I've had this story in my head and my heart for ages now and I'm finally sharing it!

I know what you're thinking...does she REALLY need another WIP. The answer is, no. Probably not. But this is necessary. I have to get this story out of my head. If you're expecting the typical, wry, MotherofBulls humor, this story might disappoint. This story might hurt. But you can always read my fluff and humor later to mend your heart. Thank you for reading.

My lovely beta is SaintDionysus.

Gryff_intheGame did the MOST amazing graphics for this work, which you can find on my Facebook profile! The cover image on this site is just a screen shot of the graphics, but the original is a video, and it's beautiful.

Draco crouched on the ground in his cell, trying to tame his wild mind to no avail. Wicked, anxious thoughts nibbled at him as he stared at the wall. Thoughts of Her. Thoughts of…well…all of it.

Life, death, love.

None of these thoughts were conducive to his sanity because they weakened his faculties—faculties that he would need if he was to pull this off. Plus, there was the obvious.

He was afraid.

How did he get here; in this disgusting, dark cell that stank of shit, wearing Harry Potter's clothes?

He supposed it started with a slap.

"You foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach!"

He was too distracted by the crackling of her god-awful hair, which seemed impossibly bigger than it was a minute ago, to notice her tiny palm swing towards his face.

SLAP!

Holy mother of Merlin, that bloody hurt! As he cradled the heated patch of cheek, he tried to collect his bearings. This truly was uncharted territory.

No one had ever hit him before. No one had ever even touched him with anything resembling disdain. This was new. But above all, how dare she, a lowly Mudblood, strike a Malfoy? His great-great grandfather Marius would have had her executed for this.

He said nothing, but his silence went unnoticed with the riot of noise that erupted around him. Crabbe and Goyle muttered grunts of indignation and vengeful promises. Potter and Weasley surrounded Granger with adoration and awestruck respect. As Draco cradled his face, everyone's attention, whether positive or negative, was directed firmly to Granger. He felt ancillary.

For the remainder of that day, Draco couldn't seem to find his voice. No one spoke to him. No one wished to subject themselves to the embarrassment of acknowledging his shame. It should have bothered him more that his housemates pitied him, but he was too caught up in his own thoughts about the event to care.

That night he was plagued with dreams about hands. Mauling, clutching, squeezing, pinching, grabbing, slapping hands. Delicate, pale hands cupping his face. Deep brown eyes of righteous fury bearing into his own.

"You see?" she asked. "This is how it's supposed to be."

Searing fire, burning his flesh, imprinting on his right cheek. The impish eyes flashed devilishly as a multitude of soft, little hands traced the mark emblazoned on his face.

Her mark.

The next morning, he woke manically, covered in sweat, heart racing. He scrambled out of bed and looked in the mirror. His eyes glazed lazily as he traced the handprint she left on his face. It had lost its warmth, but the mark was still angry.

Fascinating.

"You should go to Madam Pomfrey," Blaise suggested.

Draco nodded but did not otherwise respond. He would not be going to Madam Pomfrey. This mark was his. He'd earned it. She gave it to him to wear, if only for a little while.

Things were never the same after that.

Two years ago

"The Dark Lord wishes to see you."

Draco poured himself another Firewhisky. His third one in an hour. He should probably be level-headed when speaking to the Dark Lord, but it would take more than this to get him tipsy.

"Why?" he asked Blaise.

The tall, dark man with the careful grace of a courtesan cyborg blinked, which for him, was quite the expression. "He didn't say. Only that he wishes to see you as soon as you're available." This was code for 'right this very second.'

"Fine." Draco threw back the contents of the Firewhisky like it was water, then stalked towards the Floo.

"You really shouldn't drink so much," Blaise admonished quietly. "He likes it when our minds are clear."

"My mind is clear enough." With a whoosh, he was swept away to the Ministry.

As the glimmering black marble of the Ministry came into view, Draco shuddered. The new headquarters were modeled after the old, and this room always gave him the creeps. When he was a little boy accompanying his father to the Ministry, he clutched to his father's robes as they walked across the lobby. Something about the shining darkness and the harsh lights from the ceilings gave the effect that this was an ideal location for a vampire or some other foul creature, to attack a little boy. His father would tear his robes away and chastise him for his foolishness. "Stop simpering. Are you my heir or my daughter?"

