A/N: Thank you to the two guest reviewers for your opinion (unfortunately, I couldn't reply to you personally, but I appreciate your comments). I think that's the fun of fanfiction that you can make every pairing work, playing with storylines and characters. I wanted to explore how Draco could escape with the trio while staying in character, and how the story would enfold then. Dramione is sort of a logical conclusion^^ :)
I agree that Draco's parent might seem a bit OOC, but he needed some allies, and I think his mum would put him above everything else.

The quote is from Laini Taylor - Days of Blood and Starlight.

Enjoy!


Part II


Mercy, she had discovered, made mad alchemy: a drop of it could dilute a lake of hate.


CHAPTER 5

Easter 1998 (April 12)

With a gasp, Draco snapped awake. He blinked, trying to piece together the darkness, but it stayed a monotonous blue-black. Coldness crept up his arms, and he shivered. Only then did he realise that he was tied up. A cold, heavy chain was wound around his wrists, securing his arms behind the back of the chair.

Gingerly, he tried to shift his weight, but the magical chain held him so tightly that he could barely move at all. His fingers felt numb and his legs were stiff; he must have been out for hours.

He couldn't really remember what had happened after escaping Malfoy Manor with the prisoners. As soon as he had realised the Golden Trio were going to make it out, make it to freedom, it had been an easy calculation of risk for him. Stay and feel the wrath of Voldemort, or get away with them.

One moment, he had been standing on one side of the room, watching them take Dobby's hand, and the next he was launching himself in their direction, his nails digging into an ankle. Then his world had turned black, and a light, hazy, sky-blue and golden yellow was the last he had seen. He faintly remembered being surprised by a salty, tangy breeze hitting him. So he assumed that he must be at a sea shore.

Everything had happened so fast that he had no recollection of the following events. He only suspected that someone must have knocked him out.

The chains bit uncomfortably into his wrists as he shifted his shoulders and head to look behind him. It was too dark to make out any surroundings, though. Draco wondered if it might be nighttime. The colours shifted from purple, to black, to blue, and back to black again. His eyes were playing tricks on him in the shadows.

The Golden Trio must have apparated to some sort of Safe House or the Death Eaters would already be at their heels. And regarding Draco's locations, he suspected he was locked in the cellar of said house. And that it was near the sea.

He couldn't help but smile at the irony of the situation.

Now would be the time to think of a good escape strategy, Draco thought. But – where would he go? He'd be all alone, no wand, no money, no friends. That sounded more like a dead-sure plan to be captured and killed in days.

What was the alternative? Be held prisoner by the Trio? - No! But maybe he could … change sides? He didn't dare to think about it.

Voldemort must surely believe him defected anyway since he'd ran and hadn't made contact ever since. So why not act like it? It wasn't like Draco was still convinced of the Dark Lord's ideology. Actually, his life would be a lot more pleasant if that evil bastard was dead.

However, that meant working with bloody Potter, the blue-eyed ginger, and the bossy know-it-all.

Draco groaned loudly. Had he really sunken so low that he'd consider helping his former enemy? His pride forbade that. But, if he was being honest, there wasn't much of his Malfoy pride left. Draco felt empty and exhausted. Dead. He felt dead inside. And he just wanted the war to be over, no matter what.
Suddenly, unwanted images pushed themselves into Draco's mind – one of the most strikingly horrific moments in his life. This idea of switching sides also meant working with the girl with chestnut hair and eyes full of pain. He didn't know why, but he hoped she was okay. She hadn't deserved the torture.

The Gryffindors wouldn't trust him, of course, Draco told himself. After all he had done, after what he had watched someone else do without even attempting to interfere; they would want him to pay, to be punished. So shouldn't he rather try to escape than try to win their trust? But the ice-cold chains around his arms reminded him that there was no escape for now.

So the question remained – what did he really want?


After a few hours, the cellar door was eased open, and Draco still hadn't made a decision. A wand was lightened silently, and he had to close his eyes against the periwinkle brightness surrounding the white orb. When he peeked through his lashes, he discerned two bulky shadows in front of him, one with bright red hair, the other one with glasses.

Shite.

"You're awake. Good," Potter said flatly. "Now we can talk."

"Would you mind lowering your wand?" Draco mumbled between gritted teeth, still squeezing his eyes tightly against the glow.

"Ron?" Potter muttered and extinguished the light. But only a second later, an ice blue, nebulous ball of light appeared from out of nowhere and illuminated the small room, hovering just beneath the ceiling.

"Why did you follow us, Malfoy?" Potter's voice startled him. It sounded cool, matter-of-fact, as if he was really interested in an honest answer. But Draco could feel the rage, the hate, emanating from the black-haired boy.

He pressed his lips together and looked away. This question wasn't as easy to answer as they imagined. Besides, he hadn't decided on a plan of action yet.

"I told you, the git's not going to talk," Weasley whispered, turning to Harry and throwing Draco a sidelong glare.

"Well, until he does, he can rot in here," Potter replied, shrugging.

