A/N: *PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE TAGS

Chapter warnings for; implied sexual harassment, explicit torture, violence, blood, language.

Everyone, please pay attention to the warnings. They're important and put there for your benefit, we don't want to hurt anyone, do not take any of them lightly.

Next update Saturday: September 12th

Chapter Fifteen

...

"lift with your knees, atlas,

the heavens are a burden

but in the starlit ink of constellations

you have written:

endure."

weight - a.j. (via achillics)

...

Lucius has to get rid of the clock in the study.

It's an ancient thing, passed on from his father's great great grandfather during the first Warlock warfare, it has been hanging in their study for more than half a century now, and it still works perfectly, but Lucius cannot bear it.

He throws a semi-cold glance at the ticking antique from the corner of his eyes, and then trails his eyes back to his parchment. The ticking is louder than it should be. Almost booming in Lucius's ears. Narcissa hated this clock. She never objected to its presence in their study, but Lucius knows how much she detested the old thing. That, and Lucius's cutlery set left from his grandmother.

She thought them too 'old fashioned '.

'At some point in your life, my love, you need to let the dead die, in order to really live, ' she had said, her delicate, warm hand rubbing his shoulder in a comforting circle. Lucius had smirked then.

'Admit it Cissy, you just really want the clock gone,'

Now the clock remains, and she is gone. Lucius considers that an insult. Not sure from whom, but he does so nonetheless. The clock will have to go in the immediate future. That's the one thing he has control over. Only the furniture in his house. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Somewhere along the way, he realizes that he probably hadn't signed up for this. Nobody had, really. Not even Bella, his sister-in-law, and the murderer who killed his wife. She wasn't always fanatically besotted with the dark lord. She was intrigued. She wanted control, power, superiority, and that was all the man had promised them then. Lucius had wanted the same thing. Not just for himself, but for his Narcissa as well.

They had a beautiful life ahead of them. Just the two of them, with Draco.

Lucius blinks and then inks his quill once more. Writing this letter really cannot be delayed any longer. He's been fooling around as it is. Usually he is much more disciplined when it comes to reigning in his thoughts. He is very focus oriented, precise in his pursuits, ruthless in his ambitions.

He has a special quill in the second right drawer in this exact same room, from a magical golden quail, charmed to remain forever sharp, a gift that she had gotten for him the day he was accepted in the ministry.

He only ever used it to write to her, in the event that they were separated, it was so far and in between. But when he did, she became overly benevolent with her responses, as if she knew that Lucius had written with the quill, as if the words upon the parchment really didn't matter that much. Lucius should get rid of the quill too. This time for his own sake. Maybe he should have buried it with her.

It takes him two more minutes to realize that he's just not going to finish writing this letter. It wouldn't matter much. Just throw some gold at them and they would be appeased once more. It's a bold, unwavering truth in life. One Lucius has learned by heart. Everybody has a price. Throw enough gold at them, and you would be getting anything you ever desired. Even the Dark Lord had a price.

One that couldn't be paid with the kind of gold Lucius has lying around. That's his main weakness. He cannot buy that man with coins. Of which he has an abundance of. And in Lucius's experience, if one cannot buy something in this world, one must sell something in order to gain it by force. Such was the way of the world. You gave something, you got something in return.

Lucius's price had already been paid. His wife was dead. Killed. His son was traumatized. He was knee deep in a mud pit, with no way out. Not yet, anyway. But Lucius is… somehow optimistic. He has paid his price. Now the Universe must pay its own.

As if on cue, the floo flares a bright, radiant green and Lucius curls his lip. His Manor has become a tavern. Every kind of filth is let in, and they seldom leave by choice. Lucius abandons his blank parchment, fetches his cane and turns to leave before out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the peculiar face of Evan Rosier.

The man… intrigues Lucius. To say the least. There is a wildness to him that Lucius had not seen in Rosier Senior, Roger Rosier's eyes, a certain glint that Lucius sometimes finds in Bella's eyes. Unhinged curiosity. The sadistic yearning to see what happens next by pushing the limits. Lucius knows the look, hates it with a burning passion. To him it means the loss of control, and the loss of control means a loss in life. In a world run with the concept of wealth, loss of any kind is catastrophic.

