Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own the plot, characters, spell names, places, etc. mentioned in the Harry Potter books and movies. I am writing for fun and not for profit.

Summary: Set after HBP. After months of enduring cruel games at the hand of Death Eaters as punishment for his failure, Draco manages to escape. Seriously injured, wandless, and accompanied by a 4-yr-old muggle girl, he struggles to survive. Will he be able to help put an end to the war, or will he suffer a fate worse than death?

Warnings: Dark themes

Chapter 4

Someone was humming. A squeaky, childish tone, not unlike the shrill chatter of a chipmunk, sounded out an unfamiliar tune. It was a cheerful tune, with plenty of high and quick notes that had no room for even a slight break in between.

Draco laid still, eyes closed, listening silently. Although the noise grated his ears, he could not find the energy to voice a complaint. A suffocating pressure somewhere around his middle made it difficult to breathe, much less talk. He could feel pain all along his torso. Sometimes, the pain lanced up sharply, almost unbearably.

Suddenly, Draco noticed a different kind of pressure on the top of his head. It was slight and disappeared after a short moment, only to return a second later. The pressure was there, then it was gone. There it was again. Now, gone. Confused, Draco tried to think up of a logical explanation to this phenomenon. He could open his eyes and see for himself the source of the fleeting touch. However, his eyelids felt too heavy and the darkness too comfortable.

The uncertainty bothered him. Draco racked his mind, urging it to come up with the answer. After a few seconds of effort, Draco realized that it was a touch he had felt dozens of times before. The familiar feeling brought forth a calmness that faintly soothed the unrelenting pain.

Someone was stroking his hair, gentle fingers combing through the strands. The sensation felt quite pleasant and almost succeeded in lulling Draco back to sleep. Blissful sleep. He would fall asleep and escape the pain. He could worry about that later, when his eyelids did not feel quite so heavy. Like so many times in his past, his head rested upon an inviting lap, allowing cool fingers to run smoothly through his hair as he drifted off to sleep.

Wait a moment. Sleep?

Abruptly, Draco sat up, eyes snapping open as sudden images of the Dark Lord and the bright cellar whirled chaotically in his mind, only to fall back down again as agony ripped across his body. Gasping, he curled into himself, attempting to alleviate the sudden excruciating pain.

After a moment, Draco managed to regain control of his breathing. He squeezed his eyes shut as he forced himself to take shallow, even breaths, and gradually, the pain lessened. Once only a dull ache and pressure remained, Draco forced open his eyes, careful not to move anything else.

Before him were familiar stone walls, a familiar stone floor, and those familiar hellish candles.

He was back in his prison cell.

The urge to throw his head back and scream out in frustration surged through him, but given his condition, Draco knew that was not a good idea. Instead, he allowed himself to let out a groan as he slowly sat back up. The change in position made the pain slightly sharper, although it was still tolerable. Gazing down at himself, Draco noticed that his ripped, blood-covered shirt was gone. Instead, his robes had covered him like a blanket, concealing the fact that someone had wrapped his torso tightly with white bandages.

Inspecting the bandages more closely, Draco deemed that they were recently changed, seeing as how not even a pale stain of blood had leaked through to the outer layer. A lower glance told him that he still wore his blood-encrusted trousers and his disgracefully scuffed-beyond-repair oxford shoes. Despite his situation, he could still feel a tiny twinge of remorse when he saw scratches that not even a house-elf could polish away.

The thought about house-elves reminded Draco of the brutal massacre of his own elves, leading his mind to conjure up the terrifying image of the Dark Lord, which then allowed memories of his torture session to resurface. His heart quickened as the images bombarded his mind. He remembered how he had felt, the pain, terror, and dread nearly succeeding in splinting his mind into insanity. He remembered the horror in the prisoners' eyes. He remembered the look on Weasley's face when he raised his wand to the little girl. He remembered staring into his mother's eyes…

Suddenly, it felt as if everything stopped. Draco couldn't breathe. His heart didn't seem to be beating. His head felt plugged as echoes of shouts and screams sounded faintly in his mind. Absently, he noted that his hands had started their trembling once again.

