Revert

by SUPRNTRAL LVR

Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts

5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.

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Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts

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Chapter Five

Sixth Year

At first, she told herself that he was simply too busy to reply to her letters. She reminded herself that he would have barely any time to write, that his family would be dealing with a lot. She had seen in the Prophet that his father had been incarcerated for what had happened at the Ministry. She had always been very careful to avoid asking him how much he knew about his father's involvement with Death Eaters, but now it seemed the subject was going to come to light one whether she liked it or not. She sent a letter to him, expressing her guilt and concern, but he didn't reply. She wondered if he was angry with her. After all, the Golden Trio's actions had led to his father's imprisonment, and no doubt a lot of trouble among the Death Eaters. He had never spoken about it much before – from the little he had said, his parents were trying to keep him as far away from that business as possible – but now, with his father in Azkaban, he would no doubt be forced to become more involved.

She told herself that it wouldn't matter, that he would still be the same person, that they could carry on as before. He would understand that what had happened at the Ministry was just unfortunate. She forced herself not to think about everything that could be wrong. She was prone to over-thinking actions and reactions. She convinced herself that he would get in contact when he was ready.

Only he didn't.

The summer crawled by. She kept in close contact with Harry and Ron, who were full of questions and predictions about the coming year. Harry in particular wrote long letters to her about what he expected from Voldemort, about what they should be prepared for. Every line of his handwriting was laden with a quiet, understated fear of what was going to happen to them. He seemed to be aware, as much as she was, that they were teetering on a brink. This was going to become far more complicated than juvenile school escapades. Perhaps his most disconcerting notion was his conviction that Draco Malfoy had become a Death Eater to replace his father. She rebuked the claim fiercely, but she couldn't deny that the possibility that it could be true scared her.

By the time she got on the train at London Kings Cross station, hauling her trunk behind her, she had not heard from Draco in three months.

She looked for him on the platform, but there was no sign of his tell-tale shock of white blonde hair. She was swept away all too quickly by the arrival of Harry, Ron, Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys. They boarded the train together and she spent the journey listening to stories of their summer adventures. She was interested – of course she was – but she couldn't concentrate. Her eyes strayed to the glass compartment door every now and again, but she never saw him passing by. It was as if he had never even existed. She was so distracted that she barely noticed Harry slip out of the carriage.

It was dark when they arrived, and she pulled her robes tighter around herself as she wandered towards the waiting carriages just beyond the platform. She walked at the back of the group, and it was as she was about to climb into a carriage behind Ginny that she saw him. It was only by chance – if she hadn't glanced around just at the right moment, checking to see if Harry had jointed them, she would have missed it. But suddenly, like a spectre, there he was. He was wearing a jet-black suit instead of his Hogwarts robes, and it made him look oddly formidable among the other students. He stood there, at the very back of the crowd, his hands jammed into his pockets and a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. She looked around for Crabbe and Goyle, or any other of his cronies – Pansy, she thought, with a flicker of jealousy – but there was no one. He was alone.

"Hermione?"

She glanced quickly at Ginny, who was waiting for her to join them.

"I think I left something on the train," she said, speaking before she could think. "I have to go back."

Ginny frowned, her bright ginger hair catching at the wind. "Do you want us to wait?"

"No, no, I'll be right there – save me a seat!"

And she leapt back from the carriage, pushing the door shut. The carriage pulled away as soon as she did so, and the others began to move on after it. When she looked back over her shoulder, she saw the final few students piling into carriages behind her. One student was reaching for the last carriage, which still stood empty, but Draco stepped forwards abruptly. His hand flung out and caught the door, holding it shut, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly. The student froze, and then turned and hurried over to the only other carriage left, managing to scramble inside before it went.

Draco looked at her. And where once she might have seen a cheeky smile, or a daring smirk, now all she saw was emptiness. It was as if a stone mask had descended over his features, as if he had frozen each miniscule muscle of his face. There was nothing there that she could recognise. She couldn't see him anymore. And then he had turned and was stepping up into the carriage. She didn't see anyone go with him, and immediately seized her chance. She made it to the carriage, the last in the line, and caught the door as it swung shut. Even as she pulled up her robe and made her way into it, it was beginning to move. She stumbled into the nearest seat, and found herself sitting beside him.

He had the window down and was leaning on it, smoke rushing from his nostrils. His gaze was purposefully directed away from her, aiming out into the dark night. The fragmented light cast heavy shadows on his face, and his slicked back hair only made the impression of a skull all the more real. She searched desperately in those dark patches for some sign of recognition, but it was as if he had been reduced to a portrait. Or a distant actor from film noir. As if he had aged several years in the few months it had been since she saw him last. She suddenly didn't know how to speak.

"Hi."

Her voice sounded so small in the stillness and silence of the carriage. She almost cringed at herself. She wanted to look calm and collected, like him, but she couldn't. Words were already pouring out.

"Draco, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for how it turned out with… with your father – We had no choice, we were fighting back. The Death Eaters–"

"I know," he said shortly.

His voice was completely devoid of emotion, his tone clipped and brief. She broke off at once. He hadn't spoken loudly, but she could hear the tension in his voice. He took a drag on his cigarette and the smell of smoke reached her.

"This is the last time we're going to speak."

She felt as if he had punched her in the gut. She wanted to demand to know what the hell he meant, she wanted to scream and shake him, but she couldn't. The air had been knocked out of her. He flicked ash from his cigarette, exhaled.

"No more letters. No meetings. I don't want any contact with you."

He still wasn't looking at her, and she suddenly realised that hot tears were welling up in her eyes. She looked quickly at her own lap. Her chest felt so tight, and she tried to force a deep breath in. It wouldn't work. But she had to speak, and eventually she managed to croak out some words.

"Wh… Why? Is it becau… because of what happened at the Ministry?"

He turned to her, at last, and she looked up quickly. His piercing gaze seemed to go straight through her. It was some time before she realised that he was fiddling with the buttons on his cuff, pulling his sleeve up. She stared in blank disbelief at the curling Mark on his arm. Her brain wouldn't accept what she was looking at, but she knew what it was. She felt her body automatically pull backwards. Part of her really believed she was dreaming – none of it felt real.

"What…" she swallowed hard, still staring at it, even as he pulled his sleeve down again. "Draco, what have you…?"

"That's how it is now," he said, still in that terrible empty voice. "So you're not going to contact me again, and I'm not going to contact you. Nothing ever happened between us. That's it."

The utter grief that had overwhelmed her abruptly gave way to fury. It leapt through her veins in a way she had never known before. She had never felt so angry, and yet, at the same time, so fucking in love. Because even though he was saying it, even though her worst nightmare had just become her reality, she still loved him. And it was burning her.

"You can't be serious."

Her voice was low, trembling. He finished buttoning his cuff and pulled his blazer sleeve down, took another long breath of his cigarette. She wanted to rip it out of his fingers.

"It's done."

"What do you mean?" she hissed. "You're giving up, just like that? After everything… After– "

"I have no choice."

"There's always a choice, Draco."

"No, there isn't!"

His voice rose abruptly to a shout, and she flinched. It was alarming enough that he had finally responded emotionally to something she had said. It happened in the way that a wave breaks on the sand – his face crumpled violently, his eyes blazed with sudden tears, his jaw locked. His words, spoken from between clenched teeth, finally spattered out.

"This is what you don't understand, you little Golden Trio with your Dumbledore's Army behind you! Whatever you do, your family can run. They can go into hiding, they can disappear. My family can't run, don't you get it? Because he's fucking sitting at our dinner table!"

She stared at him, speechless. He let go of the cigarette abruptly, letting it fall to the carriage floor, and screwed his hands into shaking fists on his knees.

"I knew you wouldn't understand," he said, clearly attempting to return to the dissociated tone he had used before. "But really, it doesn't matter if you understand or not. If they find out about what we did, we'll both be killed."

"Draco, we can find a way to help–"

"Help?" he sneered at the word. "If you want to help me, Granger, you'll stay as far away from me as humanly fucking possible."

Lantern light fell across his face, and for a moment he looked vulnerable. She could just see the flicker of terror in his eyes, and his ultimatum became all too clear.

"What have they asked you to do?"

He just looked back at her. And then the carriage was shuddering to a halt, and before she could even open her mouth again he had shoved the door open and was gone. The only thing left of him was the cigarette butt smoking steadily on the floor beside her. She sat there for a while, completely still, trying to convince herself that it hadn't happened. But eventually, she had to do the only thing left that she could do – she wiped at her eyes, sniffed, pretended she had not been crying, and climbed down out of the carriage. They joined the feast in the Great Hall separately, a few minutes apart, and she did not dare look at him again.

Not even when Harry came in late, his face covered in blood.

Now

If at all possible, Draco was certain that he would have spent the rest of his life holed up in that dingy attic room if Hestia Jones hadn't returned to Grimmauld Place. After the disastrous sleepwalking episode the night before, he had decided to make a conscious effort to never run into Hermione ever again. He would avoid her like the plague from here on in because, as she had so clearly indicated, she obviously did not want to think about the past. So he had buried himself in the creaky single bed and committed himself to remaining there until either he died of starvation or the Ministry carted him off to Azkaban.

But, early that afternoon, Hestia's Patronus appeared at the end of the bed and spoke with her voice. It was some kind of stocky, small dog – perhaps a bulldog. Either way, it looked resolutely unfriendly.

"Mr. Malfoy – I'm waiting for you in the drawing room. Do hurry."

