Well I just heard the news today
It seems my life is going to change
I close my eyes, begin to pray
Then tears of joy stream down my face
With Arms Wide Open, by Creed

Chapter III

Pain. Did anything else exist? Probably not. His thoughts were blank and clear, holding no coherent meaning or intelligence. Was he insane? Someone was laughing – high-pitched and slightly hysterical, it sounded through the dull room, incessantly echoing around him, his ears, around his legs, arms, head, and torso. Who was laughing? Was it him? It was. When this thought came to mind, the laughter died down, but slowly, as if going down a spiral drain. Silvery eyes looked up blearily from behind his red-haired fringe.

Red-haired? Indeed. The platinum-blond hair seemed to have been replaced sometime overnight. Overnight? Had it been? Or had it been a fortnight? He didn't know. He didn't know much anymore. Except pain. It was his friend. It always has been. Draco snorted bitterly, recalling those nights of pain, stumbling anxiously through the Slytherin common room, skin pale and clammy, hands trembling as they found the razor blade in the bathroom...

He sighed in content as, in his mind, he watched blood flow freely, continuously, into the silvery marble sink in the boy's bathroom. He felt how his breathing slowed to a calming rhythm while his heart pumped erratically, he felt the cool coldness of the razor blade against his wrist, offering comfort, protection...

Protection. Help me. Save me. Somebody. Pain... save me, Pain...

Bitter laughter suddenly echoed around the room again, and it took longer for him to realize that it was him doing the laughing. When he did, the laughter halted instantly. He'd given up on protection a long time ago. Once, several years in the past, he would have actually forced himself to have the courage to ask Dumbledore, hell, even Potter to be his savior, to save him from inevitably becoming what he'd always wanted to fight. Serving a megalomaniac with an ego the size of the Milky Way wasn't exactly his idea of a nice, comfortable life. His picture of life was quiet, with a nice, intelligent wife, who was bossy, prissy, or bitchy. His life had no deaths in it, no real worries except whether or not maybe to get a dog or have kids.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. A snort of laughter escaped at that thought. He was going senile, just like Dumbledore had been before he died, and he himself barely came of age last month, on June 29th(1). What was the world coming to?

Draco sighed at his own rhetorical question. What was the world coming to? He had been raised to be a good little Death Eater, a loyal supporter of the Dark Lord Voldemort, just like his own father. Then someone, his mother, showed him the Light. She showed him that there was more to live for than blood purity and mindless killing and torturing. She showed him what no one else ever could, and ever will show him: love. As sappy as the thought first seemed in his head, Draco soon realized that it was the reason that those foolhardy Gryffindors always kept fighting, usually against him. It was their love for each other.

Oh sure, he and his friends were close, but they were always wanting to get a taste of his wealth and name. He had never had true friends, unlike Potter. Oh, how he envied the spoiled little hero. He always got everything he wanted on a silver platter: loyal friends, special privileges, exemption of seemingly most school rules, favor of almost all teachers not counting Severus Snape; fame, as opposed to his infamy, power, protection... Hell, the Chosen One had more of a life than Draco did. And he was drowning in envy as a result. Always Potter, Saint Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One; Harry Potter, the wizard world's savior; constantly at the beck and call of the Light side. Then there was he, Draco Malfoy, suspected of horrible, inhuman crimes; the infamous Malfoy heir, Death Eater-in-training, runner-up to take the right-hand place at his master's side, all-around slimy Slytherin snakehead that would like nothing more than to present Harry Potter's head to Voldemort.

If only the world understood how wrong they were. If only they understood how he grew up, always expected to be the perfect epitome of a pureblood from an entirely pureblooded society. No one understood what it was like to be beaten for every tiny imperfect thing done, and yet rewarded with something that make the happiest man earth even happier. They didn't understand what he had to go through to keep his mother, the only good thing in his life, safe. Nobody understood what it was like to be a Death Eater's son, but not want to follow in said Death Eater's footsteps. If anyone did understand, he'd have been saved – or at least given protection – a long time ago.

And hence the words echoed in his head like a ceaselessly buzzing bee:

Protection. Help me. Save me. Somebody. Pain... save me, Pain...