Draco couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember anything after the sick realization that he was supposed to murder his own mother. The vision of her slumped form only a couple meters before him overtook his mind. Her hair was let down, with none of the pretty adornments that it usually held. A few frazzled strands floated in front of her face, stressing the direness of the situation when she made no effort to put them back into place. So pale, everything about her was pale. Her ivory skin glowed sickeningly in the bright light. Cheeks appeared sunken, ghoulish. It was difficult to distinguish the pinkness of her lips. The person in front of him did not look like his mother, and yet it was her. Those pale, blue eyes and white-blonde hair only belonged to Narcissa Malfoy.

The memory of her appearance ignited a spark of anger within him, pulling him sharply out of the past. However, the anger did not last long. Draco sat still, staring at a spot on the floor near his foot. He remembered he had raised his wand before seeing his mother. What happened afterward? Did he lower his wand? Surely he didn't kill her?

Draco shook his head vigorously to clear any doubts. Of course he didn't kill her. The idea was ridiculous. He couldn't even say the incantation aloud, let alone find enough hatred and anger to cast a successful killing curse.

Then why was he still alive?

The question shined like a beacon in his head. Draco furrowed his brow and bit his bottom lip. He tried desperately to keep his doubts at bay, casting aimlessly around his thoughts to find an explanation. He recalled hearing shouts and screams. Were they simply his screams? Or did something else happen after his mother was brought out? Why couldn't he remember?

"Are you still hurt?"

The sudden noise made Draco jump and turn his head so fast that the motion produced a sickening crack. He hadn't heard anyone enter his prison. He would have heard them coming down the stairs.

Looking over his shoulder, Draco found that no one had come down the stairs. Instead, Draco was surprised to see someone already sitting in the cell just a meter behind him. He was even more surprised when he recognized the person to be that little muggle girl in the cellar.

Thinking back to the last few minutes, Draco realized that he did not imagine the humming or the hair stroking. "What are you doing here?" he blurted out, voice slightly hoarse.

The girl's large green eyes blinked a few times. After several seconds, as if she was having trouble thinking up of an answer, she replied haltingly, "I was helping you get better. You're very sick."

Draco stared silently at the girl, at a lost as to how to reply. Should he ask her what in the world was she doing stroking his hair as if they were familiar with each other? Suddenly, he remembered that this girl could tell him what had happened in the cellar. Now with a plan in mind, his shock faded away, only to be replaced with urgency.

He forced himself to turn slowly around, taking care not to move his torso any more than necessary. Once he faced the girl, he asked, "Do you remember when we were in the cellar?" His tone was rushed. "Can you tell me what happened?"

His questions appeared to make her uneasy. Her face scrunched up, and her eyes squinted closed, as if she tried to shut out a terrifying vision. "They told me that they'll take me back to Mum," she whimpered. She opened her eyes and looked around the cell uncertainly, then rested her gaze back on Draco. "Can you help me find her?"

She was scared, Draco could see that now. Her reddish-blonde hair was a mess, and a small sunflower hairclip could barely be seen among the tangled knots. Her clothes were dirty, although free from rips and holes. She sat with her legs crossed, hands clasped together tightly upon her lap.

Draco shook his head slightly, exasperated and impatient to find the answer. "I might be able to, if you tell me what happened to my mother. Did you see where they took her?" After a slight pause, Draco added, "She was the tall woman with blonde hair."

The absence of his denial animated the little girl. Her eyes shined bright as she leaned closer. "You'll bring me to Mum? Can we go now?"

"No, not now," Draco answered shortly. His heart was in his throat from being so near to the truth of what had happened. "Tell me what happened in the cellar first."