Now he just found it tacky. And droll. Droll and tacky. How utterly lacking in creativity was the wizarding community if they couldn't conceive of a different setting than the old Ministry building? Whatever happened to 'out with the old, in with the new?'

Probably a bit hypocritical when you've usurped a famously Muggle building to carry out nefarious, anti-Muggle policy.

He hated coming here, but the Dark Lord summoned him at least once a month ever since he'd been promoted to Lieutenant about a year ago. When Draco wasn't working, he preferred to be left alone.

The Dark Lord didn't give a shit about privacy. He didn't seem to give a shit about much anything anymore, now that the rebels were mostly wiped out and his position was secure.

Most of the rebels, that is.

Though they were essentially impotent, the Order continued to evade him because Harry Potter still lived. Harry Potter, the no one orphan from nowhere, who spent the last seven years hunting down Horcruxes and destroying them. Now that the Dark Lord's backup plans were significantly diminished, he had grown impossibly more volatile and paranoid of late.

This was likely why he summoned Draco. About once a month the Dark Lord would wake up in a rage about the fact that the Order, and their half-blood leader, Potter, continued to share the planet with him. He'd bloat Draco's unit with supplies, money, and a whole slew of rat bastard spies and order him to make that his priority. Draco would find a new lead that ultimately would lead to nothing, and the Dark Lord would be upset for several days. Then the Minister of Bulgaria or Finland, or some other frigid country far enough away that they did not have to endure the Dark Lord but rarely, would visit and demand to be entertained. Or perhaps a clan of giants would request an audience, insisting that their current territories were lacking in some way, and the Dark Lord would be tied up with other matters until his next bout of mania.

For some reason, the Dark Lord assumed that Draco was the best person to take down the Order. Draco assumed it was because he spent the entirety of his Hogwarts years engaged in an extended pissing contest with Potter. And even though there would be no love lost between him and that spectacled waste of space, he wasn't sure what sort of insight he could possibly bring to the situation. All he knew about Potter was that he was an orphan of mediocre magical talent who always seemed to get himself into trouble with his hero antics in school. He was a decent enough Seeker, but nothing special. Draco had loathed him in school for no other reason than he was the obvious choice to be his rival. As a kid, the idea of having a nemesis greatly appealed to him, and Potter with his self-righteous idiocy and his ginger oaf of a sidekick made for the perfect choice. Plus, Draco and Potter played the same position on their house Quidditch teams, which meant that Draco would have despised him even if he hadn't been gifted with an odious personality.

Plus, there was the fact that the smartest girl in school did all his homework for him, and nobody seemed to notice.

He grimaced as he attempted to ignore the swirl in his stomach when he thought about Her, and pushed the thought as far back into his mind as possible. His Occlumency was good enough that the Dark Lord never found out about that. He wouldn't ruin it today just because he'd had a few Firewhiskies.

He cleared his mind as he approached the Minister's floor. Two oafish wizards stood guard to his chambers.

"State your purpose."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Lieutenant Malfoy. His Lordship sent for me." They should know his face by now, and they would if they didn't have a combined IQ that would even induce Crabbe and Goyle to sneer in superiority. Where in the seven hells does the Dark Lord finds people like this?

They move aside and allow Draco to enter the room. Instantly, he feels an icy energy wash over him. As always, he tried not to register the discomfort that always came with being in the Dark Lord's presence.

"Draco, my boy," he drawled.

He hated that 'my boy' shite. After everything he'd had to do for the man, Draco certainly didn't feel like a 'boy' anymore.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you in today?"

"Not at all, my lord," Draco answered with prompt politeness. "I am ever at your beck and call."

The Dark Lord laughed. The sound made Draco's skin crawl. "You Malfoys seem to always know exactly what to say." Draco pushed all emotion aside at the implication there. He might not have said it, but Draco knew the Dark Lord was lumping him in with his father. And it was true. Lucius always knew the right thing to say. This is why he remained in the Dark Lord's inner circle, and had been ever since the Ministry fell.