Rosier isn't alone. Probably hindered with his muggle entertainment, a bunch he must have snagged on his way over here. He did that more than Lucius would have liked to see. Evan coolly responded, always, that one less muggle was one more step to victory. Lucius thinks the man just likes to watch them squirm.

Right before he fully turns to leave, Lucius's eyes catch a hint of blonde hair, and he stops in his place, stops breathing, the cane clenched in his hands, as he stands and the man steps out. Lucius doesn't dare turn, but doesn't let himself be beguiled by the possibility of shock or despair. He needs to be sure.

That's Draco. Lucius clearly sees the boy, limp in Rosier's grasp, his hair a mess and his clothes rumpled. His mouth slightly slack. That's his son. Being manhandled by a sadistic twerp.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snarls before he can really stop the impulse. He's stepped closer too, and for a single moment, he's too occupied to notice the second figure nestled against Rosier, considerably shorter, thinner, with messy black hair and a pair of glasses. Potter.

Potter and his son have been stunned and taken out of school.

Rosier stares back at him, quite calmly. "Your son is here for treachery. Potter…" he pauses then looks down at the boy. "Well, he was on a silver platter already."

Treachery. The word turns the liquid running through his veins to molten silver. He hates the word, the expression, everything that comes with it. Treachery. His son? The idea was laughable. Lucius loves his son, beyond words and worlds combined, but he's no traitor. He just, he doesn't have it in him.

Too pliable. Lucius refuses to call it cowardice. He's not. Just too cautious.

"Don't be absurd, Rosier," he steps closer still, he doesn't like the way Rosier is holding his son by the arm. As if he's a ragdoll. "Why are two fifteen year old boys who should be sleeping in their beds at Hogwarts in my study?!"

Rosier promptly lets go of Potter, and the boy drops to the floor in a heap of heavy limbs, upon the rug that Narcissa had chosen when she was five months pregnant with Draco on a whimsical visit to Diagon Alley. Lucius raises an eyebrow and waits for an explanation. Rosier isn't insane. Lucius knows that. He wouldn't just abduct the boys for no reason. Lucius doesn't even know how he had made it inside the wards.

"The pink bitch caught them together," Rosier says, lewdly smiling down at Potter as he carelessly shoves Draco into an armchair nearby. Lucius's hand grips his cane tighter. He doesn't move from the spot.

"And now they're here,"

"See that fancy bandage on Potter's hand?" Rosier nods at it, then glances back at Lucius. "That's your son's handiwork. I wonder who taught him that… his mother, maybe?"

"You weren't ordered to do this," Lucius pointedly keeps his eyes away from Draco. He's fine, he tells himself. Just stunned. As he will remain until this misunderstanding is solved. Lucius wants him back in his bed in Hogwarts before dawn, preferably.

"Well, it's a shame that traitors don't wait around for orders. Your son was aiding Potter. The boy who lived. The boy our Lord assigned the pink bitch to, for torture."

Lucius looks at Potter's hand, bandaged but soaking through. "It must have been a simple misunderstanding. My son loathes Potter. I'm sure given the chance he would torture the boy himself,"

"After he grows a spine," Rosier amiably comments. As if talking about the weather. "I'm taking Potter to the dungeons. Bella might like a new plaything until our Lord arrives."

Bella's plaything. Lucius, on a very shallow scale, pities Potter for an instant before the sentiment dissipates. Potter wouldn't survive his sister-in-law for long. Not long at all, depending on the duration and the method she puts in action.

"Without our Lord's consent?" Lucius clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes as he passively forces his hold to slacken upon his cane. "You're delirious, Rosier. The Dark Lord will have your tongue for this," his eyes deliberately travel down the man's robes. "Perhaps something more, if he's feeling adventurous,"

Rosier's eyes narrow and Lucius's eyes inch back up from the man's waist back to his face. He smirks. "Are you going to risk your manhood?"