The girl wrinkled her brow and pushed out her bottom lip. She stared silently at Draco's face, one hand fidgeting with a strand of tangled hair. Meanwhile, Draco felt as if he would explode from impatience. "Well?" he managed say through gritted teeth.

"I don't know." Her big green eyes lowered to rest on his bandaged torso. "People ran in and everyone got into a fight. The monster took the knife out of you and you fell down."

Draco cocked his head to the side, not sure whether he understood her correctly. "There was a fight? A fight with whom?"

Thin shoulders raised and fell in a shrug. "They looked like normal people, but they had wands too." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "They can do magic, like my sister." Suddenly, her eyes widened. "Oh! You had a wand! Can you do magic too? Like my sister?"

Preventing himself from sighing in exasperation, Draco nodded. "Yes, I can. What did you mean by 'normal people?'"

"They don't wear the masks," she whispered, scared once again.

Draco stayed quiet. It sounded as if there were infiltrators in the manor. But how was that possible? Severus told him that he upgraded the wards. Who could they be? Draco stared at the little girl, contemplating whether he should ask her for descriptions. He decided against it when he remembered his mother. The suicidal "normal people" were none of his concern. "Did you see where my mother went?" he asked.

He drooped visibly when the girl shook her head no. The disappointment was heavy and almost dragged him back into the foggy corner of his mind. He wanted to escape, to feel nothing but numbness; however, this was no longer only about him. He couldn't allow himself to waste time in his internal world that he had created to escape his suffering. He had to find out what had happened to his mother.

Draco closed his eyes, conjuring up the vision of her pale-blue eyes. Her gaze, never so disapproving like his father's, invoked a feeling of determination inside him. He couldn't fail her. He had to find her.

Draco opened his eyes to see the little girl still staring at him. Her eyes widened and she gave a wide smile. "We can go find her together. We can find my mum too!" The idea pleased her, and she scrambled up onto her two feet. Hopping the few steps to the gate, she clutched one hand to her sunflower hair clip, as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

Draco's gaze slid to the thick steel bars, about to tell her that it was impossible to escape. His heart nearly stopped in shock when the girl simply pushed open the gate. He could do nothing but stare dumbly at her while she held the gate open, waiting for him. Then, all at once, feelings of excitement, joy, and hope surged through him. His determination grew ten-fold as visions of freedom flashed rapidly across his mind.

Draco struggled to his feet, nearly biting his tongue in half when his wound blazed in protest. The process of transferring his weight from his bottom to his feet was agonizing. Draco tried his best to ignore it, letting the thought of freedom motivate his body to move despite the pain. Once he was stable on his feet, his eyes refocused to find the girl by his side, clenching his left arm, eyes wide in concern.

Startled, Draco quickly jerked his arm away and almost fell back down. He staggered a few feet away from the girl, trying to erase the image of her hurt expression from his mind.

"You're still very sick," he heard her say. Draco gritted his teeth. He told himself that her upset tone did not bother him at all. Instead of replying, he made his way toward the opened gate. Each step jiggered his wound, making it feel as if he was being stabbed again and again.

By the time he reached the gate, which was only a measly seven footsteps away, Draco was audibly gasping. Sudden bright spots in his vision forced him to stop just a few steps through the gate. Frustration bubbled in his gut as he stood there with eyes closed. He could just barely keep the familiar feeling of dread at bay as he contemplated his situation.

He was hurt. Seriously hurt. With a jolt, he realized that he hadn't actually seen his wound for himself. Draco worried his bottom lip, wondering if he should take a quick peek.

"What's wrong?"

Draco opened his eyes to the sight of the ascending steps of the staircase. He felt his heart drop as he counted the steps. Had there always been that many steps? "Nothing's wrong," he answered shortly. For the first time in months, he had an opportunity to escape. He wasn't going to waste it because of some stairs.

Bracing himself, Draco continued his painful progress toward the bottom step.