Draco failed. Just like nearly everything else in his life, he managed to royally fuck it up. Maybe Longbottom was onto something when he'd called him a walking quaffle. Of course, that meant admitting that he actually had a few brain cells, and Draco was still taking that one to his grave.

Draco tried. Merlin knew he'd tried to protect the woman across from him, but just like with everything else, she saw right through him. He'd tried being cruel—as cruel as he could be with her anymore. He'd tried avoiding her. He'd tried ignoring her. He'd tried being the embodiment of that blundering idiot Weasel, but still... she knew.

He knew it night after night when he would give in to his selfishness, gritting his teeth through her screams, her pain running him through like a sword to the heart, and use Legillimancy on her. He knew that she doubted him and yet believed in him still. When she'd yelled at him up the stairs, calling him on shit, yet again, it was a miracle that he'd been able to stand.

He'd tried to make her hate him and he failed. He failed the moment his selfishness and greed won out and shared the best night of his life with her. When he fucked up and let her know he loved her.

He should have left her altogether—used that word and ran back to the castle like the coward he is—but he couldn't do it. The day he came back home and found her black and blue, Draco knew he would never find the will to be as cruel and merciless as he would need to be. Leaving her there in the kitchen when she was obviously in no shape to be up and about, was, without a doubt, one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do.

It had been right up there with opening his eyes, expecting to see her smiling face, only to find himself alone.

It was the same as forcing himself to sneer when he wanted to take her in his arms and beg her to forgive him.

The same as seeing her falter, confused and wounded, and know it's his fault.

Leaving her alone at home, knowing she's getting worse, and fighting everything in him that screamed he should be there with her. Having to count on her own stubborn nature to keep her alive until he got back.

Staying silent every time he felt the slight pull on his magical core, knowing that she was slipping. Knowing that she was falling. Knowing that she was potioning herself again... and it was all because of him.

And yet she still held onto the truth through it all.

The worst pill he had to swallow was knowing he failed to recreate the Philosopher's Stone. McGonagall had given him everything she had. Every scrap note of Dumbledore's that had been laying around, access to the entirety of the castle, even the hidden floor underneath it, and even managed to get him a portkey to France, all to no avail.

It wasn't long before he found out why. His mother had already gotten a hold of it all—including the Stone itself. It turns out it hadn't been destroyed, and now it served as a bargaining chip over his head.

Flamel, the brilliant bastard, didn't destroy his life's work when Dumbledore asked him to destroy the only thing keeping him alive. Instead, he kept just enough Elixir to set his and his wife's affairs in order and asked his sister to hide it, and Merlin, she did. Quite literally right under the old bastard's nose.

When Mother told him all this over Christmas, Draco couldn't quite believe it. The key to curing his witch had been hidden directly under the school, inside its original hiding place... back within the mirror that was supposed to have vanished. Mi could have been healed at the start.

Instead, pureblood politics had to come into play. Of course.

Mother would be willing to hand over the stone—if he married Astoria. And why? So the Greengrass patriarch would "convince" the rest of the Wizengamot to rule in Father's favor during his appeal. A life for a life, Mother had said.

"You must understand," Mother said quietly, "that man would be willing to do anything to secure this union. Even... get Miss Granger out of the way. He wants to get a hold of these notes, Draco. He wants the Stone, and I don't know how he knows I have it, but he knows a direct attack wouldn't... be favorable... for him. I can give you the Stone and tell him all I have is the notes, but... He's got your father's life, and now the life of the witch you love, in the balance. Please consider it, my dragon. We've lost enough people we love."

Draco hung his head, and hung his dry, chapped lips together in a firm line. There were two things that were harder than anything else. The sight of Mi plummeting to the ground stopped his heart—stopped time altogether for him. Anger at himself, horror at watching the center of his world hurtling to the ground, quite literally ripped his soul in two seconds before he cast the levitation charm. If things were different, if he hadn't been the biggest git walking, he would have gladly taken her flying if she asked.

The greatest, most difficult thing Draco had ever endured in his life wasn't taking the Mark or living with the Dark Lord and getting Crucio'd like it was going out of style at this point. It was seeing the witch he loved shackled to that blasted chair across from him.

There must have been a dozen witches and wizards that ambushed their yard after he interfered with Mi meeting Death. He couldn't protect either of them. Not being able to produce a patronus would be another regret to add to the list.

The cold metal in Draco's pocket was starting to burn a hole in his psyche. This one, last desperate back up—their one means of escape—was a plan he prayed he wouldn't have to use.

But he would if it meant keeping her alive. As far as he was concerned, the whole of England—the world—could burn, so long as the women he loved lived.