The room was filled with the epitome of evil. The floor was black and shiny, seemingly pure obsidian gleaming by the silver light from the magical brass torches lining the walls. Said walls were gleaming dark red, looking like they had been painted with blood – which they no doubt had. The ceiling couldn't even be seen. It rose so high that nothing but shadow could be viewed. A thin figure, deathly pale with skin stretched taut over fragile bones, sat in a throne. This throne seemed to have been made by the very demons of Hell. The throne was made of a transfigured human, the bones cracking and changing their position – into a chair. It was actually looked a little comfortable. The skin was not stretched so tautly as the snake-like figure sitting in it. It was warm, soft, and cushy – perfect reclining and relaxing after a long day's work of attempting world dominance. However, this was not what the occupant was doing. No, far from it, actually.

Said occupant was not very happy. Actually, he usually never was, but that was beside the point. His long, slender finders clutched an equally long, smooth stick that glowed in the silver light of the magical fire burning in their torches. An indiscernible figured kneeled before him, in what was obviously a very uncomfortable position. That position also threatened the figure's pride, for it was softly murmuring words of genuflection and prostration to the demon in the man-made throne. Frankly, the demon was a little pleased with this, amused by the figure's antics, and bored with the same treatment he clearly always received. Although it was great fuel for his overly conceited ego, not mention extremely entertaining, there was business to get down to.

The cat-like scarlet eyes of the demon narrowed darkly at the kneeling form in front of him. "Keep him alive!" He hissed in a high-pitched tone, the underlying threat hanging over the man's head like a constant companion.

"Of course, Milord." Severus whispered obediently, not looking up from his distinctly uncomfortable position in front of the Dark Lord.

"Go. Before I change my mind."

"Yes, Milord." Severus stood, ignoring the groaning pain from his knees, and bowed to Voldemort before swiftly exiting the room, robes billowing like giant flames as he left.

Lord Voldemort smiled. It was barely noticeable, but his thin lips did seem to thin just a little more. Severus Snape was a loyal Death Eater: he would make sure that Draco stayed alive long enough for him to torture him more for whatever information the brat may have. He was sure that the young Malfoy was already crazy, if not downright insane, but toying with the young was always such fun. Their screams of terror and pain were far more satisfying than that of an adult's. Which was, of course, why Severus got off so easy, being tortured for only a few seconds under the Cruciatus Curse instead of the many and various methods that had been on Draco for a very, very long time.

Wormtail and Lucius, surprisingly, were working quite well together, watching #4 Privet Drive like a snake watches its prey. Apparently young Harry Potter had, foolishly returned to the house and was likely to leave on July 31st, which was when Severus had told him the wards around the house would fall. The day was only 36 hours away, and there was some major planning to be done: they would raid Privet Drive extremely early in the morning on August 1st.


Protection. Help me. Save me. Somebody. Pain... save me, Pain...

As if answering his silent call, the cell door slammed open violently, but the person in the doorway wasn't exactly going to save him. Draco's reaction time was slower than normal, for the pain was too great for much to register in his fogged mind. Something was wrong with his olfactory senses as well: he couldn't smell a damn thing. If he could, the metallic twang of blood would have made him retch whatever insides he had, and the mud and slime covering his body would not help. Draco mistook said mud and slime for particularly tight and uncomfortable clothing.

Snape stood tall and rigid as he took in the horrific sight of his godson. Draco's hair was a deeper red than any Weasely could possibly hope for, his clothes had been torn and discarded sometime during the private torturing session, and his usually pale skin was completely covered in mud, slime and blood. Severus was sure that there were a thousand cuts underneath the grime, and he felt his heart cry out to the boy. Draco didn't deserve this; he had done nothing, nothing to warrant such foul treatment. If only he could take him to the Order of the Phoenix headquarters, they would both be safe. He mentally slapped himself harshly for that thought – the Order would more likely just kill them both painlessly, for weren't exactly heroes to their cause right now.

Before he could so much as lift his wand to cast anything, Severus heard a vast commotion out in the hallway leading to this boy's prison – ahem – room. Radically irritated, he spun away from the distant boy and out into the hallway, accidentally leaving the cell's door ajar.

Out in the hallway, chaos had ensued. The corridor was full of bright jets of light flying in every direction: Severus had to conjure a small brick wall to barricade himself behind. Peeking around the conjured wall, Snape saw a battle raging steadily, but what two sides were involved was, as yet, lost to him. It appeared that the Order of the Phoenix managed to find Death Eater Palace, their nickname for the place, and decided to come in and kill off as many Death Eaters as possible. However, this confused Snape. That wasn't a Light Side's tactic. In fact, it was a very Slytherin thing to do. The Death Eaters were not expecting any kind of attack from the enemy, even if that enemy somehow knew their whereabouts. Who was put in charge of the Order after Albus... stepped down?

