A/N This chapter takes place shortly after the Easter holidays. And just before anybody wonders, the next two small chapters will also take place in the dungeons. The last (longer) two won't though :)

And to the anonymous reviewer: I'm afraid I'm not that good at romance. There will be one or two cute moments between the two in this story (or at least I hope that you'll find them cute). And maybe I'll come up with some more for one-shots. I'll try, promise.


This time he was sobbing like the girl when he had first met her. Not in his worst nightmares had he expected what had happened during the holidays. It was not even the torture, his mother had ordered him to retreat to his room and he had therefore missed the first wave of the Dark Lordʼs wrath. Unlike his father, he didnʼt bear all too visible signs of the punishment, although he felt still sore all over his body. But he could have born the pain, after all he had done of late, the physical pain was far more trifling than he would ever have expected before that it could be. He could even bear that he had to watch his parents suffer and to know that his parents suffered watching him in pain. Not even the horror of finding Wormtail, despite never having liked him, strangled by his own hand, the Dark Lordʼs gift, really haunted him though the corpse had looked disgusting. That the Lord gave such fatal presents didnʼt surprise him anymore. He could even have born the loss of his wand. He still missed it acutely, but he liked having his motherʼs with him, it felt like a part of her. But he was scared for his parents, who now were both wandless before his aunt. She had been granted Grangerʼs, but Weasleyʼs and Potterʼs new one had been destroyed. But this still wasn't what bothered him and made him question his whole existence. What truly shocked, deeply troubled, and uprooted him was what he had felt before the prisoners had escaped.

He had seen Potter, and Granger, even worse Weasley. He had suspected before that there was something fishy with that spattergroit, but seeing the sudden confirmation was still sickening. He had seen them all, disliked them more than ever, and yet he wished them anywhere else but in his house. He wanted them to just go, to leave and let him and his family live like before. And when the elf Apparated them out, all he had felt was relief which was so wrong of him. There it had suddenly become possible to restore their old glory, and he was glad that they had missed it. He shouldn't feel grateful that he didnʼt have to see their corpses in his house. His primary disgust shouldn't be how Greyback had lusted for Granger. The prisoners, the one chance to make amends for their past failures, were gone. So why did the house feel purer once they had fled?

It was wrong. Something was wrong with him. He should have been excited for the opportunity to return to the Dark Lordʼs favour. He should feel ashamed for Potterʼs escape, but whatever he tried, there was always that damnable relief. He was unworthy to be a wizard. He was weak, he was a shame.

He had never been gladder before for his refuge down here. He had sunk as low as possible in his friendsʼ opinion. Theodore and Blaise didnʼt talk to him anymore, and Pansy didnʼt even look at him. If Crabbe and Goyle were not so stupid as to need someone to command them around, he wouldnʼt even have their sullen company. The rest of the school had always despised him anyway, so he couldnʼt exactly expect sympathy from someone like Longbottom. The worst were the Carrows, who both had their own cruel ways of showing him their disdain. They both sensed how weak he was and picked him out for torturing those in detention or for reciting how disgusting Muggleborns were, including some personal experience. He really didnʼt know how to comment on Grangerʼs teeth anymore, especially as she had shrunk them years ago and the Carrow woman had not the most correct teeth on earth either.

He rested his wet, heated head on his knees and tried to become calm enough to return to the common room. If he staid away too long, he would have to face some uncomfortable questions. Slowly his ragged breathing turned more regular.

ʻAre you all right?ʼ

Draco jumped as the voice sounded just beside him. He had not met her for a while, but he recognized the little Greengrassʼ voice immediately. Still, shock made him try to get to his feet, panicked that someone had caught him crying.

ʻLumos!ʼ

For a split second Draco saw the worried look in her far too big eyes, then she froze and let her wand fall, darkness returning. He heard her kneeling down and searching hastily for her wand before she scrambled nervously to her feet again.

He had been last in her company before the holidays, these horrible holidays that had everything, including her, almost completely driven from his mind. Now she was suddenly all he could think about. He had been so careful never to betray himself to her, to keep her ignorant of his identity while they were sitting together in the darkness of the dungeons. He had watched her as much as he could without being noticed, eager to know when he might meet her in the loneliness of the dungeons and equally determined to do not draw attention to his behaviour, not his friendsʼ, not the girlʼs. Before the Easter holidays, the thought of her had burnt like a talisman inside him during his daily suffering and abandonment: He would wait - not to see, not to talk – wait only to hear her breathe again. And now he might lose any possibility of ever being in her company again. Desperation gripped him harder than before.

ʻDonʼt go,ʼ he whispered with a cracked voice, piercingly scared that she might go.