"You're just worried for your brat,"

"If you insist on acting like an idiot, then by all means," Lucius swipes a hand, gesturing at the timid looking man. "Go ahead and ruin Potter and my son before our Lord gets to them. I shall enjoy every second of your punishment,"

Evan's lips curl down in disgust. "Nice tactics, Lucius. You haven't changed a bit since our school days."

"How would you know?" Lucius drawls. "You weren't even out of your mother's womb then."

It is, in a way, true. Rosier was only a small first year before Lucius graduated. In fact, Lucius hadn't even known the little brat existed.

"I'm taking them to the dungeons." The man says now.

"And I shall accompany you while you gather your fun time buddies. No messy stuff," he turns once more, waves his wand and the study's doors open. "I cannot stomach it when virgins scream. I shall write to our Lord in the meanwhile."

And despite every nerve in his body, demanding that he rushes to his son's side and never leave, Lucius steps out of the office, meaning only to be absent for five minutes. Much can be done in five minutes. He knows this. Time is gold. And Lucius never wastes wealth.

##

Someone is screaming. And this time, Draco is sure it isn't him. Even though his throat still feels a little sore.

When he tries to move his body, dull pain flares up his spine and he stifles a groan. He opens his eyes slowly, scared of what he would find.

He can't seem to recall where he is, and his head is pounding too badly to think clearly. And the infernal screaming just won't stop. It seems to be rising in pitch. He tries to think through the harsh cacophony. Umbridge. There was Umbridge. And- and she is a Death Eater.

Draco's blood runs cold as memories come rushing. Rosier and Potter and Malfoy Manor. They aren't in Hogwarts anymore. With more effort than the task should warrant, Draco manages to half open his eyes.

The screaming cuts off abruptly.

Dreading what he might see if he turns his head, but not able to bear not knowing, he slowly turns his head to the side. His head is throbbing with a dull ache as he tries to clear his vision. Someone is laughing. And the voice sounds horribly familiar.

He has to reign in a choked sound as he sees Bellatrix bent over something- someone, on the floor. She doesn't seem to notice that he's awake, and Draco almost heaves in a sigh of relief until she starts speaking, "Aw, baby Potter, I thought you were tougher than that."

She's stroking his cheek.

The realisation that it had been Potter screaming is almost worse than finding Bellatrix in the cell with him. It's a cell, he realises almost belatedly. The dungeons below the main levels of Malfoy Manor. His mother had never let him go even near the ominous looking door in the cellar.

Of course, he hadn't listened. He had gone down, just that once, his curiosity overtaking his need to obey his mother, but it had been very… anticlimactic.

The dungeons had been empty at that time, and while they had still reeked of a strange sense of foreboding, it wasn't what Draco had been expecting. Probably for the best, his thirteen year old self had thought.

Maybe if he'd explored more, he'd know a way out of the magically reinforced metal bars which he knows adorn every cell.

Bella is still speaking, crooning, really. Draco tries to ignore her, at least Potter isn't screaming right now. Although his loud rasping breaths echo around the stone walls almost as loudly. He sounds very much in pain.

His eyes flick over to the cell entrance and- freeze.

His chest feels like it's constricting, and he can't get in any air. He tries to muffle the sound of his hyperventilating, but he knows he fails when Lucius's eyes glance over at him for a split second. Too many emotions in them to decipher, before his father looks away again.

'You shouldn't wear your emotions on your face, Draco. Your face is a mask, and masks bear no expression, no weakness to exploit.' his father's voice says, a faint memory from when he'd cried after breaking one of his favourite figures. He was seven.

He is sure his face betrays everything he is feeling right now. Horror, anger, betrayal, disbelief. Not necessarily in that order.

He finally manages to raise a fist to cover his mouth, stifling anymore sounds.

At least Bella hasn't noticed him yet.

Potter starts screaming again, and Draco flinches. His screams are so loud. Had his mother screamed this loudly? He doesn't want to remember. Had he screamed that loud?

There's a rustling in the shadows, and someone steps out. For a moment, Draco can't recognise him through his haze of panic, but then the man removes his hood and familiar dark blonde hair comes into view.

Rosier.

"Finally awake, are you?" he sneers, raising his wand.