He glared at the Patronus until it disappeared. He dragged himself upright, clawing both hands through his dishevelled hair, wincing as his chest seared with the movement. It was throbbing violently today, and the headache was back with a vengeance. He reached blindly for the bottle of Nightshade on his bedside table and took a few sips from it, closed his eyes until the pain faded and a hazy fog descended on him like a mist. He couldn't take too much – he didn't want to risk getting too drowsy and screwing up during his interrogation – but still, he slipped the bottle into his pocket before dragging on his jumper and making his slow way downstairs.

He passed Hannah Abbot on the third floor. Her face paled significantly at the sight of him and she stopped in her tracks, as if considering actually running. He shot her a sneer.

"Boo," he muttered, pushing past her.

He could feel her eyes on the back of his head as he continued on his way.

Hestia Jones was, indeed, waiting in the drawing room. The room itself was similarly shabby, yet with a slightly greater touch of the grandeur that must have once rested over the whole house. A dusty piano stood in one corner, and a faded family tree took up one wall. Several names had been burned off. The opposite wall was taken up by a set of huge bay windows which overlooked the street. Hestia was seated at the glossy mahogany table, scribbling on a piece of parchment, a large black owl sitting on her shoulder. Her hair was still in its stern, unforgiving ponytail. She glanced up ambivalently as he entered.

"Ah, there you are," she said, as if welcoming someone into her own personal office. "Sit down."

He didn't much like being spoken to as if he were back at Hogwarts. But the walk downstairs had made his head hurt once more, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. He pulled out one of the chairs opposite her and sat, glaring sulkily at his own fingernails. She continued to write, her brow furrowed, her quill flying across the paper. As the silence dragged on he glanced at the page, but his vision was slightly blurry after the Nightshade – he couldn't make out the words.

Eventually, she straightened up and rolled the parchment up into a thin scroll, which she attached to her owl's leg. She stood up and carried it to the window, and with two beats of its huge wings it was soaring out into the open air. Dusting off her hands, Hestia returned to the table and smiled pleasantly at him as she sat down again.

"Well, how are you settling in, Malfoy?"

He glared at her. "When can I leave?"

"That well?" she smiled, and he got the feeling she enjoyed his discomfort. "Well, that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

He bit back a sharp retort and lapsed into silence, refusing to give her the satisfaction of having him speak first. She watched him for a long time, rolling her quill thoughtfully between her thumb and forefinger, her lips twitching into an infuriating smile from time to time. After a couple of minutes of stubborn silence, she eventually spoke up.

"So, how about you tell me what you've been doing all this time? You must have known the Ministry was trying to contact you. Why didn't you respond?"

He turned the question over, searching for any hidden traps in the seemingly innocent question before replying.

"I've been around. I realised that there were Death Eaters that had survived the war, and I knew they would be after me. So I kept on the move."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"And your parents?"

He felt something inside him lurch unpleasantly, and schooled his features into stoic emptiness before trusting himself to reply.

"I think my father was planning to go to Romania. To stay with family."

"Why didn't you go?"

Again, the unpleasant lurch, accompanied with a sharp stab of pain in his chest. He suppressed a flinch and realised too late that his hand had automatically jumped towards his wound. He pretended to be scratching his shoulder instead, avoiding her shrewd gaze.

"We weren't getting on very well."

He waited, terrified that she would pursue the subject, but she seemed satisfied. She wrote something down in her notebook, which had been produced from a pocket as he was speaking. She paused, as if re-reading her notes, and then glanced up once more with a cool smile.

"And what was your plan?"

He looked at her blankly. "My plan?"

"You didn't go to Romania. You didn't register to attend Hogwarts next year to finish your education. What were you planning to do?"

The question stalled him. Since he had become aware of the gravity of his situation – once he had done some research and realised exactly how shit his chances of survival had just become – he hadn't really made a plan. His day-to-day had revolved around finding places to stay, keeping his condition under wraps, and sourcing Nightshade Scortia. He hadn't had the time or energy to come up with any long term goals. But he couldn't explain any of that without giving away his ailment, and he didn't much fancy that. Either his pride wouldn't allow it, or he didn't want them to have any more knowledge about him than was absolutely necessary.

In the end, he just shrugged.

Hestia's eyebrow twitched, but she moved on smoothly. If she sensed he was hiding something – which she most certainly did – she apparently didn't care to dwell on it now. Instead, she made a short note and continued.

"And how many times have you met up with your old friends since the Battle of Hogwarts?"

He scowled. "Zero. I haven't seen any of them."

"Apart from that time in the alleyway?"

"Obviously, apart from then."

She leaned forwards, clasping her hands before her. "What's their problem with you, hmm?"

He stared at her. "As if you don't know."

She smiled. "Enlighten me."

A sigh of frustration forced itself between his teeth. His headache was beginning to pound and he cradled his head in one hand, pinched the bridge of his nose.

"They were pissed that I switched sides. They consider me a traitor."

"We have that in common." She smirked as he glanced up at her, cocked her head slightly. "I have a rule, you know – if both sides are calling the same person a liar, its because they're just that: a liar. Only out for their own skins. Which makes them particularly slippery. They'll say whatever they have to if it means personal gain."

"I'm answering your questions."

"So you are." She made a note. "You know, Potter seems to have reason to believe that you were somewhat of a reluctant Death Eater. But all the same, as far as I'm concerned, if you're a silent bystander, you're part of the problem."

She looked up sharply, and her eyes seemed to flash with something more personal and venomous than the cool authority she had displayed so far. He ran his tongue across his lips, waiting for her to continue.

"I mean, how about instead of listing whatever you didn't do, we start talking about what you did do?"

She held up her hand, ticking off her fingers as she spoke, her brow furrowed in mock consideration. His temper began to boil but he fought to remain calm, trying not to rise to her bait.

"So – sixth year of Hogwarts. You curse a fellow student, Katie Bell. You cast the Imperius curse on Madam Rosmerta. You poison Ronald Weasley. Am I forgetting anything… Ah, yes." Her eyes narrowed. "You orchestrate the murder of Albus Dumbledore by providing a large group of Death Eaters with access to Hogwarts School."

"I didn't have a choice," he said quietly, trying to control the furious tremor lurking in his voice. "I was under pressure from Voldemort himself to act – if I'd refused, he would have killed my parents. And Snape was the one who killed Dumbledore – part of their master plan, so I hear."

"And once Voldemort returned to power," she continued briskly, completely disregarding his interjection, "you were observed on several occasions taking part in Death Eater activity. Abductions, torture, intimidation… For example, do you deny that you aided your fellow Death Eaters in kidnapping Miss Luna Lovegood from her home and blackmailing her father into turning Potter over to you?"

He said nothing. She scribbled more details into her notepad and sighed, reading over the list she had made so far.

"Not looking great, is it?" she summarised. "In fact, the only thing you really have to show for yourself is abstaining from the fight during the Battle of Hogwarts. Very brave."

He had to physically catch his tongue between his teeth to prevent himself from snapping at her. She was watching him, and he knew that she was waiting for some clue, some slip up which would give him away. He gritted his teeth and glared back at her in silence. She raised her shoulders in a brief shrug.

"So, basically, you could do with some gold stars. Because, right now, if you go into court, you'd be looking at a couple of years in Azkaban, minimum."

She slipped a sheet of paper from her notepad and pushed it across the table towards him. He took it, squinted at it. His head was still hurting, and his vision had grown even worse. He had to blink hard to bring the words into focus, finally recognising it as a list of names. Hestia pointed the end of her quill towards him.

"That's a list of all the Death Eaters we know of who are still at large."

"And?"

"And – is there anyone missing?"

He looked from the note to her and back again. The letters wavered before his eyes – he could barely even read it, let alone cast his mind back to who he had or hadn't seen after the final Battle.

"How should I know? I told you, I haven't seen them since. I saw the names in the Prophet obituaries, like everyone else."

"Well, perhaps you could have a little think," she said smoothly, rising to her feet. "And come up with whatever information you might have about the people on that bit of paper."

She tucked her notepad away and caught up her cloak, shaking it out. He stared at her in confusion.

"What, that's it?"

"I'll be back tomorrow," she said, dusting lint from her shoulder. "That should give you enough time to come up with a few ideas, hmm?"

He opened his mouth to tell her, for what felt like the hundredth time, that there was nothing he could even say. But he knew his words would fall on death ears, and he shut his mouth again, glaring at the piece of paper in front of him. She pulled her cloak straight and fixed him with an icy stare, all trace of nonchalant niceties extinguished in an instant.

"I suggest you find a way to be useful," she said. "The Ministry doesn't like to play games."

She swept past him and out into the corridor, and a few moments later he heard the front door close. He crumpled the note between his fingers, the names blurring into indecipherable blotches. His head hurt, the steady throbs in the front of his skull pounding like a drum. He sat there for a while longer, trying to decipher the fuzzy ink, but eventually the stabbing pain spread to his temples and he began to get nervous. He reached into his pocket and took out the bottle of Nightshade. He uncorked it and drank a little, pressed his fists against his forehead until the throbbing began to subside.

Eventually, it lessened enough for him to get up from the table. He shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket and headed out into the corridor. The only thing in his mind was getting upstairs to the attic room and going back to sleep, but as he cleared the stairs up to the first floor he heard the drumming of footsteps and voices from above his head. People coming down. He swore under his breath, considered just pressing on, and then shook his head and ducked into the living room before they could reach the landing and find him. Thankfully, it was empty. He shut the door behind him and backed away from it, keeping against the wall, listening.

