A/N: Thank you for all the reviews, favourites and follows for the first chapter. I forgot to mention, the quote at the beginning of the last chapter is from Laini Taylor - Daughter of Smoke and Bones.

For sake of story, let's pretend the Dark Mark cannot be tracked without Draco touching it to call Voldemort.

CHAPTER 1

Summer 1997

Draco Malfoy sat at the dining table at his home – however, it didn't seem like his home anymore. Now, it was the headquarters of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord; it felt like they had brought a dark shadow with them that would never leave. Their darkness had crept into the rooms and made them cold and uncomfortable. The evil that had taken possession of this house even invaded his sleep, and nightmares haunted him every night.

Draco was seldom alone. Often, his aunt, Bellatrix, or the Dark Lord himself claimed a place at their table or a whole floor for their plans. Just like tonight. There was to be another meeting; just his godfather and Yaxley were still missing.

While Draco sat there and waited, he tried very hard not to look up to the bound and tortured woman above him. He knew that she used to be a teacher at Hogwarts - Charity Burbage, Professor for Muggle Studies.

Her hands were tied to the back and her long dirty blonde hair only hung a few inches above him. He could see a laceration at her temple, where someone must have hit her.

He couldn't explain the feelings seeing her here evoked in him. Shouldn't he feel victorious or gloat over her misfortune as others did? But instead he felt … guilty and scared.

He had let this happen. He had been a key player in the Dark Lord's rising, and he couldn't bring himself to be proud of it. In the eyes of the others, he had of course failed. He hadn't been able to fulfil his task. And now, his family had to pay for it.

All the things his father had told him – the reign of the purebloods, the visions of the Dark Lord – were to come true. Burbage was the prime example for that. So he should feel joyous or at least expectant, but he didn't. He hadn't meant for a war to happen. He hadn't meant for people to be tortured and die. Even Mudbloods and Muggles. There was just a feeling of wrongness about it that he couldn't shake.

Again his eyes flickered up to the unconscious professor. She was only here because she had taught Muggle Studies. Draco had read her editorial in the Daily Prophet, defending Muggles, muggle-borns, and half-bloods. Obviously, he didn't agree with her. Or, at least, he should not agree with her.

He knew they were below him. That was something he had been taught before he had been able to walk. He knew the Dark Lord was right in his reach for power, he knew he should be proud of serving him. But he couldn't bring himself to feel any of this.

Suddenly, the door opened and Snape and Yaxley entered. Draco tried very hard to ignore the conversation, to tune out the high-pitched voice of the white-faced monster next to him. But every now and then, snippets of conversation reached him.

Voldemort was speaking, "Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the pure-bloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance... She would have us all mate with Muggles …"

Bellatrix's maniacal cackle reverberated through the room.

Draco felt sick. The nausea ebbed and flowed in his stomach, and he gagged.

The hand of his mother gently touched his in passing, and he tried to pull himself together. He knew that he couldn't let his feelings show. He understood that nobody could know that he pitied Professor Burbage, that he wished she was somewhere safe.

Suddenly, Charity Burbage spoke and her words hit him like a high-speed train. "Severus, please. We're friends."

It was nearly the same thing Dumbledore had said that night on the Astronomy tower. Just before he had been killed by the person the headmaster had also considered a friend. Severus Snape. And it had again been Draco's doing, Draco's failure.

Suddenly, Draco wished his godfather would jump up and save her. But – naturally – he didn't.

Inevitably like fate, the Killing Curse hit the sobbing woman. Her body crashed down on the table with a sickening thud, and Draco felt his fingers starting to shake. The dimly glittering body of Nagini glided towards the dead professor, and Draco closed his eyes.

What had he done? How could his life have led to this? His mistakes were never as clear to him as now. But they shouldn't be mistakes. So why did this feel so wrong?

Draco didn't know. He only knew that he couldn't bear it any longer, that he wasn't strong enough to survive this. But there was no way out. He had manoeuvred himself into this position – or had let himself be manoeuvred by his father, like a pawn – and now his life was over.

He caught a glimpse of blonde hair drenched in something red and sticky, and it made him realise that everything he had thought he ever wanted was what he didn't want at all.

