DRACO

The day was cool and stormy as Draco stepped onto the Hogwarts Express, returning to the Malfoy Manor for the Easter holidays. In an empty compartment, he found himself staring out the rain-streaked window. Outside there was a flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder. He sighed.

The ride home was lonely and uneventful. In the current situation, the old Draco would have been desperate for companions. Now, Draco was content to simply immerse himself in his own thoughts, which mainly consisted of his rage at Harry Potter.

When the train pulled into King's Cross, he made no hurry to leave. His mother wasn't even there, why should he be running to get home?

The line through the solid archway and into the Muggle world was a long one. But Draco spent the time lost in his own thoughts, and the minutes flew by. Finally, he walked through what appeared to be solid brick and emerged into the overcrowded Muggle station.

Leisurely, he exited the building, his legs headed to a specific destination without him even thinking about it. They led him to a back street, in which he vaguely registered to be a family, each member poorly dressed in Muggle attire. He ignored them, however, and snapped himself out of his stupor just long enough to glance behind him for prying Muggle eyes. Once he was sure he was properly hidden, he gripped his feather-light trunk tightly and mustered enough concentration to Apparate; he vanished and reappeared before the tall, wrought gates leading to the Manor.

The Manor itself was as grand as it always was, but Draco still felt a twinge of fear he was so used to getting when he saw it. In the year before he'd Apparate to this same location, would peer through the same gates, but there would be a much more sinister force within its walls. Perhaps he would be beat, tortured, or killed inside. It would have all depended on Voldemort to decide what he would do to Draco in his own home.

But then, while it still was still 'home', the word had lost all meaning due to Voldemort and the heinous crimes he'd committed in it. This manor was no more his home than Azkaban was to his father. But Voldemort was gone now. Draco shook off his fright and approached the main entrance.

Once inside, he dropped his trunk on the floor with a loud clang. He heard scurrying on the floor above; seconds later, Narcissa Malfoy appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Draco!" she cried, sounding genuinely surprised to see him. "What are you doing here?"

"I did tell you I would come," he shot back, his temper flaring. Why was his mother so firmly assured that she could take care of herself?

"Yes, yes, but I—I didn't—I didn't think you were serious!" Narcissa sputtered.

Draco sent her a flat look. "Well I'm here now. Goodness knows you couldn't sound at least slightly happy to see me."

And with that, he marched off, his rage at his mother now equaling his rage at Harry Potter.

HARRY

If Draco Malfoy used Veritaserum on his best mate to figure out why he met with Blaise Zabini, Harry would kill him. He didn't care how many times they'd talked, how many assignments they'd suffered through together, how many times they'd kissed... he would end him on the spot.

Rage laced through his veins. In fact, 'rage' didn't begin to cover it. More like a vengeful, wrathful, poisonous snake rearing up inside him and preparing to bite Malfoy's head off. He felt like punching a mirror. Perhaps the shattered glass would satisfy him.

With an angry groan, he collapsed on his four-poster bed, burying his head in his hands. Thankfully, the eighth-year boys' dormitory was empty, but not for long. At that moment, a tall, red-haired, gangly boy entered, the last boy Harry wanted to see.

"Harry?" Ron asked tentatively, his brows furrowed in concern. Behind him, an equally worried Hermione stood, her eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail.

"Harry, are you— "

Harry gritted his teeth. "I'm shit. I look and feel like absolute shit."

Hermione stepped forward, sitting on the bed beside him. "Is this about how Draco suddenly ran off to see his mother over Easter?"

Harry sighed. "A bit?"

"Tell us, mate," said Ron.

He looked at him, at loss for what to say. He couldn't tell the truth. He already felt bitter enough with Malfoy, he couldn't have Ron be angry with him as well. He'd implode. But then, what to tell them?

"Hermione, you know how you were saying how the Death Eaters were attacking Muggles?" he began, getting an idea.

She nodded. "What about it?"