It appeared, however, that it was not the Order, after all. It was, in fact, merely two people, and they managed to destroy half of the corridor and kill eight Death Eaters, maiming five more in less than five minutes. They were clearly on a mission, and it was their job to accomplish its objectives. Snape heard before he saw a man, tall and muscular, whisper a spell. He knew what was about to happen a second too late, and the wall in front of him exploded in a million pieces, sending him sprawling to the floor. He curled up in a tight ball, wand long forgotten, and used his hand to protect his head and neck. The explosion caused searing pain to erupt all over his back, and everything went black.

The Scorpion Warrior smiled viciously, but decided to leave the pathetic man alive for the Chosen One. He nodded to Horus, who created an eerie, transparent shield around Snape. The shield would keep him alive until the Death-Healers(2) arrived. They then walked around the pile of smoldering robes, being sure to step on his wand as they passed, and ducked into the room where Draco curled in a corner frightfully, futilely trying to protect himself.

The Scorpion Warrior's vicious smile softened and he walked slowly to the boy, crouching before him, Horus following his example. Draco was whimpering softly, tears of fear streaking from his silvery-gray eyes and down his blood-caked face. "Shhh... everything's going to be fine, Dragon, just wait... shhh..." Horus took over after that. Without a glance at the mud, slime, and blood thickly covering the normally pale skin, she crawled up to him and slowly wrapped her arms around his chest, offering all the comfort she could.

"Hush, young one, you're safe now."


Scorpio groaned inwardly as her second-bonded practically sprinted down the stairs of the empty house and almost flew out the door. Foolish boy. Standing out in the middle of a crazed, raging storm wouldn't solve anything. However, the Chosen One apparently thought otherwise, and, being the oh-so faithful bird Scorpio was, she had to fly out into said raging storm and look after the boy. What a delightful, high-paying job, the Chaos Phoenix thought sarcastically and disappeared in a burst of dark blue flame, reappearing just in front of the ajar front door.

Scorpio groaned inwardly as her second-bonded practically sprinted down the stairs of the empty house and almost out the door. Foolish boy. Standing out in the middle of a crazed, raging storm wouldn't solve anything. However, the Chosen One apparently thought otherwise, and, being the oh-so bird Scorpio was, she had to fly out into said raging storm and look after the boy. , the Chaos Phoenix thought sarcastically and disappeared in a burst of dark blue flame, reappearing just in front of the ajar front door.

The sight that greeted her made Scorpio fill a bizarre urge to bang her small head against the doorframe a few good times. The Chosen One was hugging the storm. Hugging it. Hugging it. HUGGING it. Well, Scorpio supposed, it was actually rather impossible for Harry to hug the storm, but he seemed to be at least embracing the idea of it. In fact, he reminded her of the Scorpion Warrior, very strongly. Hadn't he done this exact same thing, standing on top of the tallest tower of his mansion/castle, arms spread out while wind roared and thunder boomed? Of course, the Scorpion Warrior was the cause of that storm. But still, the fact remained: Harry Potter was HUGGING the raging storm. I think you get the point by now. Was he trying to get himself killed?


It was in him, around him... it was him. It roared and boomed, howled and screeched, bending trees to their fullest extent and washing out the dirt that was in Mrs. Figg's driveway. His arms were spread wide, wanting to feel it more, feel the power surging through his body and out his fingertips, intoxicating him, burying him deep in the ground with the immense concentration of force.

It was in him, around him... it him. It roared and boomed, howled and screeched, bending trees to their fullest extent and washing out the dirt that was in Mrs. Figg's driveway. His arms were spread wide, wanting to feel it more, feel the power surging through his body and out his fingertips, intoxicating him, burying him deep in the ground with the immense concentration of force.

Lightning flew around him, blinding him, striking the ground everywhere and clapping a loud thunder for the whole world to hear. Wind shrieked and howled in his ears, deafening him, whipping at him, tearing up the ground around him and forcing him to his knees. It was the second storm in two and half weeks – the second storm he had run into to help calm down and grasp a firm hold on his emotions. But this storm was worse than the last. The last was dangerous – this one was positively, hazardously disastrous.