Even after he had gone to bed, the feeling of wrongness lingered in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't shake the image of the tormented and murdered woman.

Draco knew she would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Present

The first thing Draco realised when he came to was that he was lying on something soft and cool; the heaviness of a blanket was wrapped around him. For one deliciously hopeful second, he thought he was back in the tent, that they had escaped the Death Eaters or had been saved by Potter and Weasley. But the softness of the bed and the smell of the room were too familiar to deny reality, crushing Draco's hopes with a finality that hurt. He was not in the tent.

He was in Malfoy Manor.

"I know you're awake, son." A cool voice made Draco's eyes snap open. He bolted upright and stared at the fair-haired woman sitting on a chair next to the door.

"Mother," he whispered before he could help himself, his fingers tightening around the blanket.

Soft grey light filtered through the green curtains and illuminated his bedroom. Absolutely nothing had changed, as if he hadn't been away for days, weeks. His gaze snapped back to his mother, who seemed slightly paler, thinner, than he remembered. Narcissa's face showed no emotions, but Draco could read her with ease. It was her eyes that betrayed her. She was worrying about something. Him?

"What…?" he began slowly.

"You and the Mudblood were captured this afternoon and brought here," Narcissa replied and Draco's grip around the blanket tightened.

Shit.

"The girl's in the dungeons," Narcissa added flatly. "She's to be questioned soon. As are you."

Panic washed through him, and his fingers automatically felt for his wand, but it was gone. Had he lost it? No. It was much more likely that it had been taken from him. But why was he here and not in the dungeons as well? Surely, the Dark Lord wouldn't forgive and forget. Had his parents managed to somehow excuse his actions on the night Potter escaped?

"Where is father?" Draco choked out.

What had happened to his parents after he had left – or rather fled – the Manor with the House Elf and the Golden Trio? Did they know he defected?

"Indisposed," his mother replied tersely. If he didn't know her, he'd think she didn't care. She was one of the best actresses he'd ever seen. Not a muscle in her face twitched, betraying how much she really cared. "Explain yourself, Draco. What happened to you?" she then demanded, standing up from her chair and approaching him.

Draco shook his head. A hundred lies and excused ran though his mind, but not a single one escaped his lips. There was nothing he could say that would save him but also be the truth. (And he could never lie to his mother, she would know.) And the truth alone was too dangerous to be said aloud. Also, Draco wasn't sure which side Narcissa was on since she was fiercely loyal to his father, who was loyal to the Dark Lord.

The bed dipped slightly as Narcissa sat down. Her hands fluttered towards Draco, as if to hug him, but she controlled herself and clasped her hands. "Draco. It doesn't look well. Your father tries to stall the Dark Lord as long as possible, but," she leaned towards him, "you will face him soon, and you have to have your story straight. Do you understand me?"

Draco stared at her. No, he didn't. He really didn't. His father was trying to protect him?

Narcissa's lips pressed into a thin line. "Muffliato," she muttered barely audible and let the silencing spell cover them like a tent. Instantly, she leaned closer, almost touching him now. "We don't have much time," she whispered, urgency straining her voice. "Tell him you tried to spy for him. Lie with all your heart, and your body, and your mind, and your soul. Never let your Occlumency shields break. He cannot find out or neither you, or the girl, or your father, or I will make it out alive"

Draco's eyes widened. She knew? Did that mean she supported his decision? She didn't judge him?

Yes, said Narcissa's eyes.

It seemed he wasn't the only one who had changed sides. He wouldn't delude himself in thinking that they supported Potter, but they supported him. Always. His parents were on Draco's side, whatever he decided to do. Apparently, miracles did happen every now and then.

That knowledge calmed his panicked heartbeat enough to consider what Narcissa had asked of him. Lie to the monster himself. He could do that. His godfather had taught him well.

"I will," Draco answered as firmly as he could. "I won't let you down, mother. I'm sorry I disappointed you."

Narcissa shook her head, just a quick jerk of her head. "You didn't. We were wrong about so many things, son, even your father knows this. I'm glad you listened to your heart. I'm glad you had the courage to act on it."