"Why do you think that is?"

Ron and Hermione both lapsed into silence. "Who knows?" said Ron at last. "Could be anything. Could be for fun."

"But that's not right," Hermione said with a frown. "There's no end goal to that. It wouldn't make sense."

Silence fell between the three, and Harry was reminded of all the times they'd done this before, working out Voldemort's plans and attempting to stop them. It wasn't a good thought.

"How'd McGonagall go?" he asked, attempting to distract himself from the onslaught of memories. "You told her about it, right? What'd she say?"

"Well, she believed us," said Ron. "She said she'd do everything in her power to stop it. But Harry"—Harry tensed— "you still haven't answered us. What happened with Malfoy?"

He forced himself to keep his voice level. "I'm not sure, to be honest. I tried telling him about the Muggles and he freaked." His tongue felt clumsy as he spoke.

Ron looked stumped. Meanwhile, Hermione's eye twitched, and Harry gulped. He knew she knew it was a lie, and a piss-poor attempt at doing so, too. But, by some miracle, she didn't say anything.

Harry turned to look at Ron, trying to imagine how his friend could be talking to Zabini. But, try as he might, he couldn't find a trace of guilt in his dumbfounded expression.

DRACO

He was laying absentmindedly on the floor of his room when his mother came for him, knocking thrice on the door before entering.

"Draco?" she said, her voice hushed. "Come for dinner."

She left, and he watched her go, guilt consuming him as he did. But he shook it off, standing and brushing the dust from his clothes before following her downstairs.

There were three sets of grand staircases between his room and the dining room, and more then seven different corridors. Along these corridors, there were more than a hundred black-and-white portraits, as well as several exquisitely-colored tapestries and ornately-framed paintings. Countless doors led off in other directions, and more were concealed by magic and gargoyles. The place oozed Galleons just how Lucius liked it, and, in turn, Draco did too.

He crossed each of these corridors with purpose, stepped down each staircase with grandeur, passed the expensive tapestries and paintings without a second glance, and ignored the portraits even as some great-great-great uncle of his called after him, "What are you wearing, boy? What happened to decency!"

He finally reached the dining room. Pushing open the doors, he was immediately greeted by the sight of his mother and several house-elves tending to her. Narcissa was seated at the long, thin table that only a year ago the dead body of the Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Charity Burbage, had fallen upon after being killed by Voldemort. Then her dead body had been eaten by his snake, Naginj. Draco shuddered at the memory.

"Sit," said his mother, gesturing to the seat across her.

Draco gulped, feeling as though he were about to sick. He never wanted to sit at this table ever again, never even wanted to be in this room anymore, but his mother still insisted upon using it.

"Can't we eat in the kitchen?" Draco begged, trying to convince her as he had attempted to so many times before.

As always, his mother shook her head. "Sit."

He suppressed a groan, instead crossing the room to do as she said. Gritting his teeth, he sat at the edge of his seat, ready to run as soon as the necessity arose.

"Potatoes?" Narcissa asked daintily, tipping some onto her plate as she did.

With little appetite, he shook his head, making Narcissa sigh.

"Draco," she said seriously, and suddenly all pretense was gone.

"Mum, why won't you protect yourself against father?" he flung at her, his short temper—which he'd had on a leash for the last few days he'd been at the Manor—snapping.

His mother's expression darkened. "Draco— " she began severely.

"Mother, I asked you a question. It would be rude not to answer."

Narcissa visibly swelled with rage. The house-elves, sensing danger, retreated into the shadows. Meanwhile, she stood, attempting to collect herself.

"Draco, if there's something you wish to say to me— "

He laughed without humor. "I just did!"

Narcissa snarled and, with a sudden move, struck him hard across the cheek. Caught by surprise, he staggered back.

"How many times," she hissed, drawing herself to her full height. "How many times do I have to repeat myself? I am protected. I am prepared! And it is not your place— "

"My place," Draco sneered, careful to stay out of her reach. "How many times do I have to tell you, Mother— "

Narcissa opened her mouth, prepared to lash out once more, but he spoke before she could.

