Disclaimer: I did not create the characters, or the base storyline, just this little snippit of a plot. Jo did, you should know that by now...

Author's Note: Nothing makes me happier than a review! Even if you don't like this, please let me know!

Silent Hero

"All you have to do, son, is tell me where it is," the cold, malevolent voice repeated once again.

He wasn't his son, but this little tidbit escaped mention. The smooth and coaxing, almost soothing tone didn't fool him either. He had played this game his entire life, he knew the rules. The combination of velvety textured persuasion and the pure malice just below the surface sent shivers of disgust down his spine, into his gut. He shuddered involuntarily.

"Your father would be disgusted. Don't you want to live?" the voice demanded.

Draco wanted to scream "Yes, yes I want to live!" as loud as his raw throat would allow, yet the word never left his thoughts, never passed his lips. He couldn't say the one word aloud; that would weaken the silence he was so stubbornly holding onto. Saying 'yes', meant his own death and ruin, the tortured chaos and the death of countless innocents, as well as the one person he swore to protect and love. He would not be the one who caused that to happen. He was not going to be responsible for another's demise, above all hers. Draco was no longer his lackey; partaking in and enjoying the bloodshed. Of course, remaining silent guaranteed his own death, but that was something he knew was no longer important. Keeping true to the Order, his new friends, to Hermione was what was important. Her face floated passed his closed eyelids. Her simple beauty, her wild and unruly curls, her warm and large brown eyes, made his rapid breathing calm. Only three days ago, he'd asked her to marry him. Now that he finally had dreams, and the promise of a future, it was being ripped from underneath him. It had taken him nearly eighteen long, angst and hate filled years to see something that was deeper than blood, stronger than his ties, and right in front of him all along. It had taken him years to see her as anything more than wasted dirty blood, yet only days to discover just how genuinely he loved her. He had run to the Order for solace, and had found his redemption. She stood as an outcast, and had believed him when the others refused. She alone convinced them all, and convinced him that he was capable of more. His love for her held his silence in the face of death; he would not die knowing that he had killed her.

The curse shot towards him again. Pain coursed throughout his flaccid body. There was so much pain and still he heard the wicked cackling of his once leader, now tormentor, as he ripped through the tender and mutilated flesh. The sound of cruelty and the torturous pain penetrated his skull. It burrowed deep inside as if it was a worm digging itself into the earth. Each intricate carving seared its way into his skin, through his veins and tendons. His arms, his legs, his head, every single living cell screamed, silently, for release. His brain wanted to explode, his heart wanted to stop its struggle to beat and his soul wanted let go, to rest in peace.

The curse lifted, the pain temporarily eased once more. His lungs protested each shuddering intake of the cold, damp air. Death wasn't far now, he knew this instinctively. He had seen it so many times before.

Already his insides felt as if they were fragile glass and the slightest touch would shatter him into a million shards. Hope of escape had fled his thoughts hours ago. Hope of surviving, of conquering those who held him captive, had long ago run into the deepest parts of his conscious.

Voldemort might not have felt the same type of pain, the same suffering, that Draco did but he was going to suffer, and his suffering was going to be much greater than Draco's. Chained to a wall inside a dank, foul smelling room, he found the strength to stand upright. Draco stood as straight as his weakened, dying body would let him and opened his eyes. He stared his captor straight in the face and found it lacking, dirty and empty. Voldemort's face, bone thin and stretched like a tight sheet, looked back at Draco. His red slits, narrowed.
"Are you ready now, boy, to end the pain? Tell me where they are hiding, and I will stop it. Stop the pain."

Draco started to laugh. The sound was hoarse, dry and raspy. His throat scraped raw from screams, he could taste the rusty blood, and feel the sting as he laughed. It didn't stop the laughter from coming. He laughed because the pain was going to end soon and, though Voldemort wanted Draco dead, it was going to come sooner than he wanted it. He was going to die without uttering a single betrayal. Voldemort's silted red eyes became slants as he glared, hatefully at Draco.

"You dare to laugh? I can cause even more pain, is that what you want?"

Draco laughed harder. Maybe the hours of torture, of absolute pain, had caused insanity to edge up in him just a bit, he didn't know. Angering the man who held his life in the palm of his cold, snakelike hands wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, after all. However, Draco wasn't going to die as Voldemort wanted him to. He wasn't going to die, cowardly shouting out their whereabouts, and he wasn't going to die screaming in pain. He was going to die like the person Hermione thought him to be and he was going to die on his terms.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. He looked to see Voldemort raising his hand, ready to send another agonizing blow Draco's way. Abruptly he stopped laughing, not in fear but in thought. The sudden silence caused Voldemort to pause. Draco lifted his face, his body was limp and the only thing holding him up was the chains wrapped tightly about his wrists. Draco lifted his head and stared fate in the eyes. Death wasn't far now. Already, it was growing harder to draw in a breath. His heart was slowing and darkness tinged the corners of his vision. He was going to die. He could do nothing to stop it, but he wasn't going to die a weak, frightened boy. He was going to die knowing he hadn't betrayed his beloved. This was the last thing he could do for her. He was going to die knowing he had had the last laugh and he was going to die bravely. Foolishly maybe, but bravely.

When he spoke, his voice was thin, weak, and hoarse. "You want to know where the headquarters are? You really think you can stop them?"

Voldemort's paused arm lowered. A keen, eager expression washed over the ugly skull like face. "Yes," he hissed fervently, triumphantly, almost desperately.

Draco could hardly see the room any longer. It was going dark faster. He didn't want the last thing he saw to be the face of everything dark and evil, so he closed his eyes. Hermione's face hovered there. He found a little remaining strength inside himself.

"Tell me," the cold voice demanded impatiently.

"I'll tell you," Draco agreed his voice no more then a soft whisper.

"Yes," the evil man hissed eagerly, "Tell me."

With his remaining strength Draco breathed, "They are everywhere. They are in every single waking thought you have. They are the light to your eternal darkness, and they are coming for you."

Draco's breathing stopped.

I love you, Hermione. You are safe for now, please take care of yourself. Help them to defeat him.

His heart ceased to beat.

With that, the raging, cold, fury filled figure in front of him raised his wand, but Draco was already gone.