Courage? Draco blinked. Nobody had ever called him courageous, neither did he think that he was anything else than a coward.

Wait… did she just apologise? He couldn't quite believe it. But the way she worded it, being wrong about many things, didn't leave much room for interpretation – at least, for Draco, who was well versed in the game of hiding second meanings.

"What happened to you after I…" He swallowed thickly, interrupting himself.

Narcissa winced, which was answer enough. Draco had known that they'd be punished for their failure to capture the Chosen One. That's why he'd run. Fear not courage.

Before Draco could utter an apology, the door was ripped open, and one of the Death Eaters entered. Instantly, Draco slipped his cool mask – the mask he'd worn half his life – into place before he could betray any emotions.

"Our Lord wants to see you, boy. Now."

Draco nodded and squeezed his mother's hand reassuringly. He could do this. Lying wasn't hard. All he'd done for the past two years had been lying, mostly to himself, but that still counted.

Climbing out of bed, he realised that his ankle and ribs had been healed and that he was wearing new silky black robes. Gently, he touched the soft material of his shirt, which fitted as only tailored clothes fitted. It felt like a costume to him now, to play the part of a Death Eater, of a rich pureblood.

Now, he was going to act like one.

The Death Eater led Draco through the halls and down the stairs, as if he'd get lost in his own home. Quickly, Draco reminded himself that this house wasn't his home anymore. It hadn't been for a long time. He had no home.

His heart beat painfully against his ribs, but his breathing was controlled and slow. He pushed all feelings aside, the worry about Hermione, about Potter and Weasley, about what would happen if he failed. He was a Malfoy, confident and proud, and not easily bullied into a whimpering coward by just one look. At least, he told himself that.

Cool air hit Draco's skin when he entered the dimly lit dining room, and a shiver went down his spine. The fear tried to take control of him, but he forced it down.

Lord Voldemort sat in his father's chair as if it was a throne, his robes darker than midnight, his red eyes sharp and cold.

Hurriedly, Draco bowed deeply. "My Lord."

"Draco," the Dark Lord drawled, his voice feigning delight. "How good of you to come see me."

Carefully, Draco glanced up and dared to step closer. From the corner of his eyes, he spotted his father, tall and unmoving at the door. Lucius didn't acknowledge him at all.

"Naturally, I have some questions," Voldemort continued, his voice dangerously low. Goose bumps erupted on Draco's arms, but he ignored his body's reaction and looked straight at the pale monster.

"You want to inquire about my loyalty and my actions, my Lord, but I assure you my loyalty hasn't changed and my actions were caused by the wish to please you. Even though, in retrospect, they seem foolish and naïve," Draco said evenly, not allowing himself to flinch back from the coldness the Dark Lord emanated.

"Is that so?" Voldemort's high voice whispered, his eyes gleaming red. "Or are they the actions of a coward and a traitor?"

"If you think so – why am I still alive?" Draco asked boldly, knowing well that this might end badly. But Voldemort's bone-like wand did not twitch, no jet of green light shot through the air.

"Because I am full of mercy and grant you a chance to explain yourself."

"Then, thank you, my Lord." Draco dropped to his knees, as if overcome by gratitude. "I was driven by the desire to compensate my failure last year and to regain your respect as trusted follower. My godfather told me he spied for you for many years, and I admired him and his actions deeply. I wanted to be brave like him, I wanted to supply you with valuable information." Gathering all his courage, Draco lifted his gaze from the floor. A fake smile was painted on the wizard's white face, and Draco knew that a wrong word would earn him the Killing Curse. "When Potter was captured, I seized the chance. It was easy to convince him that my loyalties have indeed changed, for he considers himself a skilled Legilimens – unlike you, my lord, who really is a true master of this art. However, I only let him see what I wanted him to see. Consequently, he and his gullible companions entrusted me with confidential information." Draco forced a smug smile on his lips. "I wasn't sure how to best reach you because I didn't want them to grow suspicious. But, when I'd finally found a possibility, the stupidity of these Snatchers messed up my plans." Draco led anger seep into his voice, hoping it sounded convincing enough. A sneer on his face, he added, "I could've led them right to Potter's hiding place, but they needed to fire blasting curses."