"No!" he cried. "I've told you again and again, I've asked in every way possible, but you ignore me no matter what I do. Maybe I should ask what you're hiding instead!"

"I'm hiding nothing," she hissed, spreading her arms wide as if to prove it.

"Nothing!" Draco guffawed. "I am many things, Mother, but I'm no fool."

"Enough!" she thundered, looking absolutely murderous. With a swipe, she withdrew from the sleeve of her cloak a wand, and Draco couldn't help but cower before it. The house-elves pressed deeper into the shadows.

"Mink!" she called, and the house-elf stumbled forward, trembling in fear.

"Yes, master?" she squeaked, eyes wide in terror.

"Take this plate upstairs to Draco's room," Narcissa commanded her, eyes flashing. "Immediately, Mink."

The elf didn't hesitate. With a crack, she and the plate were gone.

Draco held his mother's gaze the entire time, refusing to back down while every muscle in his body screamed at him to run. But he didn't show it, and eventually his mother lowered her wand.

"Go," she said to him, her voice trembling with rage.

In that moment, he could relate to Mink. He bolted from the room without looking back.

HARRY

He needed to confront Ron soon. Hermione was already suspicious, and it was only time before the other caught on to something amiss. That, or Hermione would tell him. Either way, he needed to act fast.

That was why he found himself standing frozen outside the eighth year boys' dormitories, staring at the handle, fully aware of the curious glances he was getting as he drew up the courage to turn it.

Ron was inside, alone. He knew because Neville had left through the portrait hole only a few moments ago, and Ron had turned in early. If he wanted to do it, now was the best chance he'd gotten for a long while.

It was at times like this when he felt as though maybe he shouldn't be in Gryffindor. He wasn't brave enough to talk to his best mate, how could he be brave enough to belong in the House of the brave? Perhaps he was still better suited for Slytherin, like the Sorting Hat had first thought he was all those years ago. He could have become a dubious coward like Malfoy, who proposed to drug people against their will and then ran away when others told him that there was no way in hell that they would let him do it.

No, he wouldn't become a slimy Slytherin. He'd drawn Gryffindor's Sword from the depths of the Sorting Hat in his Second Year. He'd faced death willingly more times than he could count. He wasn't a coward, and he would never be one.

It was this thought that propelled him to turn the handle.

Ron turned as he entered, brows raised. "Harry? You look like you're about to be sick."

Now that he was there, he found that his momentary burst of courage had left him. He simply stood there, his mouth gaping wide stupidly.

At that moment, he heard quiet footsteps from behind. Turning, he saw a mane of bushy brown hair: Hermione.

"Harry? Ginny told me you were standing frozen in front of the door for a good five minutes... Are you alright?"

He grit his teeth. Now, he had to say it now.

"WhatdidyouwantwithZabini?"

Ron stared at him, perplexed. "What? I didn't catch that. Mate, what's wrong— "

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. "What did you want with Zabini?"

Ron paled. "W-what? I—I don't know what you're talking about— "

Hermione's eyes darted between him and Harry. "Harry? What do you mean? Ron, what's— "

Harry forced himself to move. Quickly, he shut the door and muttered a quick, "Muffliato," before turning back to Ron.

"I meant, what did you want with Zabini?" he repeated, his eyes blazing. "You met with him, didn't you? A few nights ago? In the Forbidden Forest?"

Hermione gaped at him. "Ron? Is that true?"

He gulped. "I—I mean— "

"You want to why Draco left, Ron?" Harry said, his tone dangerously quiet. Ron flinched.

"W-why?"

"Because he wanted to give you a dose Veritaserum for the truth. I told him no, and he ran."

Hermione stared. "Really? How could he possibly— "

"It's not what you think!" Ron interrupted, casting Hermione an apologetic glance. "I can explain, I swear!"