The footsteps and voices rattled past the door and onwards downstairs.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he turned away from the door and raked a hand through his hair. His chest suddenly burned violently and he let out a gasp of pain, felt his knees tremble. His hand went automatically to his pocket for the bottle, but he'd already had too much – he couldn't risk falling asleep there in the living room. Instead, he forced his shaking legs to carry him over to the sofa and sat down heavily, rubbing his chest. The pain came again in another angry wave and he screwed his eyes shut tightly, let out a moan, prepared for the first of the convulsions to hit – it must be another attack starting…

Something warm and soft suddenly rubbed itself against his knuckles. He jumped, distracted momentarily, and found himself looking down at a squashed, furry, ginger face. It blinked at him and then climbed up onto his lap, stretched its front legs, and settled down. He trailed his fingers through its long, matted fur, and the warmth of the small body nestled against him was surprisingly comforting. So much so, that the pain seemed to be receding slightly, ebbing out of him like water. He leaned his head back against the sofa cushions and listened to the cat's throaty, motorbike purrs.

"Hello, cat," he muttered, smirking slightly.

A brief memory floated to the surface of his mind – Crookshanks curled on Hermione's lap, her hand absentmindedly smoothing the fur on its back as she read. He had never seen an uglier animal and yet, for some reason, she seemed to think the world of it. It had never given him a second glance at Hogwarts – it had spent most of its time wandering the grounds or sleeping in the Gryffindor common room anyway. And yet here it was, perhaps the first friendly face he had seen in six months.

It sat on his lap and continued to purr.

For some reason, it seemed to have helped. His chest still ached and his head still felt fragile, but considerably less so. After a few tranquil moments on the sofa, he lifted his head and looked around.

The living room was filled with a mismatch of furniture and objects. There was a large desk against one wall, on which stood a cage with a jittering pygmy puff inside. Two large sofas took up most of the room, along with a couple armchairs – all faced towards one wall, which had once given a fireplace prime of place. Now, grey box with a screen on the front rested on a coffee table, surrounded by slender plastic boxes. He recognised it as some kind of muggle device, although why Potter had set one up here was beyond him. On either side of the fireplace were two large bookcases, housing an impressive collection of classical volumes. He could make out a couple of them from across the room, and as he was scanning the titles realised that his vision must be coming back. He felt in his pocket for the parchment from Hestia and drew it out – ignoring the disgruntled noise Crookshanks made as his movement disturbed the creature – and read the list of names.

Augustus Rookwood (imprisoned)

Jugson

Theodore Nott

Goyle Snr. (imprisoned)

Selwyn

Travers

Yaxley (imprisoned)

Rodolphus Lestrange (imprisoned)

Lucius Malfoy

Draco Malfoy

His gaze remained on the last name for a while. He knew that Hestia had added he and his father on last to make a point. Some kind of attempt at intimidating him. He wasn't sure exactly what they thought he was hiding – they seemed to believe that he had defected, and yet they did not exactly trust him either. He read the list again.

Yaxley, Goyle Snr., Lestrange, Rookwood – all imprisoned. All an older generation of Death Eaters. The others were younger, either in his year or a couple of years older. He knew all of them. Nott in particular. Jugson, perhaps least. Selwyn and Travers had led the expedition to the Lovegood's to take Luna. He didn't see any of them as leaders, or coherent enough to put together a plan. But then, the continued Death Eater activity over the last few months had not been all that careful – just the occasional attack on a confused muggle or two.

And, if he was honest with himself, he was pretty sure at least one of the Death Eaters in the alleyway had been Travers. Travers never had liked him much.

He dropped his hand, trying to figure out what to do. Hestia was quite clearly backing him into a corner. Any more silence on his part would probably result in some kind of escalation in their interrogation techniques. She probably already knew who the other Death Eaters were – she just wanted proof. He considered writing down what he knew about each of them, but he doubted there was anything he could say that they didn't already know. All Hestia really wanted was for him to tell them where the Death Eaters were now meeting, and that he honestly didn't know.

His eyes strayed to his own name at the bottom of the list, and his lip curled – he shoved the note into his pocket, scowling.

He didn't want to think about Hestia Jones anymore.

He pushed his way up from the sofa, dislodging Crookshanks from his knee, and headed over to the bookcase. It had caught his interest, and offered a decent distraction from the thoughts tumbling over one another in his head. The collection was old but extremely varied. The books must have belonged to a family at one point – they were all stamped with the same crest. Vaguely familiar. He retrieved a volume from the top shelf and read the title, printed in gold embossed letters across the front. Practical Applications of Advanced Potions and Chemistry. He found himself smiling. It would do for some light reading. Just as he was turning around, about to head back to the sofa, the living room door opened.

He had been so engrossed in the books that he had completely neglected to listen out for voices. And, just his luck, he looked up from the book to find a group of people making their way into the room. He recognised most of them as Gryffindors – Abbot, Thomas, Finnigan and there at the back, Ginny Weasley. His stomach sank. They hadn't noticed him yet, still talking to one another.

"… here? Do you think they're ransoming him?"

"They're obviously trying to offer him some kind of deal to snitch on the others," Abbot said, wrinkling her nose.

"How do we know he's not just going to snitch on us?"

"Because, dipshit, if I wanted to snitch on you you'd be dead already."

He was at least able to enjoy the way they all started and flinched around, completely taken by surprise. He cocked his head, his lip curling and his eyes narrowing automatically as their faces hardened. Finnigan actually curled his hands into fists, as if ready for a physical fight.

"Snooping around Harry's stuff, are you Malfoy?" Abbot said, folding her arms. "Who said you could go poking through things that don't belong to you?"

"Oh, no one," he said brightly, tucking the book under his arm. "I just like to help myself."

The venom in their eyes was tangible. He walked decisively forwards to move past them, and they scattered out of the way almost at once – apart from Finnigan, who slammed one hand into the doorframe and blocked his path. Draco turned his head slowly and looked at the other boy. Finnigan was shorter in stature, but the other boy was squaring up to him all the same, his eyes dangerously narrowed.

"You better wipe that smug look off your face, Malfoy," Finnigan said, his voice low. "This isn't a game."

Draco raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, it's not?"

Finnigan's jaw tightened. "People died in that war. And you helped. You're still a fucking Death Eater in my book."

"Don't think the Ministry really cares about your book, Paddy," Draco replied coldly. "Slow introduction, anticlimactic ending, you know."

"You know what, you can joke around as much as you like," Finnigan snarled. "You can act like it's all a big laugh. But you know what you can't get out of? The fact that this all started because of you. Because you killed Albus Dumbledore."

Before Finnigan had finished speaking, the pain had made an abrupt return. It was spiking fiercely in his chest and head and he knew without a doubt that he had barely a couple of minutes before it struck. He ran his tongue across his lips, and then narrowed his eyes at the hand that blocked his way. He had grown rather good at simple wandless magic over the last year, and it didn't take much to generate a spark of electricity. He shoved Finnigan firmly as the other boy flinched away from the doorframe, and strode out into the corridor. Finnigan made a grab for him as he went by and he twisted free, drawing his wand as he turned. Finnigan was already aiming his own, his nostrils flaring.

"Go on then, Paddy," Draco growled.

Finnigan's eyes narrowed - and Ginny Weasley appeared between them, pushing Finnigan's arm down and forcing him into the living room. She shot Draco a sharp glare, her tone firm and authoritative.

"Do me a favour and piss off, ok Malfoy?"

She drove Finnigan into the living room and the door slammed shut behind them. Draco was only too happy to turn his back and pull himself up the stairs. With every step his chest was burning, his head beginning to spin dizzily. By the time he reached the attic room, his vision was half blacked out by darkness. He had barely enough time to flick his wand at the door, shutting it and casting a breathless silencio, before his lungs froze and his heart began to pound. He let out a harsh groan, dropping to his knees, feeling desperately in his pocket for the Nightshade. His fingers had only just closed around it when the attack hit him like a truck, and pain blocked out the world.

Then

Sixth Year

His feet carried him to the astronomy tower, above which the Dark Mark coiled and twisted in the black night, while behind him a flurry of noise and movement heralded the Death Eaters' arrival. He could almost feel the flickering ripples of violence rolling over the building below as the peace was disturbed, as people one by one began to realise that something was wrong. He quickened his pace.

There wasn't much time.

He took the stairs two at a time up to the astronomy tower and paused outside the door. For a moment he breathed, tried to calm his screaming nerves. And then, drawing his wand, he burst open the door with a shatter of splintering wood and strode inside. He moved rapidly up the final twisting steps and emerged into the highest room of the tower, his wand raised, the incantation spilling from his lips.

"Expelliarmus!"

Albus Dumbledore's wand flew from his hand instantly and disappeared into the chilled night air. Under the green glow of the Mark Draco could make out his Headmaster's aged, slender form leaning heavily upon the ramparts and, instantly, his stomach curled into a stone. He had not expected to be successful in Disarming the older wizard, let alone find Dumbledore looking positively sick and grey. Still, he held his ground. There was simply no possible way that a sixth year unqualified teenager could beat the greatest wizard of all time head on. And he was counting on that fact desperately. His eyes moved to the two broomsticks that stood nearby, and a flash of hope dawned. They were not, it seemed, alone.

"Good evening, Draco," the old man said calmly.

"Who else is here?"

"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"

He could not have asked for a better opportunity to warn Dumbledore outright than the one presented. Speaking clearly and loudly he replied – "No, I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight."

"Well, well," Dumbledore said, in a voice that could almost be described as amused. "Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you? Yet… forgive me… where are they now? You seem unsupported."