Draco commanded his body to heel. He wouldn't allow their captors to have the pleasure of seeing the chill of this filthy, cold, and damp cellar get to him. They wouldn't break him; whether he liked it or not, he wasn't that sniveling little boy anymore, but he was still a Malfoy. Concrete that might as well have been ice blocks cooled his shoes. Draco took a long, deep breath to steady himself. He could only imagine how Mi's feet felt. What had that bloody witch thinking, going out barefoot?

Then again, neither of them expected to get tossed down here like a pair of mangey dogs.

Draco sighed and took another look around the room. He'd done this dozens of times already, but he did it once more, hoping to spot something he didn't before. Some clue, some weakness of some sort, something that could help either escape or get a message out. Draco silently prayed that someone would notice their absence.

Solid, yellowing walls that likely hadn't seen a cleaning spell in decades... check.

Rickety old stairs—the only set—that Draco hoped would cave the next time one of those pricks set foot on it—check.

Dirty concrete floor that would even disgust Kreacher... check.

One single barred opening in the top of the side wall... Check. Draco already check it when they first dragged him in here. It was shielded and sound proofed. Given that not even birds would land near it, he guessed there was also a notice-me-not charm on the window, if not the whole building.

Draco had gotten used to being in the dark. It was fitting, really, as he was born to live in it. When the Dark Lord took over his family's manor, Draco got acquainted with it on an intimate level. Most of his deepest secrets lived there, where they would stay until he died. Probably even after.

That's why the thin strips of moonlight that barged into the room like it owned the place were enough to see his witch clearly, and it killed him.

Silk hands that, not so very long ago, held his face as though it were made of glass but could grip his arms with a thrilling, punishing strength were shackled to the arms of a frigid metal chair. Ankles that once brushed against his under their sheets were bound to unforgiving steel. An angelic face that was always framed by a curly halo still hung limply downward; he hadn't been able to see it at all in two days now. If it weren't for the staggered rise and fall of her chest, he'd have already lost his mind.

He swallowed, remembering the one and only time he'd gotten to kiss her chest, right over her heart, just before he broke it. He wished, more than anything, he could make it right. He wished he could fix what he shattered, as though it were worth nothing, when the truth was her heart was the one thing he treasured the most.

Draco had to get her out of here first.

The truth was he was absolutely terrified. Six large things that looked like short spikes were attached to her chair. Two were angled directly toward her shoulders; two more were pointed toward her forearms... the last two designed to puncture legs. On an equally terrifying note—his chair was designed the same.

As scared as he was for himself, if they harmed her, he'd kill them when he got out of here. Then, he'd invent a way to resurrect the dead just so he could kill them again as payment for whatever damage they were about to inflict on him.

The Huffleprick was going to pay. Him and his little lapdog bitch.

Draco gritted his teeth. Damn, it's cold. He had to get her out of here, had to get himself out of here, but how?

As Draco would say—fuck. I didn't die. How did I not die?

Draco swallowed the moment he heard Mi's 'voice.' He'd been listening to it for so long, he'd recognize it anywhere.At the same time, though, a different kind of chill took hold of him. She couldn't think like that. No! No, he couldn't stand the thought of living in a world where she wasn't in it. What... what goes through her mind when he's not around? She's supposed to be the strongest bloody witch walking!

If she's ready to give up... Fuck! Shit! NO!

Alright. Let's assess the situation. My feet are cold; numb, actually. Gods, it's freezing in here! The floor is clearly made of concrete. It's possible that I'm in some sort of basement. A cellar, maybe. Oh, it would be just my luck if I was back in Malfoy Manor.

However, there is no way in hell he'd let her be tortured in his own family's manor again. Not while he could help it. Over his own dead body.

What Mi didn't know was that Mother wouldn't stand for it, either. She always hated the violence, even if she might not particularly approve of the... lineage... of the person he loved. Mother had chosen to hold her tongue. The war had changed her perspective, too. How could Mi have known? The subject never exactly came up. The Manor had become an unspoken taboo for them both.

At least she switched gears. She was thinking things through, calculating. This was the witch he loved. This he could do. He watched curiously as she deliberately kept her head down and maintained her heavy breathing pattern. She wasn't trying to give away that she was awake. Mi had switched to her survival instincts. Draco was getting to witness his witch in action—she was definitely how they won the war.

He just wished she weren't in this situation at all. Her days of fighting to survive were supposed to be done.

Right. Think, Hermione! There is some sort of metal keeping my wrists and ankles shackled, so I'm obviously not going anywhere. I'm seated, and it feels like the chair is made of metal.

Draco watched for a moment longer, silently observing. She didn't know she wasn't alone.