"Then get on with it," Harry told him.

Ron gulped and took a deep breath before he began.

"He sent me a letter, of course," he said, a slight tremble in his voice. "It was about a week ago. He told me he wanted to meet me in the Forbidden Forest. He swore it wasn't a trap and that he just wanted to talk."

"Ron, you idiot, what if it was?!" Hermione cried, staring at her boyfriend in horror.

"You don't think I took precautions, 'Mione?!" Ron exclaimed. "I had a backup plan, and a backup plan for the backup plan! If he tried anything, I would've escaped!"

She didn't look convinced, but Ron continued before she could fret any more.

"Anyway, I went where he told me at the time he said, and he was there, alone, just as he promised. And he told me"—He hesitated— "he told me he wanted to get out."

Harry interrupted. "'Get out'? What do you mean, 'get out'?"

"Like, leave," Ron clarified. "Leave the Death Eaters. Get out."

He gaped at him in surprise. "But, Ron, he's Zabini— "

"I know." He ran a hand through his red hair anxiously. "That was my first thought, too. But that's what he said. And he asked for a safe place to stay. Where he could hide. That was all."

"And what did you say?" Hermione asked breathlessly.

"I told him that he could shove his wand where the sun doesn't shine," Ron said seriously.

Harry couldn't help it; he snorted with amusement.

"But now you're considering that he may have been telling the truth?" Hermione ventured.

Ron nodded.

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" she pressed.

"I tried to tell Harry during breakfast a few days ago, but you interrupted me with the information about the Death Eaters attacking Muggles, Hermione. I haven't gotten another chance since."

Harry sighed with relief. Ron was innocent; Ron had his reasons. He wasn't going to lose his best mate after all.

Soon, he felt guilt spread from his heart. His regret must have shown on his face, for Ron said, "Don't worry, mate, I don't blame you for being suspicious."

Harry gave him a tentative smile.

DRACO

It was his last day before he returned to Hogwarts, and he found himself regretting ever having come to the Manor in the first place. No matter how hard he tried, his mother would not budge. His wrath towards Harry Potter now seemed minuscule compared to his wrath towards his own mother.

He stalked down one of the many corridors of the Manor, pacing aimlessly around the house. He burst through a door, ducked around a tapestry, whipped around a corner, and shoved past a suit of armor. He was so lost in his thoughts he didn't notice where he was until it was too late.

He froze in the middle of the corridor, glancing up and down the hall to be sure he was where he thought he was. The steep set of stairs off the side proved him right. He could've kicked the wall in frustration. Was he trying to destroy himself? Down those stairs was the cellar where Voldemort had once kept Luna and the wandmaker Ollivander, which meant that before him was the drawing room, the Dark Lord's preferred torture chamber.

His legs carried him forward into the grand room. It had the same ornate fireplace, the same intricate rug, the same amount of wealth. Instinctively, he looked up to the space where their old chandelier had once hung before their old house-elf, Dobby, had sent it crashing down. They'd since replaced it, and the new one glittered just as grandly as the one before it. But Harry Potter's narrow miss with Lord Voldemort had a price. He'd gotten tortured for it, he remembered bitterly, recalling the pain that followed as punishment for letting Harry Potter escape. Voldemort allowed no mistakes to be made in his ranks.

The room felt like it was suffocating him. He left, closing the doors behind him. Then he hurried down the corridor, his every intent to get as far as he could from the memories of Lord Voldemort, but was stopped mid-way by a thought.

Luna had spent months locked in his dark cellar. Slowly, he turned towards the stairs that led to it. He'd never gotten much more than a few quick glances at its interior. What was it like? Infested with rats? Filled with shadowy corners and twisting passages? Eventually, his curiosity won, and he made his way down the steep steps carefully.

"Lumos," he said as he approached the bars. Hesitantly, he stuck his wand between the bars, peering into the corners. He leaned forward. Was there something in the corner—?