The old man was not reacting as he had hoped – rather than angry, confused panic, Draco was being met with the kind of tone which would not be out of place among polite dinner conversation. He pressed on, trying to reiterate the facts of the matter.

"They met some of your guard, I think," he said. "They're having a fight down below. They won't be long. I came on ahead." And then, as Dumbledore simply nodded, "I… I've got a job to do."

Once again, he waited for the Headmaster to Disapparate. Or to call for his Phoenix. Or summon his wand – as Draco knew for a fact he was capable of – and simply potter downstairs to detain the Death Eaters himself. And yet, still, the old man refused to move. Instead he smiled pleasantly and shifted his weight on the railing, smoothing his robes with one hand.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy."

Draco could do nothing but stare. It was as if Dumbledore thought this was all nothing but a game of make-believe, as if he were indulging a charming young child engaging him in play. But by now the bangs and shouts in the corridor below were audible to their ears, and he did not know how Dumbledore could possibly be pretending not to hear. What sort of game was the old man playing? As he swallowed hard his victim spoke again, now in a softer voice.

"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."

And there it was. Dumbledore was not afraid because he knew, just as much as everyone else, that Draco was unable to fulfil this mission. A heavy sense of defeat washed over him and he felt his wand arm tremble as it pointed at his target's chest, felt his body almost slump in despair. If Dumbledore did not fear him, if there was no sense of terror in the event to come, his plan had failed miserably. Dumbledore would not run. The only thing he could do was try to appear foreboding and confident, but his voice was shaking wildly even as he tried.

"How do you know?" he snapped lamely. "You don't know what I'm capable of. You don't know what I've done!"

"Oh, yes, I do," Dumbledore replied passively. "You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts…" The wizard's eyes flashed suddenly, as if scanning Draco with an X-Ray laser about to lay all of his deepest secrets bare. "So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has really been in it.

Sheer panic shivered through him. He gripped his wand tightly, beginning to feel almost breathless with fear. At any moment the Death Eaters would be running up the stairs, and if he was unmasked – if Dumbledore knew, somehow, the truth about where his loyalties lay, where his heart lay – it would all be over. Hermione, now somewhere in the castle, for all he knew asleep and defenceless, would be killed at once. He replied in a shrill, tight voice, close to hysteria.

"It has been in it! I've been working on it all year, and tonight–"

A yell from below them cut him off, and he froze. He couldn't decipher whether it had come from a member of Dumbledore's guard, or from a Death Eater. Or a student. His mouth was dry. He swallowed forcefully again.

"Somebody is putting up a good fight," Dumbledore remarked casually. But you were saying… Yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible. How did you do it?"

He waited. Draco's lips worked furiously, but he could not come up with any words. Why, why was the Headmaster even asking him? Why did it matter now? He cast around desperately for something to say, something that would instil in Dumbledore the urgency of the situation.

"Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone," Dumbledore said, filling the tense silence. "What if your backup has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realised, there are members of the Order of the Pheonix here tonight, too."

And there it was – another sliver of a chance. Perhaps that was why Dumbledore had not run; because he expected the Death Eaters to be overwhelmed. Perhaps he had some secret weapon hidden in the school? Perhaps the whole lot of them would be carted off to Azkaban within the hour. At that moment, the thought of being sent to Azkaban was heaven.

"And after all," Dumbledore continued, "You don't really need help… I have no wand at the moment… I cannot defend myself." He paused, and then nodded serenely. "I see. You are afraid to act until they join you."

"I'm not afraid!" Draco hissed back, finally remembering the need to keep up his pretence. If the others should enter now he could not be seen to be hesitating. "It's you who should be scared."

Once again, his warning was ignored. Dumbledore simply cocked his head to one side, looking at him with a strange, agreeable expression that made his skin crawl with frustration.

"But why? I don't think you want to kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe… so tell me, while we wait for your friends… how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it."

It was hopeless. No matter what he said, no matter how the sounds of conflict downstairs grew, Dumbledore was not going to try to escape. Draco's only plan had crashed and burned before his eyes. He let his wand arm fall to his side, letting out a short sob of defeat. Apparently there was nothing to do but talk, despite the fact that his head was reeling and his hands were shaking and he felt like vomiting.

"I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one's used for years. The one Montague got lost in last year."

"Aaah," Dumbledore sighed, letting his head fall back. "That was clever. There is a pair, I take it?"

"The other's in Borgin and Burkes." As he explained his actions over the last year he felt almost as if he were entering into some dream state. It was the strangest situation he had ever found himself in – chatting away to a man who was about to be murdered, possibly by himself, about how he had done the Dark Lord's bidding. Dumbledore nodded along to his story with apparent interest, seemingly unaware of how ridiculous the whole conversation was.

"But there were times, weren't there, when you were not sure you would succeed in mending the Cabinet? And you resorted to crude and badly judged measures such as sending me a cursed necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands… poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I might drink…"

Draco let out a short, rough laugh. He felt as if Dumbledore was stripping down every pathetic lie he had formed. Talking about it now, he knew he could not have made his intentions more obvious if he had tried. He could not have sent a clearer warning. Cursing Katie Bell had been the closest shave – he still hadn't been able to look at her since she had returned to school. He had cast the spell through Rosmerta, who had no knowledge of dark magic, and whose mistakes ensured that the curse was not fatal. As for the mead, he had been certain that Slughorn – a bloody potions teacher – would recognise the distinct difference in smell that his poison had caused. Weasley's near miss had been an unexpected scare, but again, all had been well. And yet, for some unknown reason, no one had traced anything back to him. A fact which filled him with contempt.

"Yeah well, you still didn't realise who was behind that stuff, did you?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. I was sure it was you."

He could only stare in shock. Dumbledore's grip on the railing faltered slightly and he had to pause to pull himself upright once more, his complexion fading, his frame suddenly looking extremely frail. Draco barely noticed. All he could do was slowly process the information that Dumbledore had known the whole time. He had known. And, despite being completely aware of the fumbled attempts on his life, of Draco's impossible mission, Dumbledore had simply sat and done nothing.

In that moment, Draco couldn't help but be filled with sheer, overwhelming fury. None of it needed to have happened. Dumbledore could have arrested him on the first day of term, all of it could have been prevented. But he hadn't. Perhaps because Draco wasn't the Golden Boy, wasn't the favourite, and so subsequently it didn't matter what did or didn't happen to him. Perhaps because Dumbledore simply didn't care.

"Why didn't you stop me, then?" he breathed, tears pricking at his eyes.

"I tried, Draco," Dumbledore replied softly. "Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders–"

"He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother–"

"Of course, that is what he would tell you, Draco, but–"

"He's a double agent, you stupid old man!" Draco screamed. His chest was heaving, his blood boiling in his veins. How, how could Dumbledore be so thick? How had all of this come about simply because Dumbledore wasn't intelligent enough to see through Snape's pathetic pretence? "He isn't working for you, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape–"

"Well, you're losing your grip, then," Draco spat coldly. His temper was rearing violently and he was struggling to contain it. If he wasn't careful he was going to give himself away. He tried to pull the mask back on, tried to school his features into malice. "He's been offering me plenty of help, but I haven't told him what I've been doing in the Room of Requirement. He's going to wake up tomorrow and it'll all be over and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite anymore, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!"

"Very gratifying," Dumbledore said, and Draco could hear the mockery in the old man's voice. He wasn't fooling anyone, not even himself. "We all like a little appreciation for our own hard work, of course… Tell me, how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? You imperised her, to help you, didn't you? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the school monitored."

Not even the slightest detail of his plan had been a secret, not once. Draco felt himself smile hysterically, his lips trembling.

"Enchanted coins," he mumbled. "I had one, and she had the other, and I could send her messages–"

He broke off. Because all at once, she was there in his head again. The stone was even still in his pocket, although it had not glowed warm in months. The deep heartache suddenly flared up again in his chest and he had to wrestle to maintain his composure. It had all been for nothing. Nothing.

It was almost as if Dumbledore was reading his mind.

"Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army used last year?"

"Yeah," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, again attempting to cover himself. "I got the idea from them." And then, to try to throw him off the trail, "I got the idea of poisoning the mead from the Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in the library about Filch not recognising potions…"

Dumbledore frowned slightly, showing the first sign of negativity all evening. "Please do not use that offensive word in front of me"

Draco sniggered, lifting his wand again. "You care about me saying 'Mudblood,' but you don't care that I'm about to kill you?

"Yes, I do," the old man said simply. "But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you have had several long minutes now. We are quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted… There is a little time, one way or another. So let us discuss your options, Draco."

"My options!" Even the concept was laughable. Draco could not remember the last time he had been given 'options'. The thought of it drove in on him once more, reminding him how and why he had come to be there. "I'm standing here with a wand – I'm about to kill you–"

"My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that," Dumbledore said a little more sharply. "If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first Disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means." He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. Sympathetic. Pleading. "Draco, years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please let me help you."

The words fell on him like hailstones. How could the old fool not understand? His voice rose once more to a shrill cry as he responded. "I haven't got any options! I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"

"I appreciate the difficulty of your position," Dumbledore said with infuriating patience. "Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realised that I suspected you… I can help you, Draco."

"No, you can't," Draco whispered. The tears had broken loose now, and he could feel their hot moisture making its way down his cheeks. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. He'll kill my mother…" His voice cracked and it took a moment for him to regain control over it. "I've got no choice."

Dumbledore had been sliding further down the railing during their conversation, but his voice remained gentle as he pulled himself upright again, conveying nothing of his deteriorating physical condition. His words were so calm, so collected, that Draco almost found himself believing them.

"Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban…. When the time comes, we can protect him too…"

He made it sound so simple, so easy. But Draco could see through it all at once. It was all bullshit. Say that he did put his wand down and 'come over to the right side,' as Dumbledore said – it wasn't like simply crossing the street. As soon as he moved a message would be sent back to Voldemort, who at this very moment was probably sitting in their dining room in front of the huge black marble mantelpiece, stroking his sleek, horrible snake. A high-pitched, hissing voice would speak and his mother would be brought into the room within the minute, the snake would rear, a wand would be raised, and… He shut off his imagination. The truth was that he, his mother and after some time his father would all be killed. Without hesitation. There was no time for hiding, and there was nowhere they could run.

"Come over to the right side, Draco," Dumbledore repeated in that soft, placating voice. "You are not a killer."

And yet surely, by association, he was? Surely as soon as the Dark Mark had been burned into his skin his soul had been sold over to Voldemort? For now he was standing with those who killed, he was advocating it with his silence, and there was no way out. And if Dumbledore thought that was so easily fixed, he was more stupidly idealistic than Draco could ever have imagined.

"But I got this far, didn't I?" He heard his own deadpan voice speaking as if from the end of a tunnel. "They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here… I'm the one with the wand… you're at my mercy."

"No, Draco."

Dumbledore's short, resolute response brought him back to the moment, and he looked up at the old man's clear blue eyes. Dumbledore looked down his crooked nose at his student, his face suddenly very serious.

"It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."

And then, suddenly, even as Draco let himself feel that glimmer of hope that there might be a way, the door at the foot of the stairs exploded open. He heard a stampede of footsteps and felt rather than saw the Death Eaters form a loose group around him, felt his aunt's cold breath on the back of his neck.

"Well done, Draco, well done!" she hissed, and he shuddered.

"Dumbledore cornered!" Amycus' brash voice crowed. "Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone!"

Dumbledore straightened up with some effort and looked around at the new arrivals, his tone once more bizarrely polite. "Good evening, Amycus," he greeted amicably. "And you've brought Alecto, too, how charming… And Bellatrix, of course. And is that you Fenrir?"

"That's right. Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?"

Draco's blood turned cold as the huge, hulking figure stepped up beside him. He almost couldn't bear to look, and yet he could smell the coppery warmth of blood, he could hear the soft growls that left the man's chest with every breath.

"No," Dumbledore was saying with a slight frown. "I cannot say that I am…"

"But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore."

Draco conjured up enough courage to turn his head. He saw Fenrir's grizzly face, saw the shiny dark blood coating his chin, and felt nausea rise in his gut. He looked away quickly, feeling his breath short and sharp in his throat, his body shaking wildly. Dumbledore was speaking.

"I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…"

"I didn't," he gasped out, unable to stop himself. "I didn't know he was going to come…"

"I wouldn't miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore. Not when there are throats to be ripped out," Fenrir replied, ignoring Draco's whispered response. He grinned viciously, one long, yellow, fingernail picking at his teeth. "Delicious, delicious…"

From below them he could hear shouts, a stammer of bangs, and then a muffled voice.

"They've blocked the stairs – reducto! REDUCTO!"

One last wild chance, then. The Order were so close, so near to arriving, and yet there was no time to wait for them. The Death Eaters were shifting impatiently around him and he felt Bellatrix's wand poke him hard in the back. She hissed impatiently into his ear once more.

"Hurry up and do it, Draco, we're on a tight schedule!"

He was acutely aware of the tear tracks on his cheeks and of the tightness in his chest. His wand was still pointed at Dumbledore and those kind blue eyes were watching him sympathetically, like a knife in his side. His jaw clenched.

"He doesn't have the stomach. Just like his father," Amycus smirked from somewhere behind him.

Fenrir let out a growling chuckle and made as if to move forwards. "It doesn't matter. Let me finish him in my own way."

"No!" Bellatrix snapped, sending a quick, short burst of a spell at him to keep him back. "The Dark Lord was clear that the boy was to do it." Her hand gripped Draco's shoulder uncomfortably tightly, her voice lowered to a whisper. "This is your moment, Draco. Do it."

He couldn't. He knew now, more than ever, that he couldn't. The tears were streaming down his cheeks and he could not even draw breath into his frozen lungs. His every effort to escape this mission had failed, and no talk of options and choices was going to save him now. His mother was as good as dead. And Hermione, somewhere in the castle, would soon wake up to an invasion of Death Eaters who would send a storm of curses over her. She would wake up screaming…

"Go on, Draco!" someone, perhaps Alecto, snapped. "Now!"

His head was pounding violently. A mad, desperate thought leapt into his head – he would turn the wand on himself. Perhaps, despite his failure, Voldemort would spare his parents' lives if he killed himself in repentance…

"No."

Every head turned to the doorway, where a tall man with long curtains of black greasy hair was standing, wand drawn. Draco shuddered in thick relief, his wand dropping to his side, finally able to suck in a thin, hyperventilating breath. Snape made his way up the stairs to join them, moving in front of him, one hand firmly pushing him backwards out of the way.

"Severus."

It was Dumbledore. The two men were staring at one another, the air almost shivering between them. Something seemed to be poured into that stare that Draco was unable to understand.

"Please."

Snape lifted his wand. "Avada Kedavra."

The green flash of light was blinding, and Draco felt a sudden numbness descend over him. For a moment he thought he had been the one hit with the curse. And then, all at once, the room was back in sight, just as it had been before, except now there was no Dumbledore leaning on the railing. He had perhaps five seconds to stare blankly at the place the old man had been before a claw-like hand closed over the neck of his blazer and dragged him forcefully away down the stairs. He stumbled, almost fell, managed to find his footing. He was dimly aware of Bellatrix screaming shrilly with joy, of curses being fired left, right and centre as they rushed out into the corridor. The fighting bodies around them were all faceless as Snape towed him through the fray. He had impressions of people screaming, of students cowering against the walls, and then of the great oak front doors of the castle which had been blasted open, one lying prone on the floor. Scarlet smears stood out on the stones and wood like bright lights. And then the cold air was in his lungs and he realised that he was, after all, still breathing.

They tumbled down the grassy slopes before the castle, Snape's grip still uncomfortably tight on his blazer. They were passing by the Groundskeeper's hut, and he caught a brief glimpse of Hagrid's huge form facing up to the following Death Eaters, curses bouncing off him like hailstones. And then, as they neared the brink of the school grounds, as the gates came into sight, a voice tore through the air behind them. It was choked with tears and a desperate, grief-stricken rage that echoed in Draco's skull.

"Stop, you coward! Stupefy! STOP!"

Snape suddenly skidded to a halt, his black robes billowing around him like the wings of a bat. Draco felt a hard shove in the small of his back that propelled him on forwards, heard Snape's voice snarling into his ear.

"Run, Draco!"

And he ran. His body finally kicked into gear and he could smell burning wood in the cold air, he could feel sweat and tears on his face. All he could do was run, his gasping pants dragging the icy wind in and out of his body. He ran.

He only stopped when he reached the gates at the edge of the grounds. He turned and the sight drove in on him like a nightmare. The castle stood there, the front entrance gaping open like a mouth with the buckled doors on either side. The windows to the Great Hall, which he could just make out, had been shattered and he could see the flickering shapes of flames leaping inside. The wind carried hints of screams and cries to his ears. Before him, in the dark grounds, the Groundskeeper's hut blazed as it was engulfed with tongues of greedy fire. Indistinguishable silhouettes danced around it. And there, not so far away, Snape's robed form stood facing a smaller, scrawnier figure whose glasses caught the glare of the fire. The smaller figure was screaming at the top of his lungs at his former teacher, screaming with agony and grief, and Draco could only watch.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but at some point Amycus and Alecto appeared on either side of him and seized him by the arms.

"Time to go home, squirt," Amycus sniggered into his ear.

And then he was being dragged backwards through time and space, and the sight of Hogwarts besieged fell into nothing. Within a matter of seconds his own entrance hall in Malfoy Manor had materialised around him, and he was on his knees on the cold marble floor. It took him a while to realise that he was crying with silent, shuddering sobs, and even longer to feel his mother's arms around him and her trembling voice in his ear, thanking god for having him brought back safe. His hand found hers and he held on for dear life.

"We'll wait for the others," Alecto's voice said from somewhere above him. "Then we'll go to Him."

~O~

In the chill of the yellow-pink dawn, Draco stood at the large bay windows in his room and watched the birds wheeling around the garden with red, watery eyes. He had always loved the view he had over their sprawling grounds. From his window he could see the huge willow tree hanging over the shallow pond which lay near the bottom of the garden, and he could make out the branches in which he had played as a boy. Played on his own, of course. As a young child he had not got on particularly well with others his own age. Now as an adult, not much seemed to have changed. He watched as a small, pure white creature crept out from the depths of the willow's tangled arms and dipped its finely preened head towards the pond. It scooped water up in its beak and tipped its head back to swallow, sending ripples of silver spreading across the surface. The peacock that strolled through their grounds had been significantly more subdued since the disappearance of his father. While it usually strutted proudly from side to side and demanded scraps from their plates, now it lurked in the shadows of the bushes and hid itself from view. He had not seen the silvery display of its plumage for months. It looked around warily and scuttled back into hiding somewhere behind the tree. He didn't blame it.

It was a bleak morning, and the air smelled of fear.