Seven years. In that time, Lucius had become someone Draco didn't recognize. He'd Avada himself before he ever became his father.

"But I did not call you here to exchange pleasantries, Draco."

Somewhere in the depths of Draco's mind, he scoffed. This is pleasant?

"I thought," the Dark Lord said, "that you would be happy to know we captured the Weasley boy. Potter's right-hand man."

Draco's breath froze. Weasley. The ginger git who had ridden on the coattails of Potter's mediocrity since he was eleven years old. With his quick temper and uncouth manner, Draco had loathed him even more than Potter.

"Does this please you, Draco?"

"It is splendid news, my lord."

It was the very opposite of splendid news. Draco didn't care one way or another what happened to Weasley, but he realized that his capture might possibly lead them to the rest of the Order. Draco would die before that happened. He'd suffered too many nightmares where he'd been forced to kill Her. "Might I ask how you achieved this?"

The Dark Lord smiled to reveal every last one of his stubby, blackened teeth. The sight made Draco feel sick to his stomach, but luckily, he was a master at compartmentalizing his physical urges. "One of your Snatcher spies finally pulled through. Rowle, I believe his name is. He'd been tracking something in the Forest of Dean for several months when he came across Mr. Weasley scavenging for food in a nearby village."

"I will be certain to reward him," Draco said, the lie so natural it nearly convinced even him. Rather than reward him, Draco would take extra care to make sure Rowle stayed off his back. This would be his reward for showing he was a competent spy- Draco's undivided, malicious attention. The last thing he needed was someone digging into his own life.

"Mr. Weasley is to be executed tomorrow morning," the Dark Lord said.

Draco nodded. This was the custom. Twenty-four hours capture. That's it. That's all they got if the prisoner proved to be of no use to them. As sick as it may be, Draco was relieved to hear this. It meant Weasley wasn't as gormless as he always supposed. He wouldn't give away anything.

"It is my hope that his death will draw out some of the other vermin hiding in the cracks."

"I cannot imagine it will not, my lord," Draco said.

The Dark Lord leaned in to examine Draco closer. His wicked eyes narrowed in appraisal. "You're a laconic young man, aren't you, Draco?"

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but, ironically, found he had nothing to say. He closed his mouth before opening it again. "Yes, my Lord."

The Dark Lord laughed a silky, throaty laugh that made Draco's toenails shrivel in his boots. "You amuse me so, Draco. Would you care to interrogate the blood traitor yourself?"

Draco bowed slightly. "Nothing would give me more pleasure, my lord."

They didn't even taste like lies anymore.

Draco stood before the young man he bullied in school with apparent stoicism. Nothing could have been further from the truth, however. Every cell in his body screamed for him to ask the questions to which he longed to know the answers.

Was She happy?

Was She healthy?

Was She with anyone?

"Get up, Weasley."

The red-haired man glared at Malfoy with the vitriol of one who had harbored nothing less than burning hate for him since the moment he met him. He chuckled darkly. His voice full of acid when he spoke. "So, they've sent you to kill me." His voice was thin like he had been kicked in the throat. "Isn't that just fucking perfect? Killed by a ferret."

"Better a ferret than a weasel."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

The redhead was testing his patience, but Draco was every inch the aristocrat. Unlike the Dark Lord, he did not enjoy playing with his food, which should have been evidence to everyone from the beginning of the man's poor breeding. No matter your moral laurels, it was simply bad manners. "I'm not here to kill you, Weasley."

"You're not?" He didn't seem affected one way or another by this news. "Why not? You remember me from school. You remember how much we hated each other."

"Of course, I remember. I never forget a face. Especially when it's as ugly as yours." With a slight twitch of his wand, Weasley was thrown on his feet and gracelessly flung against the wall. "Were you alone, Weasley? When you were caught on your little outing?" His voice cut like acid. The apple doesn't fall far from sociopathic, poison tree. "Your last outing, as chance would have it."

Ron glared into Draco's cold, gray eyes, his blood boiling with pure hate. "I'd sooner suck your master's cock before I told you a damn thing, Malfoy."