Oh, Gods. DRACO!

He swallowed. Nothing about this was right. She's bound, shackled in a freezing cellar, yet she was concerned about him. After all he'd done and all the hell she went through on his account. Draco hung his head, shame crashing over him in waves. He knew she loved him, but this? This went beyond all bounds of reason.

No. No, no, no, no! Did he come home? Please, just this one time, I hope he didn't come home! Do the Aurors know he didn't have anything to do with this? Oh, Merlin, he could be in a holding cell right now, and I can't even send a bloody patronus!

Wait. Oh... oh no...

Draco quietly sighed. It was time. Showtime, you great git.

Merlin, Granger, if you think any louder, you're going to wake up the pricks who captured us.

Draco steeled himself against Mi's head swiftly snapping up. Even here, in the pit of Hell, he felt relief when her mocha eyes locked onto his. He locked himself down. He couldn't let any of the emotions that coursed through him show.

Relief. Longing. Regret. Fear. Remorse. Love.

It would get them both killed. Especially if she put her bleeding Gryffindor heart out there in the open. He wouldn't let her—especially not for him.

Those eyes that he wanted to lose himself in widened with shock, then with alarm... and, Merlin help him, fear. Her pretty mouth fell open as everything started to register in her brilliant mind.

"Draco," she whispered, and he almost fell apart when her voice cracked on his name. He knew then it would take every ounce of strength he possessed, and all he learned from the Dark Lord's time of terror to hold it together.

Are you mad? Do you want to wake up those idiots? Use your head, Granger! If there was any good time to be a raging swot, I'd say it's now.

Fine. Are you going to tell me who did this to you or not?

You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

Then, as he half expected she would, her curls started flying around with the swing of her head. She was critically examining her surroundings. Of course she was.

He knew she would come to the same conclusion as him, but it didn't help matters when her frantic searching came to an abrupt stop. Something sparked, unnerving and partially unwanted, when she eyed him with the same critical eye that she observed the room with.

How often do you use Legillimancy on me?

Draco worked up the best glare he could manage, though he wouldn't call it nearly sufficient. She was unfazed. Could he tell her the truth, or would it be better to lie? He huffed a sharp breath of air through his nose. Who was he kidding? Even if he lied, she'd see right through him. She always did.

I typically don't, unless there's extenuating circumstances.

Like screams in the night. Like being captured with a potential for torture. Like needing to know whether or not she's given up on him. Like needing to know that she would make it another day. Like needing to know if she missed him half as much as he missed her. But he couldn't tell her that.

Draco was a hundred percent sure the witch had gone mad when he spotted the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of her mouth.

It figures that it would take capture with torture looming for you to talk to me again.

This time, the glare that Draco shot her was real. Not for the reasons she thought, but because everything inside him wanted to drop the act, and she was making it three times as hard to resist the urge.

Unsurprisingly, she had to go and start testing the shackles.

Bloody hell, Granger! What part of keep it down don't you understand?

I'm trying to get us free, you idiot.

You aren't breaking those. Trust me on this one.

Mi immediately stopped, her big, intelligent eyes slowly blinking at him a few times before a flash of steel appeared in them. Draco swallowed. He never thought he would see that there again—not directed at him. Fuck.

A lump formed in his throat when he heard whispers floating through her mind, all of them damning his words. The words, I did trust you crossed her mind, and suddenly she was shaking her head, trying to force the thoughts away. Draco averted his gaze, swallowing hard at the past-tense use there.

Right, she thought forcefully. We don't have for this. Draco fought not to cringe at the determination of her thoughts. How many are there? Would anyone else know we're missing? Do you know if they have your wand?

Draco sighed. There were at least a dozen that captured us, though they seem to following the orders of the two idiots who brought us here, and I can promise you they're taking orders from someone. Neither one of them have the brains to do something like this on their own. I don't know if anyone knows we've been abducted, but why do you ask about my wand?

Mi rolled her eyes, and a small, unbidden ghost of a smirk played at the corner of Draco's mouth. You have the Trace on you, Draco. Remember? You paid "a fortune for relative freedom." That was one of the conditions—one that you suggested. If your wand is here, then Professor McGonagall has all she needs to be able to help Harry and Ron find us.

Draco's mind raced frantically, trying to remember what happened to his wand.

"Well, well. Look who's finally awake! Isn't that great, Drakey? Now you have some company."

He didn't need to look. He already knew who that was. Bitch has been knocking the shit out of him for two days. Mi, however, didn't bother to contain her shock.

"L-Lavender? Why?"

Draco's eyes slid closed. The hurt that comes with betrayal never got easier to witness, no matter how many times he heard or saw it.