He had not slept at all the night before. After arriving in a bedraggled mess with Amycus and Alecto Carrow on the floor of the entrance hall, he had been hurriedly swept away by his mother and shut into his room. There she had checked him over with shaking hands and, finding him unhurt, had spent the rest of the evening in tense silence. Her incessant pacing had only been paused when Snape arrived, his face dark and empty, to tell them in a deadpan voice that the Dark Lord had heard the events of the evening and wished to speak to them the following morning. He offered no indication of whether the reception would be good or bad. Only that they were to be seen.

His mother had stayed for a while longer before disappearing out into the corridor without a word. Draco, meanwhile, had remained sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blindly at his own hands in his lap. The manor was always relatively warm, but that night he had been chilled to the bone. At various points he retrieved the smooth grey stone from his pocket and rubbed his thumb over it, contemplating whether to contact her. He put it away again five or six times before finally going through with it. But no matter how many times he tried, the stone did not grow hot in response. It lay in his hand, lifeless, cool, offering no solace. The only hope he had was that he thought he had read somewhere that the Protean Charm became ineffective when the bearer of its twin died, and as far as he could see the Charm was still working. She just wasn't replying. He stowed it away in his desk drawer and stood without it in the darkness.

His head was filled with white noise.

As the night crawled on past, he began to think increasingly more about the rapidly approaching morning and consider his options. It was then that he had taken up his place before the window, his gaze fixed on the old willow tree and the calm surface of the pond, just visible in the moonlight. The sight had always helped him to clear his mind before attempting Occlumency. He had to be ready. He expected to be tested, for his thoughts to be examined. He had a lot to hide. For the remainder of the night he kept his gaze fixed on that tree, steadily rifling through his memories and surreptitiously hiding them, layering one on top of another. He had never been so grateful for his aunt's training, although he doubted it would stand up much in comparison to Voldemort's skills. Still, he had to try.

Now, his mind fuzzy and his mouth dry, and his eyes old and papery with dried tears, Draco pulled himself away from the window and turned his attention to his watch. The hands were creeping towards 08:00am, and his time was steadily trickling away. With a mammoth effort, he made his numb legs move and crossed the room, entering the adjoining bathroom. He pulled off his clothes with fumbling hands and stepped into the ornate, marble-walled shower. Water cascaded down over him with a dull roar. He stood there for a long few minutes, feeling the heat against his skin, imagining melting away into the spray and disappearing down the plughole. After some time he raised his hands and began to slowly push them through his hair, going through the mindless rituals of shampoo and conditioner, rinse, lather, repeat, rinse, lather, repeat… A crazy notion gripped him that he could simply remain in the shower all day long. He contemplated it for around ten minutes before admitting defeat and stepping out onto the thick bath matt waiting outside. The towels, always warm and dry, wrapped around him and sucked up the droplets of moisture on his skin.

He made a point of avoiding his ghostly, greyish reflection in the mirror.

Back in his bedroom, the light was beginning to grow warmer as the sun climbed into the sky. He let the towel fall to the floor and opened his wardrobe. His clothes hung waiting, arranged in neat rows. What does one choose as appropriate attire for one's own death? His gaze skated from right to left and back again before settling on the option which required the least amount of thought – a standard black suit and black shirt. The fabric felt coarse and rough against his skin, and when he turned to look in the mirror to button his shirt he couldn't help but feel like he were looking at a cardboard cut-out of himself. His skin was impossibly white in contrast with the dark material. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. He didn't suppose it would matter much in a couple of hours.

As he was shrugging on his blazer and combing his damp hair back with his fingers there was a soft knock at the door. He turned to find his mother stepping silently into the room, closing the door with an audible click behind her. She did not look as if she had slept any better than he had. He buttoned his blazer closed as she moved towards him, her hands folded in front of her, her face lined. Her eyes were red from crying.

"Draco," she said, and then stopped abruptly.

She took a deep, shuddering breath as she looked him up and down. Then her eyes welled up with fresh tears and she hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently.

He felt a lump rising in his own throat and crossed to her in two quick strides, pulling her into his arms. Over the course of the last year he had outgrown her, and she had suddenly become extremely small and vulnerable in his eyes. He had always thought that it was from her that he had inherited his slender frame and delicate hands. His father, although thin, had always had a squarer appearance. She clutched onto him with those hands now, clenching them tightly in his clothes as if she hoped to somehow shield him. He held her, his chin resting on the top of her head, trying to speak through the sob threatening to break free from his throat.

"I'm sorry, mother," he said at last, unable to keep his voice from wobbling. "I tried to… to do the right thing…"

He had to stop himself. She was shaking her head fiercely and suddenly pulled free and held him at arms length, her gaze burning through her tears.

"Don't," she said forcefully. "Don't. We will appeal to him. He will have mercy on you. You did your best, your actions led to Dumbledore's death. You will be forgiven for whatever else happened, Draco."

"Mother…"

He didn't need to say anything more. She stared at him, her jaw working, her shoulders still shaking sporadically as she struggled to hold back sobs. Draco gently pushed her hands down and turned away, crossing to his desk.

"Listen," he said, trying to pull some authority back into his voice. "I don't believe he'll harm you, not with how things played out. So I need you to know that this is here."

He opened his top drawer and gestured inside. She came forwards and looked down at the small silver statue that lay inside – a hawk, or something of the like, clutching a small emerald stone in its talons.

"It's a portkey," he explained as she looked at him in confusion. "I've enchanted it to take you far away. Do you remember the place we visited once in Scotland, when I was very young?"

She nodded.

"It'll take you there. If father is released from prison, if you can get to him, I want you to take it and go."

"Draco," she said softly, reaching out to push the drawer shut, "There will be no 'going' without you."

Something in his chest broke. He swallowed hard to drown the sob building there and brushed at his eyes, pretending to be fixing something with his collar. She reached out and pulled it straight for him, her lips trembling. Her hands smoothed his blazer and then moved up to gently rub his cheeks clean.

"Be brave," she whispered.

He made himself nod. As her face crumpled once more he put his arms around her again in a final embrace, steeling himself to remain steadfast.

"It'll be alright, mother."

There was a knock on the door. He let go as it creaked open and Wormtail's ugly, squashed features appeared. The squat man seemed to be struggling to hold back a delighted grin as he spoke.

"The Dark Lord is waiting for you downstairs," he said, his beady eyes flicking from one to the other. "He is most eager to begin the proceedings."

He withdrew. Draco pushed his hand through his hair one last time, trying desperately to control his trembling hands. He felt his mother's eyes on him and tried to smile at her, but it came out like a grimace.

"Let's go," he said shortly.

They emerged into the corridor and headed for the stairs. He held out his arm for her to take as her breathing began to grow tight, and she held onto him with white-knuckled hands. They reached the great, sweeping staircase that led down into the entrance hall and made their way slowly down. He lifted his chin at the sight of Amycus and Alecto, who were standing at the entrance to the dining room. They grinned widely at the sight of him.

"Morning," Amycus said.

Draco shot him an icy glare in response, and his mother did not even look. They reached the two large double doors and stopped. He found himself gazing at the large silver handles, coiled in the shape of two dragons. He had always liked the feature. In his youth he used to pretend that they were alive and his personal companions. When he was older he once tried to bring them to life with a charm from school, but it only half worked and they marched around like robots spitting plumes of smoke before his father admonished him and demanded that they be set back on the door. He had a brief vision of bringing them into the dining room, each ten times its current size, to stand beside him like a bodyguards.

"Shall we?" Alecto said brightly.

Amycus reached across them and rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles before pushing it slowly open. He stepped inside and held it for them. Draco felt his mother's hands tighten on his arm. He straightened his shoulders, trying to ignore the pounding blood in his temples and the way his lungs refused to take in any air, and led the way forwards into the room.

It was dark. It always was these days. The huge, thick curtains had been drawn over the windows, shutting out any hint of daylight. Instead the only light came from the fireplace, in which a crackling, blazing fire threw flickering shadows up against the walls. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he found that the room was remarkably crowded. The long table, at which meetings were usually held, was deserted. But the walls, bearing the books he had grown up reading, were lined with watching people. He could see each of their faces – they were not in their Death Eater masks and cloaks. Still, in the half-light all of the faces looked the same. Hollow glittering eyes, unfriendly downturned mouths. Apparently Voldemort had gathered most, if not all, of the Death Eaters to the Manor for that morning's meeting. He cast his gaze around the room briefly before his attention was drawn, once again, to the fireplace.

It was there that a tall, almost skeletal figure stood, his huge robes moving gently around him as if disturbed by a slight breeze. The firelight caught on his smooth white head and flat, snake-like features. And those red, slitted eyes were riveted on Draco's, a twisted expression playing about the lipless mouth which Draco had come to recognise as a smile.

"Good morning, Malfoys. Welcome," the soft voice spoke. The air seemed to shiver with it. "Thank you for coming."

As soon as he stepped into the rough circle the Death Eaters had formed, he felt a gentle nudge against his mind. The walls that he had spent the night putting in place automatically strengthened and he forced himself to relax. He couldn't be seen to be hiding. His hands shaking wildly at his sides, he lay his mind open and felt Voldemort's sharp, light touch skate around it.

No emotion, he reminded himself silently. No emotion. You don't feel anything.

In a way, it was true without trying too hard. Fear was eclipsing any other feelings of love or distraction. Every image he had of Hermione's face, every memory of her warm fingers against his skin was buried deep in the back of his mind, hidden under layer upon layer of general memories of his classes at Hogwarts. If her features arose momentarily, it would not be suspicious. If they arose too often, it most definitely would be.

