornly prone to do the right thing. Unlike the many other family friends or fellow Death Eaters with whom he's been having to interact, he realizes he doesn't have to watch his own back constantly because Harry is tediously good. He dodges debauchery just like cracks in pavement, maintaining his image by genuinely always wanting to put himself before others: vanilla cake with vanilla icing, tooth-decayingly sweet and simple. And Draco is well aware that too much of Harry will make him sick.

The chill in the room comes in waves, causing Harry and Draco to wrap their arms around themselves and stay close together. Soon, their teeth are chattering again and the emptiness of Draco's stomach starts to make him feel woozy.

He sneaks a glance at Harry, who has his eyes closed. Only about a year ago, his vulnerability would have been exciting - Draco would get the praise he deserved and might outrank even his father...handing Harry over to The Dark Lord was something he dreamed about every night, thinking it was the solution to all of his problems.

It's definitely still a possibility, he muses. But the idea fills him with the worst kind of anxiety - his heart starts to throw itself around in his chest and his lungs ignore his pleading to let him keep breathing, let him keep breathing.

He hasn't quite pinpointed why he's so terrified about the outcome of the war. It could be his seething anger toward You-Know-Who for effectively ruining Draco's life, or it could also be he truly doesn't want their world to be taken over by psychopaths like Fenrir Greyback.

But, there's another possibility making undesirable appearances in his head: Harry, this boy with a handsome, gentle face pressed against his side, who pities him even after all their fighting, who automatically included Draco in the escape plan, as if he didn't even consider leaving him here to die...

Draco knows where these feeble thoughts lead. He's pretty sure he doesn't have it in him to turn Harry over to Voldemort anymore, and it's just another thing he can add to the increasing number of reasons to be disappointed in the person he's become.

How did he end up being so insignificant? His entire life he was told he was special because of his blood, wealth, and status. Yet, Granger's a better witch than he is a wizard, his current status is enough to make everyone but the Death Eaters despise him, and what the hell is money good for right now? He can't eat it, it won't make him warm, and it won't get him out of this room. Everything he's been so proud of seems entirely useless and it's confusing. Did his parents know this? Or were they just stupid?

He starts to sniffle again and his eyes swell with quiet tears. Knowing Harry is probably asleep and won't be able to see, he still turns his head away.

As his luck would have it, Harry's eyes blink open and he looks at the back of Malfoy's head for a moment before looking away and letting breath out through his partially-closed lips. Malfoy tries to pretend Harry's still sleeping, because he needs to be able to let himself go right now.

It feels like seventeen years of misery is trying to pour out of him.

There are seconds while he's struggling to keep himself from crying in which he wants to hurt Harry for not having anything to cry about, too, and seconds in which he just wishes he could fast forward time, skip his suffering and let his soul leave his crumpled, bony body lying in a heap on the floor to decompose.

The tears don't last as long as he expects them to, thankfully, and when his eyes are dry, he wipes his cheeks and nose on his sleeve, which should be revolting, but now only seems necessary.

Draco hides his face in his arms and takes deep, silent breaths, trying to steady his breathing. He can feel Harry shift uneasily beside him, but tells himself he doesn't care. Although he's very good at disguising his emotions and Harry would never be able to tell that he's been crying, he should know that not everyone has the strength, nor the support that he does, and Draco is one of those exceptions, because Draco hadn't needed any of that until the war came along and The Dark Lord called upon him to take his father's place and do his spitefully-impossible bidding.

He wants so badly to continue to blame Harry for this decision, but he's not as delightfully ignorant as he was when he was sixteen. Being a Death Eater was always in his future and he took lots of pride in that, because that was what made his father so important and admirable.

In many ways, he still wishes he were like his father. If he were implacable enough to kill, he'd be in a better place right now. If he were completely set on an opinion for the new world Voldemort is trying to create, he would not be addled with guilt and regret.

But, Lucius hadn't been so calm and collected when Burbage had been murdered in front of them. Perhaps Lucius had never killed at all. Why is that thought making him feel better about his father? Shouldn't it make him feel more ashamed, that his father was a weakling like Draco, who isn't even able to cast the Cruciatus Curse on someone without having consistent nightmares about it afterward? But, Lucius has cast many Cruciatus Curses and never felt a thing; Draco knows this for sure.

So, it must be just him, then. Destined for greatness, with the bravado of the Malfoy name propelling him forward, but somehow failing horribly to fit into the mold expected of him.