Father's cane raps sharply against the metal bars, and Draco barely manages not to jump. Lucius looks at Rosier meaningfully, something dark in his gaze. Rosier huffs, and starts lowering his wand.

Draco can't quite conceal his gasp, partly due to his surprise, when Rosier sends a stinging hex his way. His father doesn't say anything, and Rosier smirks before finally lowering his wand and turning to Bella. To Potter.

He got off easy. Draco doesn't want to feel grateful to his father, because he still hasn't done anything. And he is on the wrong side of the bars, and Potter is still fucking screaming. But at least Draco isn't. That's got to count for something, right? He doesn't know.

Bella clicks her tongue with a growl. "Come on, baby Potter, SCREAM!"

Potter sobs.

Slowly, half scrambling, and smoothing out his face to hide his winces of pain, Draco manages to prop himself up on the nearest wall. He's almost about to pat down his robes for something, anything, when he realises he isn't wearing any. Just the school uniform. Without the cloak. It almost feels like they've ripped away some layer of protection.

Bella is standing now, and Potter… he is still. Too still. And silent. Draco can see silent tears streaming down his red face, as he pants. His eyes are closed. Maybe he has passed out. But Draco knows it's a futile thought, Bellatrix doesn't allow mercies such as unconsciousness. He is probably just unable to move from the pain. Maybe too tired.

Draco hopes he has managed to sufficiently veil the fear in his eyes as he stares at Bellatrix. Willing her to combust on spot.

Her lips curl in a delighted smile, "Draco," she begins, her sing-song voice grating on his nerves as much as filling his veins with ice. "I thought we had an understanding, my dearest nephew."

'You tortured me,' he wants to spit. But fear mutes him.

Bella's mouth downturns in mock disappointment, "I thought you were supposed to be smart. A fast learner."

"Bella," Lucius' voice rings out through the cell, a note of warning in it.

Bella just lifts a hand, waving him down. Draco is embarrassed as the urge to flinch arises once more.

"Neat little work you've done with his hand," she comments, perhaps a little too casually. "Mommy dear taught you well, didn't she?" She steps over Potter's prone body and walks to Draco, crouching before him with raised eyebrows.

"You have been very very naughty. You helped li'ddle Potty, you healed his hand, you alleviated a victim our Lord SPECIFICALLY ordered to torment!"

"Bella,"

"Hush, Lucius dear," She snaps at him without looking away from Draco. "Your son needs to learn some manners. He needs to learn that Potter wasn't his to touch. Look at him, Draco. Look at what you've done to him!" Her breath is starting to come in harsh gasps, her fury palpable as she bends down over Draco.

"He's in pain. Because of you. Because you couldn't duck your head with your fucking tail between your legs. He might die because of you. Now tell me, Nephew, is this better? Better than what the pink bitch was doing to him?"

"You-" Draco starts, finally finding his voice, but is silenced by a harsh slap, his face snapping to the side, hitting the wall behind him. Draco sees his father flinch out of the corner of his eyes.

"You're the one forcing my hand! I warned you, boy! I told you what defiance gets you! I warned you that I'll beat it out of you! Just wait until My Lord returns, and once he knows exactly what you've done…" she takes in a deep breath, straightening up, the wild rage in her eyes shifting to something more subtle, more dangerous. "Well, you better send my regards to my bitch of a sister. After he's done with you."

"Enough," Father says again, and this time he sounds slightly desperate.

"You're too soft with him, Lucius. Too lenient. He's a wimp. One that doesn't have much time left, by the looks of things," she's still staring at Draco.

"I'm sure there's an alternate explanation to this situation. My son cannot stand Potter. All will be cleared once the Dark Lord returns,"

"When shall he?" She finally turns towards Lucius, and both Draco and his father seem to relax, just marginally. Almost unnoticeably.

"He said three days. Potter isn't to be maimed beyond a point of return. He wants the boy sane."

"Of course he does. Potter won't be of any use if his brains are busted out," Rosier snorts, looking pointedly in the direction of a still sobbing Potter.

"My son, also, isn't to be damaged, or he shall firmly respond to your disobedience." A tightly coiled knot in Draco's gut seems to unfurl at that. He isn't naive enough to think he won't be hurt. But perhaps it won't be that bad. At least, not until the Dark Lord returns.