Across the room, Voldemort's took a step away from the fireplace. His robed form blocked out some of the light from the room, plunging half of his face into darkness. He spread his hands, grinning in a chillingly contented way.

"Draco. Please step forwards."

His mother clutched for his hand. He squeezed it briefly before detaching her from his grip. To his relief Bellatrix appeared out of nowhere and took her sister by the arm, holding her back as he moved forwards. He didn't dare look at his mother's terrified eyes. He wouldn't be able to stand it.

Without her by his side, he felt oddly naked beneath the gaze of the Death Eaters. His shoes tapped loudly on the marble floor as he moved towards the centre of the circle, the back of his neck prickling, his hands balled into fists at his sides to hide the shaking. He stopped perhaps three meters from Voldemort and inclined his head respectfully, offering a small bow.

"My Lord," he managed.

His voice sounded so small and pathetic in the silence that Voldemort's lips curved into a smirk once again.

"How are you, Draco?" he said with mock sincerity. "How does this morning find you? In good health, I hope."

Draco's head jerked in a short nod. He kept his eyes on the floor near Voldemort's bare feet. "Yes, my Lord."

"Good." Voldemort looked around at his circle of Death Eaters, still with that terrible grin. "Perhaps, Draco, you would like to enlighten us as to the outcome of your mission last night."

Draco felt a sickening wave rush over him. He drew a breath that was meant to steady himself, but in reality only juddered in and out noisily. He suppressed a flinch as something moved in the darkness near the fireplace and he became suddenly aware of a slithering mass that caught the firelight. Nagini was there. Chills prickled over his skin. He swallowed hard.

"Dumbledore is dead, as you ordered, my Lord," he said at last, unable to keep his voice from quavering. "The mission was successful."

"I see. That is very good news," Voldemort said. Draco raised his gaze to meet the glinting red eyes, which were laughing silently at him. "You did the deed, as I commanded?"

Draco's words stuck in his throat. He wet his lips, felt their dryness. A glance at the silent faces surrounding them told him that he would find no support there. Voldemort's presence tightened slightly around his mind and he shuddered involuntarily, reaching for his defensive walls. He could feel a cold sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and the back of his neck.

"I'm waiting, Draco."

He forced himself to breathe. "No," he said at last. "No, my Lord. Snape killed him. But my actions led to–"

"Severus?" Voldemort repeated silkily, and he broke off abruptly. "I believe I ordered you to dispatch the old fool. Am I mistaken?"

Draco's voice had dried up in his throat. He tried frantically to speak, and then eventually shook his head in a jerky, short movement when he failed. Voldemort made a soft noise in the back of his throat and looked around the room, as if having some private conversation with the Death Eaters surrounding them.

"I am told that you were too weak to commit the act. That you were there, with the old man defenceless before you, and yet hesitated. I hardly know what to think of it."

Draco tried to look away, but the red eyes found him again and bore into him like twin lasers. He was beginning to shake and tensed his arms and legs, trying to hold still. His mother's words rang in his head. Be brave.

"Do you deny it, Draco?"

He shook his head.

"Do you disagree with my orders? Are you unwilling to pledge your loyalty to me?"

Another shake. The voice was getting steadily less mocking and more serious, a dangerous edge creeping into it. He felt a sudden stab in the front of his head and gasped before he could stop himself, flinching violently. He had to force himself to relax again, to allow Voldemort's mind to slice cleanly into his own. It was not usually a comfortable experience, but Voldemort was making no effort to be gentle. He left a trail of aching pain behind him as he slipped through, vehemently shoving memories aside. Images flashed through his head in quick succession – the broken doors in the entrance hall at Hogwarts, the fire leaping inside the Great Hall, the stairs up to the Astronomy Tower, Potter slashing his wand and blood seeping through his clothes in a cold, dark bathroom, the Gameskeeper's hut going up in flames, the flash of green light, Dumbledore leading heavily on the railing, Fenrir's bloody smirk…

"Come over to the right side, Draco…"

Voldemort's high-pitched laugh brought him suddenly back to the present. "He wanted you to join him, did he? And what did you say, might I ask…"

Draco's heart was thundering in his chest. He managed to gently push the most favourable memory to the surface, and Voldemort fell upon it like a hungry wolf. His own voice rang in his ears and all at once he was back, his wand pointed at the frail old man's chest, those twinkling eyes gazing calmly at him from across the room.

"You don't know what I'm capable of. You don't know what I've done! … You stupid old man… They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here… I'm the one with the wand… you're at my mercy…"

"Admirable," Voldemort's voice remarked. "You must be very sorry to lose such glory."

He withdrew abruptly and Draco was left breathing hard, sweat trickling down his back, his knees shaking beneath him. He managed to stay on his feet, shards of pain pounding through his head. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple as Voldemort looked around at the room.

"So you wanted the kill, and yet you failed to achieve it. No matter what your intentions, you were still weak." His red eyes fixed on Draco's shaking body once again. "You are weak."

Draco tried to draw breath to speak, but before he could do so the fire in the grate flashed a bright jade green. Voldemort's head tilted to one side.

"Ah," he said, his voice soft once more. "Finally."

As he spoke a pair of spinning figures appeared in the flames and, after growing larger, stepped out of the grate and onto the thick patterned rug that lay there. One was Yaxley, tall and stern, with one hand holding another person by the scruff of the neck. A person who was instantly recognisable, and yet completely alien. The last time Draco had seen his father, he had been on the front page of the Daily Prophet, his hair sleek and tidy, his face twisted into a haughty glare as he stared down the camera. He had still been wearing his three-piece suit and expensive, hooded robes. Now he found himself staring at a man whose hands were still cuffed together in front of him, who wore the grubby striped clothes of a prisoner, whose eyes were set in dark circles from months of sleepless nights, whose face was gaunt and whose hair was tangled and grey. He looked like a gross parody of the man Draco remembered.

After months of separation, his eyes met the silver-grey gaze of his father.

He still couldn't make himself speak. He watched Lucius' eyes flick from his son to Voldemort and back before squinting into the mass of watching eyes, finally picking out his wife among them.

"Good morning, Lucius," Voldemort said calmly. "I do hope your stay in Azkaban was not too taxing."

"My… My lord…"

Lucius' voice was halting and hoarse. Draco wondered when he had last used it. His father straightened up, doing his best to fix his posture and assume the proud stance he usually took. It was slightly punctured by the prison uniform. Voldemort smiled disdainfully at him, the red eyes looking him up and down.

"You will be pleased to hear, Lucius, that your son has facilitated – not personally committed, but facilitated – the death of Albus Dumbledore. Now, I am a merciful Lord. Despite your past failures, I feel your son's actions have redeemed you. A little."

Lucius' features displayed nothing but overt shock. He met Draco's gaze, as if looking for confirmation. Draco stared back at him, horribly aware of how much he was shaking. This was beginning to feel more like a public execution and less like a standard meeting. Judge, jury and axe. Lucius inclined his head to Voldemort respectfully, averting his gaze, just as Draco had done a few minutes earlier.

"Th-Thank you, My Lord," he said quietly.

Voldemort smiled, displaying small, pointed teeth. He held out a hand, palm up, indicating the door.

"Now, go and clean yourself up. You look disgusting, Lucius."

At once, Lucius turned and began to walk unsteadily across the room towards the door. Draco twisted to watch him go, feeling strangely deflated. For one fleeting second, part of him had actually believed that his father might be able to do something. He had always been able to count on his father. If ever there was a problem in life, the usual solution was to throw money at it until it went away. But then, of course, buying the whole room brand new Nimbus 2001's was hardly going to fix anything now. His mother was staring at his father with incredulous wide eyes, as if daring him to really leave them. Her whisper reached his ears.

"Lucius…"

His father ducked his head slightly, as if trying to physically avoid the call. He reached the double doors of the dining room, cracked them open, and slipped quietly out. The doors closed behind him. Draco heard his footsteps on the stairs as he moved slowly up to the first floor. Voldemort retrieved his wand from the folds of his robes and lifted it, spinning it lazily between two fingers.

"Congratulations, Draco," he said coolly. "You have earned your father's freedom. Have you anything to say?"

"Thank you."

The words felt stiff and muted, forced between cold lips. He felt dangerously close to the storm that was about to hit, he could sense it coming. This was the final breather before the world crashed. He focused on the air moving unevenly in and out of his lungs, tried to pin his eyes on the books lining the shelves. He could look at each one and envision the story inside, could remember what age he had been when he had first plucked each volume off the shelf. His stomach clenched as Voldemort's red eyes flashed briefly.

"However," he said, "Although I am happy to reward good work, the fact remains that you disobeyed my orders. I asked you to kill the old man. You did not."

Draco wanted to argue, to plead his case, but his voice had curled up somewhere in his throat. He couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. The world felt like it was spinning, tilting beneath his unsteady legs. His head still hurt from the forced legilimency. He felt strangely disconnected from his body. Somehow he found the strength to lift his gaze and meet the red-eyed stare, feeling as if his very soul was trembling.

"You failed me, Draco. And you must be punished."

The wand lifted, pointed delicately down at him. Draco found himself unable to look away from its softly glowing tip.

"Crucio."

The word was spoken so daintily, so calmly. And yet the hurricane of agony that zeroed in on him could not have felt more violent. He felt his whole body contract in response, felt every nerve light up as if set on fire. Pinpricks of knife-sharp razor pain prickled across every inch of his flesh, tore his lungs open. His jaw was clenching so hard that it hurt. The cold marble floor pressed hard against his knees. His gut twisted as another blast of pain hit him, he heard his own voice make a strange, strangled sound somewhere between a cry and a moan.