Before he could see anything more, there was a yell, and a large figure lunged for his wand. He yelped, whipping his arm back, just barely managing to free his wand from the creature's claws. Heart pounding, he took several stumbling steps towards the stairs.

"What in bloody— "

Clear from the bars, he raised his wand, the light on its tip illuminating a figure with olive skin; long, ratty black hair; wild eyes; and bared, yellowing teeth. It was—

"P-Patil?"

Parvati Patil screamed, a hoarse, guttural sound. "Let me out, you filthy Death Eater, before I tear you and your mother limb from limb!"

Draco gaped at her, eyes wide with horror. "I—I don't understand— "

Behind Parvati, he could see three other figures; he raised his wand to better see them. One was a man with a shaggy beard and wrinkled skin; another was a woman with thick black hair and an athletic physique. They both closely resembled Parvati. Her parents, Draco realized. The last he recognized to be Padma Patil, Parvati's twin sister.

"What don't you understand?" Parvati's mother snarled, placing a protective hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I think she made herself quite clear."

Before he could reply, there was a clang from above. He whipped around to see his mother crashing down the stairs, freezing in horror as she spotted him.

"Draco," she breathed. "What are you—get out of there!"

But he tightened his grip on his wand. "What the hell is this?"

"Nothing that concerns you!" Narcissa screeched. "Now get out of here before I have to make you!"

Draco's heart stopped. "I thought you were done with Voldemort! I though we were done with him!"

"This has nothing to do with him!" she cried.

"THIS HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH HIM!" he roared back.

Behind him, he was vaguely aware of the Patil family watching him with shock. But he didn't notice much more, the roaring in his ears and his red vision was drowning out everything but his mother, who was trying to calm herself. This made Draco sneer.

"Still worried about your perfect facade," he jeered. "Don't you understand? Nobody thinks of the Malfoys anything close to royalty anymore, Mother! You can quit acting as the perfect wife! We're Death Eaters now, remember?"

Narcissa's wand was out before he knew it, and the Stinging Hex hit him in an instant. With a yelp, he fell to his knees, gasping.

When the pain receded, he became aware of his mother approaching him.

"You don't understand, Draco," she said, her voice low and dangerously calm. "This is the way it has to be."

He raised his head. "You're insane."

He didn't give himself time to second-guess it: he pointed his wand towards his mother and shouted, "Stupefy!"

She fell with a crash, her wand slipping from her fingers and rolling down the last few steps. Draco scooped it up and pocketed it. Then he examined her still figure, letting loose a slow breath.

A scuffle from behind him made him turn. The Patils were staring at him in awe.

"Let us out," Mr. Patil begged, his eyes sparkling with a flicker of hope.

Draco started forward, but then paused, suddenly reminded of his own words: We're Death Eaters now, remember?!

That's what they were to the Ministry of Magic: Death Eaters. A family to be watched, a family that was a risk. If he let the Patils go, wouldn't he be proving them right? He could almost hear the whispers: Narcissa Malfoy locked the Patils in her cellar. Narcissa Malfoy is a Death Eater scum. See that boy, Draco? That's her son. Poisoned, I tell you. Mark my words, he'll turn out the same way.

His mother would be locked in Azkaban. He could be locked in Azkaban. And if he wasn't—what would he have left?

He shuddered, horrified at what he was about to do. But he grit his teeth, trying to ignore the fright growing on Mr. Patil's face as he realized what Draco's silence meant.

"I'm sorry," he said, backing away and shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I—I can't."

"No!" Padma cried, lunging forward, restrained by her mother. "No! Malfoy— "

"You're not staying here," he assured them. "I swear that. But I can't, not now— "

"Why not?!" Parvati snarled. "Why not!"

"Let my family go home!" Mrs. Patil cried.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry— "

"Malfoy, you bitch! Come back!"

But he turned away, squeezing his eyes shut tight against their panicked screams as he levitated his unconscious mother up the stairs and out of sight.