"I'm sure Evan and I can still come up with creative ways to keep our guests occupied. Don't we, Harry? Don't you just hate your name?"

Before she can get his hands on a semi conscious Potter again, Rosier sighs. "You've been at it for two hours already, Bella. Our Lord needs him to think with his brain, not a pile of mush."

"They can take more. They always can. Remember Alice and Frank, oh how loud did they scream," she says this last part to Harry, gleefully lifting him up from the floor with her wand. "Let's see if you can scream louder, Harry. I bet you could."

Rosier rolls his eyes once more. "Let the rest have a turn too,"

"Oh, so that's what has your wand in a twist. You want a turn with ickle Harrykins here,"

"Do you blame me?"

Bella growls at him. "I do, as it happens. This wasn't planned, you know. He's gonna be mad. At you, mostly. By now, they all know that Potter is missing,"

"I got him The Boy Who Lived. Our Lord will be most gracious," Rosier sounds… defensive. If Draco was in any position, he'd have wondered about it.

She snorts, polishing her wand with the hem of her skirt. "He most certainly will be, Evan. Come, help me freshen him up." Then she looks over her shoulder at a stoic Lucius.

"You could help, you know. I know you don't like getting too dirty. But no one's prohibiting wand work," She speaks so casually, so nonchalantly of what they're about to do, that it involuntarily sends shivers down Draco's spine. They speak of Potter's torture the same way one makes small talk.

"Potter's endurance is high. He can take a few hits. Cannot you Harry?"

"I'd rather not get blood on my robes, you carry on,"

She scoffs. "As if I needed your permission. CRUCIO!"

Potter doesn't scream as loudly as before, he jerks against the ground, his head smacking into the stone several times with a painful, dull thud. He's already tired, and Draco understands why, the boy was already injured and severely exhausted before. This is not only pushing his limits, but kicking them out of the field. Draco honestly doubts Potter ever being the same after this ordeal. If he gets out of it, that is.

Draco himself is living on a deadline. A three day deadline until the Dark Lord arrives. There's no hope of getting out sooner than that, even if he thinks about people rushing in for Potter's rescue, there isn't much hope. The Malfoy Manor hasn't built a name for itself for nothing. It was an impenetrable fortress, there were piles and piles of wards put on this damn place, they were hard to decipher and break apart. Dumbledore couldn't send any members inside the wards without his father's explicit consent, which he wouldn't give anyway.

They're the last person anyone suspects. Even in spite of Draco missing simultaneously with Potter. He's sure that father already has a solid watertight excuse lined up for his sudden absence. One that only results in leading Dumbledore's people away from them.

Sometimes, Draco really hates how good his father is at this sort of thing. This time, it might actually result in his death. First his mother's, now him and Potter.

His aunt and the sadistic git Rosier are relentless on Potter, and the boy takes it with the minimal amount of objections. Draco doesn't quite understand the boy's strategy. He thrashes, cries out when it hurts, sobs and cries like a toddler, but doesn't speak a single word. Doesn't plead for it to end. Draco almost wishes he could do so on his behalf.

Enough, already, enough. Aunt Bella is driving him insane.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, and Draco's ears possibly cannot handle Potter's voice ringing against his eardrums, his father makes Bella and Evan stop. Potter is a child, he says.

"He already looks half dead," his father continues as Bella very reluctantly lowers her wand. "Leave him be for now,"

Bella grumbles but yields in the end, she turns on the heels of her shoes and strides out of the cell, Rosier closely on her tail. Potter's beyond gone, prone on the ground, his glasses nowhere in sight. They hadn't made him bleed, not even once, but his bandaged hand is severely soaked through.

Draco cannot bear looking at Potter for more than a second. He looks away as Bella and Rosier walk away, leaving his father on the other side of the cell alone with them. His father doesn't say anything, he's not even looking at Draco, but rather staring at Potter's body with a blank face.

"Be smart," he finally says. "Be worthy of your name, Draco,"

"Father," his throat is dry. He really is thirsty. His father turns to leave.

Doesn't look back behind his shoulder once.