For a second, Draco was tempted to promise them that he wasn't a spy, that he had only used them as a means of escape, but the look on their faces stopped him. He could clearly see the hate in their eyes. They wouldn't believe one word he'd say. They wanted to see him suffer.

So he stayed quiet and stared into nothingness while they continued to ask him questions he couldn't answer.

Finally, Potter and Weasley left, taking the light with them.


Present

When Draco and his father flooed back to Malfoy Manor, Voldemort was still present. Unfortunately. It could be easily deduced from the frantic, raw screams emerging from the dining room. Screams that tore into Draco's heart; screams that gutted him; screams that took all air out of his lungs and put a metal weight on his chest.

Draco's gaze flickered to the clock. It was after tea time that meant they had been in there for at least three hours. He'd hoped Voldemort would be… finished before they'd arrive. Not for his sake, but for Hermione's.

But he should have known. The son of a bludger tortured for fun.

Draco's heartbeat accelerated in panic, and his breathing was flat. He needed to get himself under control before he entered that room. But every attempt to distance himself from the screams was pointless. He noticed how Hermione's voice broke, how she gasped for air, how her voice jumped up an octave as the pain got to be too much. Draco could almost taste her screams, metallic and bitter. Nausea swirled in his gut, competing with the ice cold fear in his stomach.

What should he do? What could he do? Draco had promised himself to never stand by and watch helplessly ever again. It seemed this promise must be broken because he couldn't save the Gryffindor without blowing his cover. It was all well and good that they had managed to find a way to communicate with Potter and warn him, but that didn't absolve him of not rescuing Hermione.

Suddenly, the screaming stopped, and Draco's heart stopped with it.

His father gave him a firm nudge, but said nothing. Normally, it wouldn't matter if Draco attended such interrogations or not, but with her it did. And they both knew it.

So father and son walked slowly down the hall to the dining room. Malfoys didn't hurry; no, they walked into every room as if they owned the place, which in this case was actually true.

Draco let his mask slide in place, took a deep breath to get into character, and pushed the large doors open. Ice cold air hit his face as if Voldemort was a freezer, radiating arctic cold. The curtains were closed, only a few rays of sunlight painted paths of dust into the air. A lifeless shape lay on the ground, like a toy that had been thrown away.

Sweet Circe, was she ali-

Draco cut that thought of quickly and focused on the madman in the room. Voldemort sat in his 'throne' only a few feet away from the girl on the floor, lifting his gaze when they entered.

"My Lord." He and his father bowed deeply. Not once did Draco's eyes flicker to the shape on the ground. "I'm sorry I was detained. Headmaster Snape wanted to inquire about the rebellious students in Hogwarts, and I was happy to be of assistance," Draco lied without batting an eye, straightening himself.

"You are excused, Draco," the Dark Lord replied gracefully. "Me and the Mudblood had so much fun. I'm sorry you missed it."

Draco smiled lopsidedly. "I'm sure there's more fun to come." For the first time, he looked purposefully at Hermione and gave his voice a dangerous timbre. "When she's all mine."

Hermione was still wearing the same clothes, but the shoulder of her T-shirt was torn, showing of the strap of her black bra. How did that happen? Did she struggle? Did someone–

Forcibly, Draco reigned in his thoughts. The Dark Lord preferred simple spells, as Crucio. And nobody else would dare to harm her – except Bellatrix.

His aunt was standing half a step behind Voldemort, a calculating look on her face. Draco met her gaze evenly, even though everything inside him screamed to curse that smirk off her face.

"Draco." Suddenly, Hermione's broken voice filled the quiet room. It was barely audible, nothing more than a strangled sob. The hope he detected in those milk chocolate eyes ripped him to shreds because he hadn't deserved one ounce of it. Consciously, Draco knew that it had to be an act, that she wasn't really calling out to him in earnest, but that didn't change how his body reacted. He wanted to run to her so badly, soothe her, protect her, but he stayed where he was.

"Ah," the Dark Lord sighed dramatically. "The saviour."

Bellatrix cackled maniacally next to him. "Yes, go on, Draco. Save her."

Draco didn't even flinch. "For now, I'd be contented with having her transferred back to the dungeon. Only of course," he looked the monster in front of him straight in the eye, "if you are… finished, my Lord."

Voldemort tilted his head as if trying to determine what kind of game Draco was playing. His father stiffened almost imperceptibly, ready to intervene.

"Fine," the monster finally agreed. "One Cruciatus more and she might go mad. And we don't want that, do we? Bella, take care of her! Draco and I need to have a talk."

The tone of his voice made it clear that it wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation, and fear slithered down Draco's back. From the corner of his eyes, he watched Hermione being floated in the direction of the door, and he felt like someone had taken a leaden weight off his chest. She was okay for now. Nothing else mattered.

Gathering all his strength, Draco slowly stepped deeper into the dining room, stopping exactly where Hermione had just lain. Was that blood on the floor? Scratches on the wood from her nails? Draco couldn't tell.

Quickly, he bowed again to cover up his interest of the floor. "How may I be of service?"