ʻYou!ʼ she hissed back, already on her feet. ʻIt was you, who was sitting next to me down here. What a fool I was! What a fool to think there was some kindred lost soul hidden down here. You spied on me, you are going to ruin me and probably my whole family in the wake.ʼ

ʻNo,ʼ he whispered hoarsely, desperate to explain himself or at least to free her from her fear, but most of all he just wanted to hold her back. ʻNo, I never dreamt of harming you. I just... Donʼt go, youʼre the only one...ʼ He broke off, not knowing anymore what he had intended to say.

Neither of them moved for a while, Draco scared of the sound of her departure. Yet, after a long while he could hear her approaching and kneeling down beside him. She lighted her wand once more so that he could see her serious, distrustful expression. She just watched him for a long time, not showing any change in her face, while Draco was torn between wanting to look her openly in the face to show his sincerity and a sudden feeling of shame that made him turn away. Finally she extinguished her wand again, and they both remained silent in the ensuing darkness.

ʻWhy are you here then?ʼ she asked at last gravely.

ʻI... I needed to be alone.ʼ

ʻWhy does someone like you want to be alone?ʼ

Her voice was still tight with distrust, and Draco had to swallow down his unexpectedly rising anger to do not let it taint his voice. ʻWhat do you mean "someone like me"?ʼ

ʻEverybody says that youʼre a... a...ʼ Her voice trailed off, seemingly unable to complete her sentence.

ʻDeath Eater,ʼ he added tonelessly. She remained silent. ʻIʼm still...ʼ he managed to whisper on, ʻIʼm still just... sometimes I wish...ʼ He wasnʼt able to pronounce any of his attempts at an explanation or excuse. He couldnʼt bring himself to say that he wished he could turn back time to a Hogwarts without the Carrows. If ever anybody heard that he sometimes wished Dumbledore back, he and his family would be utterly ruined. He couldnʼt cease to be what he had become, it was the sole bit of protection he had left.

ʻWhy are you crying?ʼ she said suddenly, sounding still very cold.

ʻBecause...ʼ Now that she asked, he couldnʼt remember what he had been thinking before her arrival. He hadnʼt cried because his bones still ached from the punishment, nor because he was slighted by his friends, nor because his parents were in the company of a maniac without the possibility of defending themselves. Why had he cried? ʻBecause I canʼt hate Potter,ʼ he croaked as soon as the realization hit him and before he could think up some better explanation.

She snorted and then was silent again. ʻWhy,ʼ she asked after a while quietly, ʻwhy would anybody cry because he doesnʼt hate? Who would want to?ʼ

ʻIt would be easier to hate him.ʼ

ʻWhy?ʼ

ʻBecause...ʼ He grew angry with her stubborn questioning. It was bad enough that he didnʼt feel like he was supposed to; she didnʼt have to make him detail how unworthy he was of being a wizard. ʻHave you not yet noticed whoʼs ruling?ʼ he spat.

She was silent for some time. ʻYes, I have,ʼ she said then coldly. ʻBut it doesnʼt make me feel any better to nurture my dislikes.ʼ

ʻI donʼt nurture my dislikes,ʼ he muttered.

She didnʼt answer, but instead of going away, she moved into the same position she had occupied when they had met before. Like then, neither of them uttered a sound. Gratefully, Draco concentrated on her breathing, slowly starting to feel almost peaceful. After a long while she crept to her feet again but hesitated.

ʻDo you think itʼs true?ʼ she muttered.

ʻWhat?ʼ

ʻThat Harry Potter killed Professor Dumbledore?ʼ

Draco was speechless for a moment. He had never thought that anybody could take the Daily Prophet serious. He gulped. ʻItʼs not true,ʼ he whispered.

ʻYou donʼt think so?ʼ

ʻI know.ʼ

She was silent again, making a few steps to the entrance before stopping again. ʻWhy?ʼ

Draco didnʼt have the energy to answer her. With all his might he tried to push the image of the falling man away from him. He heard her stepping away again, instinctively reaching forward, trying to hold her back. She was too far away for him to touch her, but she seemed to have heard him move for she stopped again.

ʻYou know,ʼ she said slowly, ʻmy parents never liked Professor Dumbledore that much, and especially since August theyʼve constantly talked about it. They say he had some really ridiculous beliefs and he didnʼt show the appropriate respect to our old wizarding families. And they say that itʼs very important that I repeat all this when asked. But still... not having him sit at the staff table with his silver beard and eccentric speeches... I miss him.ʼ

ʻSo do I.ʼ

Draco bit his tongue as soon as he said it. He was being stupid. An absolute moron. If the Carrows ever knew, he was as good as dead. But he couldnʼt make undone what he had said and some crazy part in him didnʼt want to. He tried to control his panicked breathing.

ʻTill next time,ʼ came her voice from the other end of the room before he heard her hastening away, mysteriously dissipating his panic and leaving him completely tranquil.