Draco chuckled. He doubted the Dark Lord even had a cock. It would explain how he had managed to remain so obstinately immune to danger. His imperviousness to base desires made him impossible to manipulate. Draco had seen more than one ambitious woman try to throw themselves at the Dark Lord in hopes that he would bring them power. But the Dark Lord had never been moved by something as ephemeral as a pretty face. "I doubt you're his type, Weasley, but I'm sure he'd appreciate your enthusiasm."

"Piss. Off." Ron glowered at Draco as he slunk to the floor.

"Still can't take a joke, Weasel. Nothing about you has changed. You're still the same abhorrent stack of shit you always were." Draco squatted on the floor so he could be eye to eye with the prisoner. "I'm not going to torture you, arsehole. And I don't give a shite about your precious leader. I only came here to tell you that if you crack under pressure while those other fuckwits are tearing out your fingernails and scorching your balls, and tell them anything about Her, I will personally track down every last member of your freckled little family and crucify them."

Ron spat in his face.

Draco retrieved a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped his face. He tutted. "And I see you still have no manners."

"She told me, you know. About you. She told both of us."

Draco's breath hitched. What exactly did that mean?

"She told me how you played with her and threw her away once you were finished. Funny, I think she felt sorry for you. But I know the truth."

"Oh, yeah? And what is that?" He bit through tight lips.

"You're a hollow vessel, Malfoy. You couldn't possibly care about anything but yourself."

Draco was on him like a wild animal, holding him by the throat and pushing him on his back. "You think you know me, Weasel?" Draco had burned in Hell for Her every day for the past seven years. "You have no idea."

Weasley's laugh came out croaky and strangled under the grip of Malfoy's hands around his throat. "She'd never have you now. Not after everything you've done."

Draco released a breath. "I know that."

Weasley's hardened eyes softened in confusion. "Then why?"

Draco scoffed. This pathetic little man had the audacity to school him on matters of the heart? Just because Draco couldn't have Her didn't mean he still wouldn't open his veins for Her. As long as She still lived and breathed, he had a reason to keep going. To watch from afar. To not take the vial of poison locked in his study drawer which beckoned so seductively at him. He could protect Her from this side of the war. "It doesn't matter. As long as She lives, She might…"

He couldn't quite say it. He could hardly even think it. There was no man in the world who would possibly be as devoted to Her and love Her as deeply as he himself could, but since it wasn't an option, he accepted a long time ago that it didn't matter who made Her happy. As long as She was. "The only thing that matters to me is that She is alive and well."

Ron nodded. "She is."

"Good."

"She's with Harry. She loves Harry."

Through the deafening silence between the two men, Draco heard his heart break in two. So, that was it then? She was with Potter.

Draco's face felt heavy and full. He wanted to cry and rip Weasley, the Messenger's face off to use it as a handkerchief.

Potter. The impossibly smug orphan who seemed to get every damn thing he had ever wanted.

Draco's childhood rival.

It was so bitter—it was almost poetic.

Draco's jaw clenched. "As long as She's happy." He turned to leave. There was nothing more to say to the Weasel.

"Malfoy."

Draco turned to face Weasley one last time. "What?" he asked harshly.

Weasley scowled at what he was about to ask of this man he had hated all his life. "You won't let them hurt her, will you?"

Draco released a heavy breath at the question. "Never."

Weasley nodded once. The pact between the two men was fulfilled, and Draco left the dungeon with a heavy tread.

That night, Draco dreamt his favorite dream.

A familiar voice cooing in a pleasantly whiny cadence, "Come back to beeed." A smirk. A head of sex-tousled hair. A swollen belly. A family. He looked in the mirror at his reflection expecting to see a man on the edge of heaven, and in an instant his favorite dream was ruined.

It was Potter's face staring back at him. He was Potter.

He woke up with tear-stained pillows, like he always did when he dreamt of Her.

Such sweet torture.

Draco shook off the residual weakness the dream had left in his bones as he dressed and drudged to the dining room for his morning coffee. A fresh Daily Prophet lay next to his breakfast, just as it did every morning.

Plastered across the front page was a photo of Ron Weasley's corpse swinging from the top of the Ministry building, body picked over by crows.

Draco would never know that the last words he ever spoke to Ron were of some comfort to him before he died.

Then again, he probably wouldn't have cared either way.