Draco didn't expect any less of the man, but he still feels slightly bitter as he painstakingly makes his way to Potter, whose body is wracked with violent shakes every few seconds, as a result of prolonged exposure to the curse. He needs a nerve soother. Draco knows that, with a calming draught, and perhaps a small dose of a dreamless sleep potion to alleviate the discomfort while his body is healing.

Draco has none of those potions on hand. He doesn't even have water. Gingerly, he pulls Potter up, and gently drags him to the corner of their cell, trying to ignore the burning in his own limbs as he leans Potter against the wall and sags down next to him.

Now it's just a waiting game.

##

It's been a while. Perhaps several minutes. Or several hours. Or just one. Draco's not very sure. Potter still hasn't spoken a word. His rattling breaths are the only sound in the cell.

He hopes it's over for the day. That no one else is coming down again. He won't be able to take another round of Potter screaming. Let alone Potter himself actually taking the pain.

The ache in Draco's limbs is mostly gone. He'd expected as much, considering it had only been one cruciatus Umbridge had put him under. However strong or however long.

He's sure Potter doesn't have the same luxury. It's a miracle the boy isn't sobbing in residual pain. Even his breathing sounds painful.

Draco wishes he had some water.

Shifting once again, he tries to position Potter more comfortably. He knows it won't really help any, but he needs to feel like he's doing something.

The cell is cold, and Draco, not for the first time, fervently wishes they still had their cloaks. Probably just another form of extended torture on their parts. Draco hates admitting it, even to himself, but they're at least good at torturing people. They know what they're doing. It hasn't even been a full day and he already feels miserable.

Potter's eyes are closed, but Draco knows he's not sleeping. He looks too restless for that. Draco closes his eyes too, and starts naming the Potion ingredients for a nerve soother.

Two Moonleaves chopped to perfection

One crushed black bean

Both are added to the simmering base as the potion is stirred with a ten inch glass stirring rod, counterclockwise, until the potion base is a vibrant blue.

Grind garlic and two ounces of Mustard seeds, crushed in a-

His list is interrupted when he hears footsteps. There's a split second of hope when he thinks it's Lucius. But those footsteps are distinctly not his father's. Heavier, no third click of the cane.

He almost doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to see who it might be. But the thought of not knowing is almost worse, and he slowly cracks his eyes open, trying to adjust back to the dim light.

A Death Eater is standing over him. Draco didn't even hear the cell door opening. The distinctive feature, and the most disgusting one, on his face, are his yellow, rotting teeth. Somehow still managing to look too sharp to be normal- almost canine like-while half-decaying in his mouth. He's big. Bigger than Draco would have thought. Broad wide shoulders, matted shoulder length hair, a dulled silver, and his eyes, narrowed and wild. Like an animal's.

Draco doesn't know who he is, and the unknown is dangerous. He certainly looks so.

And father- Draco hates that he's thinking this, but Father isn't here.

"I thought he'd never fucking leave," the man says, finally. After staring him down for what seems like forever. His voice is almost a growl, irritated and gleeful both at once.

"See, Draco, word travels fast in here," the man glances at Potter briefly. "Whatever Lucius might have to say, you're still a traitor. And the Dark Lord certainly won't mourn a few scratches. Or some limbs. And since I cannot have Potter, " His lips stretch into a wide grin, revealing more of those yellow teeth, "Well, I can just as easily have the next best thing. The Dark Lord doesn't take very well with those who betray him. You know that, right, whelp?"

Suddenly, Draco feels a tight grip on his forearm, and for a second he panics, before realizing the hand belongs to Potter. Potter's eyes are open now, and he's glaring at the man with open hostility. It would have been more effective if he wasn't trembling so violently, or so ashen, or didn't have tear tracks streaking down his cheeks.

The man gives a low chuckle and flicks his wand in Potter's direction. The chuckle turns into a full blown laugh when Harry violently recoils.

Something in Draco twists as he watches the man toying with Potter. And then his gaze is trained on him. It's all he can do not to shrink back against the wall.

He tenses, braces himself for a round of Cruciatus, for the blinding agony that seems to split the body apart. He expects it. Waits for it.