"Draco! Please, please my Lord, have mercy! Draco!"

It was his mother's voice. She was screaming and crying. He could hear the sound as if from the end of a long, long tunnel. And then, suddenly, the curse had lifted and he found himself on his knees, hunched over, gasping for breath, his body still twitching and shuddering. The marble floor of his dining room filled his vision; a thick, unforgiving blackness speckled with white flecks. His mother's crying was more audible now. He lifted his head slowly and just about made out her struggling form. Someone – Bellatrix, it must be – was holding her back, although she was doing her best to break free.

"… his best, my Lord," she was shrieking shrilly. "He did everything he could! He was too young!"

"Too young?"

He heard the soft shuffle of bare feet against the marble floor. At the periphery of his vision Voldemort was pacing leisurely back and forth before him. He felt the invisible hand closing over his mind again and, like a knee-jerk reaction, reached for his mental walls. His head was roaring from the sudden attack and he could barely get himself together before the knife was driving into his head once more, turning his thoughts aside, pushing through memories of his year at Hogwarts, his most recent exams, his efforts in the Room of Requirement. He offered up the memory of stamping on Potter's frozen face on the Hogwarts Express from the beginning of the year, felt Voldemort pause over it.

"Are you questioning my judgement, Narcissa?"

"No," she whispered. "He's my only son, my Lord… I beg you…"

Draco could feel the red eyes bearing down on him like fiery arrows. He could taste blood on his lip where his teeth had clamped down. He lifted a hand to wipe his mouth. His body felt shivery and weak around him. Every instinct screamed at him to remain still, to look away in submission, but he couldn't. If he was to die, he did not want to die kneeling on the floor of his own house. With a shuddering breath he gathered his knees beneath him and rose unsteadily, pulled his blazer straight. He straightened his shoulders, his eyes darting uncertainly towards the mass of seething scales which still rippled in the dark corner beside the fireplace. Then, with fear still tight in every limb, he lifted his gaze to meet Voldemort's.

He caught something which could have been anger in the Dark Lord's reptilian face. Voldemort tilted his head to one side, his wand tapping thoughtfully against his open palm. The firelight flashed over him in steady bursts, turning his white skin orange.

"You believe," the lipless mouth said slowly, "that I should show your son the same mercy he has shown my enemies?"

His question was met with silence. He looked around the room, as if giving each and every Death Eater the chance to speak. When no one dared he returned his attention to Draco, and again the resentment flashed across his face at the sight of his victim standing looking back at him. Draco steeled himself not to back down. Be brave, she had said. He had to draw on strength he didn't know he had.

"I love you."

"Say it again."

A light, shy bubble of laughter. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."

Voldemort's gaze narrowed. He lifted his hand and Draco watched in mute dread as the massive beast in the corner slid across the marble floor to coil around its master's leg, forked tongue tasting the air, flat eyes fixed on him.

"Unfortunately, Narcissa, I fear your son rather lacks the resolve I ask of my followers," Voldemort said silkily. He lowered his hand to caress the snake's mottled green and brown head."Nagini," he crooned softly.

Blind terror closed over Draco's head. His hand went at once to his pocket, where his wand was stowed, and then froze. What was he going to do? Fight back? The very idea was laughable. With a soft, rasping hiss from its master, the snake plunged suddenly forwards, weaving its way across the sleek floor towards him. He took a step backwards from it, and in that time it had come close enough to rear in front of him, so tall that its head was level with his own. He knew that he was hyperventilating, that his whole body was trembling wildly, he could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

The snake's lower body curled on the floor as it reared higher, now as tall as himself, now taller, its yellow slitted eyes staring down at him. He imagined running, but his legs were as good as jelly. If he took another step he was convinced that they would give out. The snake swayed back and forth, as if readying itself, its tongue flickering just inches from his face, its mouth opening slightly to reveal the pearly white tips of two impossibly long fangs. Its pale throat seemed to pulse grotesquely. With everything he had left, he tore his gaze away from the terrible sight and, glancing over his shoulder, managed to find his mother's face in the crowd. Tears were streaming from her eyes and her mouth was open wide in a silent scream of grief. Bellatrix's arms were wrapped around her middle, holding her back with all her strength. He wanted to say something, to tell her that it would all be all right, but there was no time.

With a sudden flash of movement, the snake struck.

Reflex took over – his arm jerked up in front of his face as he launched himself sideways, and he felt a heavy weight fasten over his sleeve. The next moment he was staggering clear and the material of both shirt and jacket on his arm had been ripped clean through. The snake hit the ground, twisted, and in the same movement was surging upwards once more. Once again its enormity paralysed him – it was at least as thick as himself in its middle and as he stumbled backwards, the heat of the fire snapping at his back, its mouth gaped open wide. He saw the pink flesh inside quivering with anticipation, saw clear liquid dripping from the round glottis. He could hear a high-pitched laugh from somewhere nearby, just about audible over the roaring in his ears. As the snake pitched in on him he side-stepped it once more, but this time it twisted to follow him. It lifted, impossibly balanced, and struck again.

He was not aware of much at first other than the weight that had careered into his neck. Then he became conscious of a steadily building pain, culminating in two distinctive spots. The force of the attack carried them both to the ground and his head struck the marble floor with a sickening crack that drove his breath out of him. Instantly the snake's huge mass was coiling on top of him, pressing him against the ground. Its tail entwined his legs within seconds, immobilising him with the speed of a trained assassin. Hardly realising what he was doing, he tore his arms free and seized its jaws, which were fastened just below his own. He dragged at it desperately, his fingers slipping on the wet scales. A warm dampness was seeping through his collar. The pain in his neck was becoming white-hot and was accompanied by the steady pressure of locked jaws. He could hear himself choking and gasping, dark spots swarming in on his vision. He tried to kick free, felt the snake's body press down harder, pinning him to the floor.

"My Lord, may I speak?"

The voice sounded as if it had been spoken through by a Patronus – echoing, distant, soft. He could barely even decipher what the words meant. His hands were scrabbling still at the snake's blunt head. He whimpered as its jaws locked shut, cutting off his airways.

"Always, Severus. What are your thoughts?"

The snake was slowly coiling tighter around his chest, squeezing, shifting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the slow burning spreading over his body, spreading from the contact the jaws had on his neck. It was as if his blood was turning to poison in his veins. He could feel his body beginning to twitch involuntarily, choking with earnest despite the fact he could not draw breath. In another world the calm, rational conversation was continuing.

"Despite his failure, without young Malfoy's plan we would have been unable to enter Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore. He has displayed considerable magical talent for a boy his age. Meanwhile, young blood among our ranks is rather scarce…"

The darkness had closed over his entire scope of vision now. Not even the firelight punctured it. He knew his eyes were open, and yet he could see nothing. The entire world was spinning faster and faster, and his head felt as though it was imploding inwards, and his thoughts were disintegrating into a jumble of words and images. Pain. Snake. Her hair. Blood. Scales on skin. A feather-light touch that raised goosebumps on his bare skin. Red eyes. Soft lips. Forked tongue. He felt a watery heat in his eyes.

"Your point, Severus?"

"I believe he has potential, my Lord. That is all I have to say."

All at once, the snake's steady movement stilled. Perhaps a minute ago he might have had the strength to push it off. Now all he could do was lie there. He could feel a hot flow cascading down over his shoulder and sticking in his hair as it pooled on the floor. Scales rubbed against the bare skin of his forearm. The last of the breath left his lungs and he felt his eyes rolling back in his head, felt cold sweat on his skin.

"As always, Severus, you speak well." A high-pitched voice was speaking, slithering through the darkness. "Perhaps a deal, then – if he survives, his hesitation may be forgiven. If not, Nagini may eat the body."

And then, suddenly, the jaws unfastened from his neck and air rushed into him. At once he was choking, coughing, spluttering. Slowly, leisurely, the snake's weight slipped off his chest, leaving nothing but the cool marble floor against his cheek. He was gasping, retching, heaving in thick, wet breaths, his body twitching and jerking.

"Draco! Draco…"

Someone was with him. Someone was pressing the silken fabric of an expensive scarf against his neck. It hurt, but he couldn't lift his arm or speak out in protest. It was taking all he had to simply breathe. Sluggishly his vision crawled back. An orange glow greeted him, reflected on the dark floor. He could just make out the glistening scales writhing together in the dark corner by the fireplace, seething quietly, furious at its loss.

"I know, I know, Nagini. Do not fear. We will hunt tonight." The voice grew abruptly hard and cold. "Get him out of my sight. We have business to attend to."

There were footsteps and then a pair of hands came down to fist in his blazer. He was dragged backwards across the glossy floor, able to watch the sticky, spreading trail of blood he left behind. It glimmered in the firelight, almost prettily. And then the tall doors of the dining room were slamming shut and the pressure on his mind he had almost grown used to abruptly vanished. His steadily throbbing head paled to insignificance compared to the agony pulsing through his neck. He was distinctly more aware of it now that the snake was out of sight. He lifted a shaking hand to his neck and felt hot thickness paste his fingers at once. Dark spots zeroed in on his vision. He was gasping wetly – every time he tried to take a deep breath coppery heat bubbled in his throat and he started choking violently. His whole body was trembling and sweating and flinching uncontrollably.

Somewhere nearby he could hear an uncontrollable, inconsolable wailing. Like the sound a mourner might make at a funeral.

The world was spinning and he was dimly aware that he was retching horribly, his mouth steadily filling with a horrible taste. He couldn't see.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.