Voldemort tilted his head. "I recall them saying otherwise, young Malfoy. If I'm not mistaken, you even duelled them to defend the precious Mudblood beside you."

Draco tried not to wince and reveal his true emotions. He wished he had his mother's ability to control his facial muscles perfectly. "I do not care for her, my Lord," he lied quickly. His mind screamed at him, he know, he knows, he knows. But Draco didn't shrink back. "All I did was keeping up appearances. The target was Potter, but, as he'd been warned and had probably escaped, I decided there was a possibility that the Mudblood could escape as well. I had to stay close to her. If someone can find him, she will."

He stared Voldemort directly in the eye, willing him with all his might to believe that. That was his only chance to save Hermione's life. Quickly, he pushed all thoughts of her chestnut hair, of her kind smile, of her healing touch aside. He couldn't be distracted now.

"It was all a show," Draco finally added, as if his explanation hadn't been clear enough.

Voldemort's long white fingers played with his wand, and Draco swallowed hard. He knew the Crucio was inevitable. He only hoped it would show the Dark Lord that Draco remained loyal. That was all that counted; that and keeping Hermione alive.

"Somehow, I find myself thinking you're putting on a show now. Are you a traitor, Draco?" Voldemort's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"No, my Lord," Draco answered in a steady voice, fighting the pressure against his occlumency shields. "Isn't the word of a Malfoy more trustworthy than that of some unsophisticated Snatchers?"

Voldemort tilted his head snakelike. "How come you never reached out?"

"It wasn't possible," Draco replied simply. "I wanted to gather enough information before I contacted you. Besides they were still watching me closely, especially Weasley. Even if they believed me, they still resented me."

"What information could you have gathered, you foolish boy?"

Draco bit his trembling lips, choosing his words carefully. "They know about the locket, the ring, and the diary."

Voldemort's rage hit him like a punch in the stomach. "That's not possible," he hissed, sounding more than a snake than ever.

"They're trying to obtain them as we speak," Draco added cautiously.

Suddenly, the Crucio Curse engulfed him and he cried out. His body was on fire, his nerve endings screaming with agony.

When the Dark Lord finally lifted the curse, Draco's breathing was ragged and painful. He was trying very hard to stay conscious, but the edges of his vision blackened and blurred.

"Your information may prove itself valuable, after all. Is that all you have to offer?" the Dark Lord's voice reached him like underwater.

With difficulty, Draco pushed himself to his knees. "No, my Lord." He knew he would be killed as soon as he ceased to be useful. "I know I need to be punished, but, please, let me show my worth to you. I may not know Potter well enough to predict his movements, but the Mudblood will. I brought her to you. I can crack her because – trust me – torture won't. Also, it might lure Potter in our fangs."

Voldemort stared at him for a long time, and Draco feared he might be tortured again. But finally Voldemort spoke. "Well, well, well, Draco," he drawled. "I might have underestimated you."

Draco pulled himself to his feet, straightening his crumbled robes. He knew he wasn't forgiven – would never be forgiven – but he was allowed some more time. Time to break Hermione and bring him Potter. Or, as Draco would put it, time to escape again.

"Thank you, my Lord." He bowed deeply, trying to suppress the trembling in his legs. Time wasn't enough, Draco knew. He needed access and trust in whatever from the Dark Lord was capable of giving. So, lifting his gaze, he decided to gamble one more time.

"After the Mudblood has revealed everything to us, I ask you to leave her to me, my Lord," he hissed, his voice full of menace and thirst for revenge. "She bossed me around for too long, pretending to be a friggin' saint. I want payback. I want to see her eyes when she realises that I deceived her, that I played her so easily; when she realises that she's mine now."

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully, and Draco held his breath. He knew perfectly well that his life still hung in the balance. Would the next one be his last breath, his last heartbeat, his last moment?

Draco's eyes automatically flitted to his father, who had taken a step forward, an unfamiliar emotion on his normally blank face, almost like desperation but deeper.

"May that be your reward." Voldemort's voice cut through the silence like a knife. "Now to the punishment.

Crucio."