He doesn't expect the man to lunge at him, growling and snarling like an animal. Harry, or maybe it's Draco himself, let's out a high squeak, and they're both scrambling sideways, but the man is upon Draco before he can really comprehend what's happening.

Draco's head hits the ground with a loud crack and his vision swims, blacking out for a moment. And then there is a burning pain on his face, horrible burning, stinging pain. As if someone rammed a heated knife through his flesh.

He lets out a choked scream, vaguely feeling the man slip his hand under his shirt, raking his nails down his ribs, his back arches and twin tongues of fire make their way down his torso.

Someone else is screaming too. Again. And he knows the voice. Even subdued and hoarse as it is, he knows it's Potter. Has Bellatrix come down again? He struggles, but the man's weight on his body is too much, and everything is happening too fast.

There's a hand on his throat. Maybe two, he doesn't know. Because he can't breathe. He lets out strangled cries, clawing at the grip around his neck, kicks out with his legs, but his vision is tunneling out. The man's rotting teeth are right in front of his face.

Then there is a loud, ringing bang, and a flash of light.

The man rolls off of him, and Draco curls to his side, panting, trying not to sob. He is sobbing.

"What in the name of Merlin do you think you were doing?" A voice says; shouts.

'Father,' Draco wants to gasp, but all he can do is try to gulp in air.

"Lucius," the man says, from somewhere above Draco. He's standing again.

"Fenrir, what is the meaning of this? Wasn't it made clear that none of them were to be maimed?" If Draco hadn't known his father all his life, he may have missed the undercurrent of slight hysteria in his voice. And the fact that his father is in hysterics, sends him down another spiral of panic. He can still feel the hands, moving down his chest, around his throat, tightening, tightening-

A hand touches his shoulder, and he jerks, almost screams. "Draco," a voice murmurs. "Drac- co."

A small part of Draco feels horrible, Potter suffered so much worse. He shouldn't be the one comforting Draco. It should be the other way around. But Draco can't wrap his mind around what just happened. Fenrir.

Fenrir Greyback. He's heard about him. He's a werewolf. He just got attacked by a werewolf.

"I'm sure the Dark Lord will understand, given what he's done," Fenrir says, and Draco shudders. The grip on his shoulder tightens. He wants to jerk away.

"You'll risk his wrath? Disobey him?"

Leave me alone, leave me alone. Draco wants to scream, but even if his voice was working properly, he's not really in a position to make any demands. Tears clog his nose, and the struggle for breath becomes worse.

His whole upper body feels like it is on fire, so does his face. And his throat feels worse than before. He shudders again. And even as pain flares, he wraps his arms around himself.

"He's gone," Harry whispers, his voice close to his ears. "He's gone, Draco."

It takes Draco a moment to realise that his wish has been granted, and he sobs in relief. Harry huddles closer to him, and Draco can feel Harry's limbs still shaking as he lays down, pressed next to him. Draco doesn't care, he burrows into the warmth and Harry tries his best to hold him for a few minutes. Draco feels the sticky hot blood trailing down his face, and Harry finally seems to notice it as well. It's bothering him. It feels like lava, oh his face, above all the burning and Draco wants it gone.

There's a ripping sound, and then unsteady hands are on his face. Draco cringes, squeezing his eyes shut, but Harry slowly, carefully, wipes at the blood dripping down his face. He swallows, opening his eyes, and looks up into focused green ones.

Harry seems to be putting in all his concentration into keeping his hands as steady as possible, which, admittedly, isn't much. But the touch remains gentle as he dabs most of the excess blood away and presses the cloth next to the burning strip of pain. The urge to flinch doesn't lessen much. And then he leaves it there, his eyes glazing over in pain again as he heaves out a shaky breath.

And Draco realizes with a jolt that however injured, Harry must be in more pain than him. Bella was at him for what felt like hours.

Draco wants to say something, but Harry's eyes are already closing. And Draco's throat feels too tight. The phantom hands are still all over him.

A/N: Chadwick Aaron Boseman was an amazing actor, he brought to life, not only a superhero but a whole nation. May you rest in peace, Wakanda forever.