She was all wrong, really, but at that moment, Draco didn't care as he thrust mercilessly into the curly-haired prostitute.

For one thing, her smell was completely off. It wasn't bad—the typical sharp, too sweet scent that women of her profession often donned—but it wasn't the right smell.

Second of all, she sounded wrong. Her moans were a little too wanton, a little too loud, and, he suspected, a little too inspired by the hefty amount of gold he had given her just before she sank to her knees before him. But despite their many discrepancies, their biggest sin was that they came from the wrong woman.

He remembered Her sighs; suppressed joy, spring rain, and a tear. Once, when She came, She laughed. She hadn't been expecting it, and its sneaky force amused Her. The last time, She cried. She'd tried to hide it from him. She thought he didn't see.

Sometimes Her body would shake for minutes after while the two exchanged silent kisses as they caught their breaths, a fever thrumming between them. Draco would hold Her after until She fell asleep. When She woke up, he still didn't want to let Her go.

"What's wrong, love?" the girl asked.

Draco didn't realize he stopped moving. He looked down at the All Wrong Girl. The Not Her Girl.

He frowned. "Nothing." He slid out of her. "You should go."

"But you didn't finish."

"What do you care?" he asked as he poured himself a Firewhisky. "You still got paid, right?"

She scoffed as she scrambled to put her clothes back on. "If it helps, I can charm my eyes brown, like last time."

He took a deep sip of the Firewhisky, welcoming the burn as it abused his throat. "Go. I won't say it again."

She shook her head. "Fine. But it's not polite to make a lady feel she's not done her job properly."

"Good thing you're not a lady, then," he muttered, sipping his Firewhisky, his back turned away from her.

After he heard the door close, signaling she had left, he sank down into his armchair throwing back the contents of his Firewhiskey. He was still naked. He didn't care.

The prostitutes were always a mistake. And it could be said he had a type among them. Small, petite, curly brown hair.

It felt disgusting to try to imprint Her image onto them. It was low. But it helped, sometimes. If he could not have love he could at least find a warm body to get lost in for a half hour or so. He could lose himself in a fantasy and for a moment he could breathe again. Then, of course, he'd awake from his fantasy and realize the girl, whoever she was at the time, was not Her. He always hated that moment when he'd wake up. His chest would ache and suddenly he didn't want to shag anymore.

He swirled the Firewhisky in his glass and gulped. The bright caramel color of Her eyes.

He remembered when he first noticed them.

"Why the fuck would Granger matter that much to someone like Krum?" Goyle asked.

Draco barely heard him, so focused was he on the exquisite naiad he had bullied for the past three and a half years as she emerged from the Great Lake wearing a silver bathing suit that clung to her lithe figure. He clenched his jaw as Krum fussed over her and draped a blanket over her form, shielding it from Draco's hormonal eyes.

Draco felt like he was under some sort of spell when he noticed Granger's nipples were hard through her bathing suit. His eyes met hers for a split second, but it was enough for him to realize that she possessed the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in his life. Lighter than chocolate, yet darker than his sable leather bag, they took him captive in that moment.

That single moment of serene.

Were her eyes always so big? It hardly seemed possible that they could make him feel lost and safe all at once.

A breeze blew through the area surrounding the lake, and Granger shivered, pulling the blanket closer to her. Viktor Krum noted her distress and snuggled her into his side, tucking her hair behind her ears and running his hands down her arms to ensure she was warm enough. Draco involuntarily drew his hands into fists as he observed the two.

Viktor Krum was, like himself, a pureblood prince. Unlike himself, Krum didn't seem concerned about the blood status of the girls who caught his attention. Were things different in Bulgaria?

Granger scrunched the blanket further up her body, and Draco could see the exposed skin of her creamy legs covered in gooseflesh. There was nothing obscene about the bathing suit, but Draco had still never seen so much of a witch before.

Her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies, casting a shadow over the soft skin of her cheekbones. Her pinkened lips rubbed together to stimulate blood flow, and Draco felt his heart loosen from his chest.

Uh-oh, his inner voice said.

Draco, you are in big trouble.

Draco threw the glass at the wall. It was no use reminiscing. She was Potter's now.

And his trouble was just beginning.