"We'll be out of here soon. We aren't going to die."

"Well, if I don't die in here, I'll just die out there, won't I? Both sides want me dead now. I have nowhere to go, and my mother's probably..."

He can't bring himself to say this fear out loud, because he doesn't want it to be true. Some part of him thinks that if he believes his mum is alive, she will be.

"You think I'd leave you here just because we don't get along? Our side - we're not like them, Draco. We want to help. Why can't you trust us? You don't really want to go back to torturing people for Vol - You-Know-Who, do you?"

"How do you know what I did for him?"

Harry looks down at the ground, avoiding Draco's gaze.

"It doesn't matter."

"No, I want to know. Have you been spying on me? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised. You always did like sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"No, I haven't been spying on you. I have much bigger issues than some kid who decided to make his life a living hell."

"Maybe hell for you, but it was fine for me."

Harry chuckles and shakes his head, blowing air through his lips.

"Right. Of course. It must be fantastic, being You-Know-Who's puppet. I'd love if he made me do things he knew I couldn't do, then killed my father, to top it all off! Oh, wait! He has!"

"Your dead parents guilt trip shit won't work on me, Potter. I don't care what's happened to you."

Harry keeps laughing and shaking his head and Draco feels himself blushing furiously. If he were in more of a position to do so, he'd wipe that smile right off Potter's face with a good hex.

"You're unbelievable."

It's frustrating that he can't get a rise out of Harry anymore. It used to be incredibly easy - just a few well-placed words, a crack on his parents, on the mudblood, or the Weasel, if he wasn't standing alongside Harry, which he always was. Now it's apparent Harry's grown past all that and Malfoy's the least of his worries.

"You grew up with muggles, yeah? That's what my father said...tell me, was it difficult to breathe with them stinking up the house?"

"Not every muggle is like my aunt and uncle. There are plenty of nice ones out there, Malfoy, as impossible as it may seem to you. And I'm sure if they could have magic, they would want to, but we don't choose the way we're born. They don't choose not to have magic, just like you didn't choose to be born into a family of pompous twats."

"Talk about my family again, Potter, and I swear I'll have your tongue."

"Oh, calm down, you prat. I don't get the same kind of joy out of making people suffer as you do."

"Keep running your mouth and you'll see exactly how much I like making people suffer."

"I'm terrified."

"Don't mock me. If we had our wands, you'd be on your back in less than five minutes."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Could be. We'll see when we get out of here, won't we?"

"All right. What are the stakes?"

"If I win, you give me back my wand."

"How do you know I have your wand?"

"I'm not stupid. You were the one who disarmed me at the Manor."

"Fair enough. And if I win...you never say the word, 'mudblood' again."

"What's to stop me from saying it around everyone but you?"

"I'll ask Hermione for help."

"But, she could be dead, for all you know."

Harry flinches and visibly swallows - when he looks at Draco, his eyes seem to be looking at something else.

"She'll be okay. She can handle anything."

Draco reaches into the recesses of his brain for something particularly nasty to say, but Harry's crestfallen expression makes him falter, and he restrains the comment, which is something he never does with Potter, especially where his friends are concerned.

The silences that follow their sporadic conversations are expected now. Unfortunately for Draco, when he and Potter aren't bantering, his thoughts take over and press him into the ground with their formidable weight. So, instead of letting it linger, Draco fishes for some kind of question that will grasp Harry's attention.

"Why are you trying to help me?"

Harry takes his time responding, as though he's imagining each word and lining it up in his mind before he says it out loud.

"I know what it's like to lose a parent."

"I don't need your help."

"Yes, you do. Shut up and admit it."

"Not everyone needs saving! Merlin, what is it with you!"

"So, you'd rather me leave you all alone, without anywhere to go. That sounds like fun to you."

"I'd rather be alone than have you trailing behind my back, watching everything I do."

"You know what? Fine. You want to go off and cry yourself to death in some ditch somewhere, that's bloody fantastic. Have fun. I'm sick of trying to be nice to you."

"Good. Fine."

Draco frowns and crosses his arms; it feels as if water is coming down from the walls, pooling around him until it's up to his neck, pressing against his chest, bringing him close to suffocating. He can imagine a plug just in front of him, stuck into the floor, but he won't pull it. He'd rather drown than pull it.

As he wallows blindly in self-pity, tears threatening to launch themselves out of the corners of his eyes, Potter stares at him intently, then sighs.