Harry smiled like a Cheshire cat. As the storm raged around him, the one inside him slowly dissipated. The resulting feeling left him feeling intoxicated, ecstatic, and exhilarated all at the same time. It left him feeling high above the clouds, like when Mad-Eye Moody, being his paranoid self, suggested they fly into them to keep hidden during the summer after fourth year. The thought made the storm inside him stir. Fourth year. Cedric Diggory died that year. He died, there in that graveyard, never to be heard from again. Then there was the duel. Actually, it was more of short scuffle. This scuffle had a lot of pain in it.

He closed his eyes tightly, willing the ghostly image of the echo of his parents to go away. The prospect of seeing his parents again excited him. It was a prospect Harry hadn't considered before, but he thought about it now. Priori Incantatem had been the result of two brother wands fighting against each other. They both quested for dominance, and Harry's wand won. He had seen Cedric one last time that night, along with that Ministry worker and an old Muggle, Frank Bryce, along with his parents. His parents. The thought excited him. Surely Voldemort would very likely have killed many more people now, but if he could stall long enough, his parents may just appear again... the possibility both frightened him and sent waves of anticipation down his spine. Harry quickly shook his head. What would he do, should it come to that? Walk up to Voldemort, politely ask for a nice duel, risk his life and make sure Priori Incantatem woks in his favor? Yeah, right. He would sooner kiss the hems of Draco Malfoy's robe than do something as stupid as that.


If a phoenix could growl, Scorpio would have done so. Loudly. Exactly how that boy was shielding himself from her, and anybody else for that matter, was mystery. A soft, nearly translucent white shield formed a dome around Harry, seemingly only allowing the storm to touch him. Scorpio could not Flame to him either: the milky white shield prevented that too. Now, if anything was frustrating to a phoenix, it was not being able to get to her bonded.

With an irritated squawk, the beautiful Chaos Phoenix barreled through the open front door and into the raging storm. The force of the wind startled Scorpio for a moment. She had, of course, been expecting that, but it was a whole other thing when she actually experienced it. Her wings flapped frantically for a moment, feathers weighed down by the heavy rain, before gaining some resemblance of balance. Scorpio dove straight toward the shield surrounding Harry.

"SQUAWK!" Scorpio's angry – or pissed – cry of frustration, no matter how loud it was, couldn't even be heard by herself over the deafening thunder claps in the not-so-distant distance. Scorpio trilled angrily, almost forgetting about the storm and being thrown off balance again. Mentally, desperately, Scorpio searched for her first-bonded, the one that would truly help in a situation like this. It took a few moments, but there it was – a bright, silver beam of magic shining through their mental link. It was pulsing slightly, radiating hatred at someone or something that Scorpio could only guess at. Flaming safely to the shelter of #4, she sent a brief feeling of her anger and hopelessness through the mind link. In three seconds flat, the pulsating hatred immediately became soothing and calm.

Exactly five seconds after that, the loudest thunder clap yet resounded through Privet Drive, terrifying the young Chaos Phoenix, startling the Chosen One, and deafening the other inhabitants of Privet Drive. Scorpio peered a little frightfully through the feathers that had covered her small, obsidian-emerald eyes the moment strong sound waves reached her sensitive ears. She spent a small wave of pain, coupled with the previous anger and hopelessness through the link. Scorpio was met with a wave of amusement and sympathy. She scowled, but then perked up, telling herself to stop acting to childish. Then, if a phoenix could smile, Scorpio would have broken her beak just then. The Scorpion Warrior had arrived.


1 Yes, I realize that that is probably not Draco Malfoy's real birthdate, but I don't know what it really is, so I had to compensate somehow.

2 I know it's not very original but it's the first thing that came into my head. Death-Healers, as you can probably guess, are highly skilled Healers in the service of the Dark Lord.

A/N: I don't mind if you kill me right now. I would do the same (beats head against desk repeatedly, punches monitor, and finally pulls out ever-so faithful Uzi). How long has it been?A little over a month. Well, shit. Sorry about that. I know, in every chapter I've updated so far, I've said that I'm sorry for not updating. Dammit, I didn't even meet close to the number of pages I was hoping for this to be. There are only 7 on Word, and it would have been 6 if not for my rambling. Again, I'm sorry, but I have been extremely buy lately. I get around 30 minutes of spare time every day, and I try to use it for updating. It doesn't help that my computer seems to enjoy breaking down every other day.

PLEASE R&R! IT ENCOURAGES ME TO RIGHT MORE!

I am also not afraid of constructive criticism. In fact, I could really use some. Every writer can improve their work sometime.