"That's the million galleon question, isn't it?"

Draco swallowed. The excessive explanations and intimidation tactics were about to begin. Idiots like this were usually all too happy to gloat. But where was that overgrown bumblecunt? He let one of his eyes creep back open. Odd. He usually wasn't too far behind his bitch. Literally.

Brown strutted her little sniveling arse into the room, practically glowing with a mad glee that reminded him of his aunt. If he had known she was off her rocker, he never would have taken pity on her back in France. He'd have left her there to rot.

Draco followed her movements, biting back the bile that rose in his throat with every step she took toward Hermione.

"For someone who spends all her time literally thinking, you'd think you'd pay a little more attention to how your actions affect others."

Draco suppressed an unimpressed huff. Here comes the spiel.

Brown leaned over, practically snapping her hands down on the empty spaces on the arms of Mi's chair. Draco gripped the arms of his so tightly, the color of his knuckles would have made Peeves proud. He would say they finally matched.

"I should be dead, you twit," Brown growled. Draco's eyebrows shot up in surprise. That's a new one. In typical Brown fashion, though, she wasn't done. "I was perfect. A gorgeous pureblood girl with her whole life ahead of her, and I should have died that way. But no, you had to be all noble and 'save' me, right?"

Oh, shit.

It was clear, even from Draco sat, that her chest rapidly rose and fell. She had some shit to get off her chest... but didn't every one of their lot have shit to rant and bitch about?

All he knew was that she better not lay a finger on his witch.

"When will you learn that all that shit they spew at us at Hogwarts is a load of rubbish?" Brown screeched. "You're supposed to be the smart one! 'Brightest Witch of her Age' my arse! If you were so bloody smart, wouldn't you have figured out by now that nobody, not even the damned Sorting Hat, can tell you who you are and who you're supposed to be when you're bloody eleven?!"

The more the mad witch ranted, the more nervous Draco got, solid argument about the Sorting Hat aside.

"We've all been brainwashed our whole lives, don't you get it? Separated before we're old enough to think for ourselves and pitted against each other—and for what? A Gryffindor can be more cowardly than brave, a Hufflepuff can be more than the nice and friendly kid who blends into the background, a Ravenclaw can have grades that slip, and a Slytherin can be dumber than a sack of bricks, without a speck of ambition or cunning in their bones!"

"...But did you ever once stop to consider that? No! You bought into the propaganda and followed blindly like a good little child soldier, didn't you? That's exactly what you did! I was just a girl, Hermione, a girl who just wanted to love and be loved in return! I SHOULD HAVE DIED THAT WAY! YOU—YOU MADE SURE I WOULD SPEND MY LIFE AS A MONSTER!"

Both Draco and Hermione were stunned into silence, and Brown still wasn't done.

"Instead of letting Greyback kill me, you decided to condemn me to a life of having less worth than a bowtruckle! And to top it all off, you come in and ruin what bit of peace I found, and who do you drag with you? It had to be Ron! You never once stopped to consider that either, did you? Ron was the only man I ever truly cared for, and not only do I have less rights than the dirt beneath our feet, but I have to come to terms with the fact that he still won't shut up about you! Do you know what that's like, watching the man you love moon over another, learning to accept that he doesn't love you, just to have to do it all over again? DO YOU?"

Draco was literally on the edge of his seat, watching the whole thing play out. His guts wound like a guitar string; tighter and tighter, unable to do anything but gape as Brown ranted. It was coming. It always came when she ranted. The wire snapped when Lavender raised her hand, open palmed, ready to cross his own silent line. "Brown!"

He could have collapsed with relief when she instantly stopped and turned; anger diminished as quickly as it came. "Drakey-poo!" Draco kept still, mask in place, not giving anything away. Silently, he wanted to snap. He hated those cutesy, disgusting pet names.

Brown all but flew over to him, and, without any warning whatsoever, perched right on top of his lap. Draco's body stiffened, rigid underneath the unwanted contact. She needed to get her bloody arse off him. NOW. Apparently, Hermione shared the same sentiment. Her glare toward the blonde she-wolf was murderous. Draco knew exactly how she felt.

Try to mask your emotions, Granger. The more you show them, the more they have to use against you.

Well, I can't exactly help how I feel, can I?

When Brown held Draco's jaw in her hand, Draco wanted to puke. Instead, he yanked his face away from her with an emotionless mask.

No, but you can control what you show.

You would be an expert at that, wouldn't you?

You learn a thing or two when the Dark Lord is using your home as his personal address.

"Touchy, touchy, Drakey-poo," Brown cooed, as if this was all perfectly normal.