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy. The world isn't going to end if you let me help you. You don't have to give up your pride to admit you're wrong. In fact, that's probably the only thing that will allow you to keep it."

"Quit preaching to me. It won't work."

"Then grow the hell up!"

"What do you want me to say? You want me to start holding hands with muggles, go against everything I've been taught to believe? Well, I won't do it! I'd rather rot than fight with the likes of you!"

"I'm not saying you have to fight with me, or hold hands with muggles, or anything like that. I just want you to let us protect you."

"Like Dumbledore said he'd protect me? Yeah, no thanks. I'll take my chances."

"You can't survive the war all by yourself, in the kind of position you're in. You-Know-Who is after me, too, if you haven't realized."

"Great. That really makes me want to hang around you."

"It means that I know how to avoid him, and I can help you do the same. I have a safe place you can stay. Mind, the people there might not be so happy to see you, but I know they'll take care of you until someone can find your mum."

At the mention of his mum, Draco's breath hitches and his throat cinches agonizingly. When he speaks, his voice cracks and wavers. He tries his best to fight through the thought of not having her in his life so he can croak out a response.

"You're talking about me like I'm a child. I'm an adult. I can take care of myself."

"Look. Sometimes people just need someone to pull them up off the ground. I'm offering you a hand here. All you have to do is take it."

The most perceptible silence that has occurred so far follows this statement and Draco is aware that Potter is carefully observing him as he turns his head away and fights back even more tears.

After a few minutes of painful swallowing, Draco finds that his enemy is his only comfort right now, an emollient of emanating warmth and forgiveness that he hasn't even sought. It makes his soul ache to become the kind of person who would deserve such unadulterated care. But, when he's calmed down enough to stop shunning his overpowering emotions, he remembers exactly the kind of person he is, and the kind of person Harry is, and that warmth gives way to frigid air that blows right through him as if he's composed of nothing but thin paper.

Harry's arm twitches and Draco is forced to face the fact that his wordless admonition of weakness is also his way of saying, Yes, I need help. I just don't know how to say so yet. Harry looks at the ground, not even close to understanding this, and Draco repeats a mantra of reassurance in his head until his mind is more willing to drift off to sleep than believe its own thoughts.

When he wakes up, his stomach feels as though it's eating through itself. He knows he doesn't have much time left. Both of them are going to die very soon.

He's late to notice that his head has been slumped on Harry's shoulder, which makes him jump away immediately before his uncontrollable shivering forces him back to where he was. Harry is startled out of his own nap with the commotion and Draco wonders if he'll notice the tiny drool stain on his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to.

Vaguely, he takes into account the fact that there isn't any snow falling onto his head anymore, which is both a good thing and a very, very bad thing. Without water, they could die within a day or two.

His tongue and mouth feel like hot, dry sand. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to move his tongue. He's not sure if there's even any saliva left in him at all.

"We're never going to get out of here," Draco thinks out loud.

"Don't say that! He could come back any minute."

The room around them is rippling and tilting absurdly, though he can tell he's completely stationary. It's just difficult to find out which way is the ceiling, and which way is the roof...

"If we die in here, Potter -"

"We are not going to die in here!"

"If we die in here, I want you to know that you've proven to be...tolerable."

The words that come from his mouth sound as if they're being yelled at Harry from a mile away. Somehow that makes them less real, less significant. He can feel somewhere in the most reclusive parts of his brain that everything happening right now is in some distant, alternate dimension and it won't impact his own life or Potter's in any way.

"You're scaring me."

A minute goes by and his head pounds as though someone's hammering a nail in both of his temples.

"I feel light-headed..." Draco groans and Harry scrunches his eyes up as if fighting a headache as well.

"We need to get out of here. Soon."

"Oh, really?"

All of a sudden, the wall pressed against their back vibrates. Harry reacts immediately, standing up and assuming a ready stance. Draco stumbles a little as he follows suit. It's difficult to stand up when the floor is wobbling precariously under his feet.

Harry makes some sort of hand signal to him that he can't quite make sense of, then the door appears in the wall and opens between them, revealing a disheveled-looking girl with bushy brown hair and buckteeth.

"Hermione?"

"Harry!"

The girl rushes toward Harry and throws her arms around him. Then there's a patch of fire, light, or red hair coming through the doorway and the room starts to become darker, slipping away from him like the open end of a long tunnel.

"Malfoy? Malfoy!"