Brown had the audacity to lean back against his chest, resting her head against his shoulder as though she belonged there. Draco's body turned into stone. This felt wrong. Sick. Everything that made him wish he were strong enough to break his shackles and physically toss her across the room—and he's never harmed a woman in his life.

"Someone's been a bad boy, haven't they?"

Voldemort. His name was VOLDEMORT.

For once, Hermione's expression and her thoughts were two completely different things. If looks could kill, Brown would be burning alive. Right then, he wished looks really could kill.

Not a good time for a lecture, Granger.

You're stuck with my lectures until you get out of here alive, Malfoy. Chances are, you'll be the last person to hear them. You might even learn something.

"Piss off, Brown," Draco muttered. His mouth flattened into a tight line. The last thing Hermione needed to do was go there.

We. Until WE get out of here alive. Don't you dare start talking otherwise.

"Tsk, tsk, Drakey," Brown dramatically sighed. "Now that's not how we get our treat, is it?" Draco kept his face as cold as he could manage. Her 'treat' was a glass of bloody water. She could take her water and fucking shove off. Burn in a lake of Fiendfyre.

Hermione met him with a look just as cold.

Please. We both know that out of the two of us, you're the only one strong enough to hang in there until Harry gets here. So, I need you to shut up and listen to me, alright? You are going to use my brain, with all the knowledge I can give you, and you are going to get out there and open that damned apothecary. You're also going to use my notes that are stored in the notebook on the top shelf of the ingredients cupboard in the potions lab, and you're going to make this world a better place. Got it? And I also need you to make sure my parent's house doesn't go to ruin. Live in it, sell it, I don't care. Just make sure it doesn't fall apart.

That was the longest rant he'd ever heard from Hermione—ever. He also fucked up, getting so distracted, because Brown roughly grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. "I said, Drakey—"

"Now, now, love. We don't want to rough this one up too much. The boss won't be too happy if he can't attend his own wedding."

Draco closed his eyes. Fuck. There's the bumblecunt. He'd hoped that something had happened to the prick.

Wedding?

Damn it.

Listen, Hermione, it's not what it—

Don't bother. I suppose congratulations are in order, aren't they?

Mi...

Don't, Malfoy.

Draco's chest burned. Well, it was what he was going for all week. He knew it would hurt. He knew it would be hell. He just never imagined it would be like this.

That one lone, single tear that rolled down her cheek tore him apart worse than every single crucio he'd ever endured. More than getting the Mark. More than getting sliced apart with Potter's sectumsempra. More than getting stabbed, whipped, burned... A muggle even shot him once. He'd take all of that over the high, defiant jut of her chin and the way she just bitterly spat his name.

Just take it, Malfoy. Her hatred was always the plan.

With his eyes, he saw a shit head dressed in yellow stepping into the light looking like he spotted his favorite meal.

In his mind, he saw flashes of every precious moment he'd ever shared with Mi.

The first encounter at her book shop, the night they made love, and everything in between. They played through her mind like a reel of pictures, but when he glanced back over at her, he saw the Granger who slapped him in Third Year.

"No, Robert," Hermione said flatly, emotionlessly. "I suppose your employer wouldn't be too pleased." The witch straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. "What are we here for? I suppose this is about more than just an engagement."

The bumbleprick's eyes glittered as he appraised her. Draco had to remind himself to keep his breathing level. He couldn't cave. Not now.

"Ever the curious student," he hummed. "Although, I can't say I'm surprised."

Brown, crazy bitch that she is, literally bounced on Draco's legs, clapping with glee. Draco's jaw clenched with a mix of anger and nausea. "Does this mean we get to play, Robby?"

The prick offered an outstretched hand, which Brown eagerly took. Draco was just glad to get the witch off his lap, honestly. However, that didn't ease anything else that swirled in both his mind and his gut. They said 'play'. That couldn't be good.

"Yes, baby," Jones murmured, his sights only for the insane blonde in front of him. "That means we get to play." They shared a sickeningly long moment before Jones finally remembered there were two other people in the room with them.

"You see, lady and... er... you're not much of a gentleman, are you, Drake?"

Both Draco and Hermione openly rolled their eyes in response.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

"Hey, a unanimous agreement! Now we're getting somewhere." Jones, the prick, clapped his hands once and rubbed them together happily. It made Draco want to punch him in his stupid face. "Alright, back to business," he deadpanned. "The boss has his reasons for gathering us all here, but for us... Well, you can forgive me for being blunt, can't you?" Draco and Hermione looked between each other and their captor. When neither answered, Robert said, "I'll take that as a yes. Admittedly, yes, this is a bit personal."