Hello my lovely readers! I'm back with the next chapter of Wilfully and I do hope you will enjoy it. I also wanted to thank you all for the incredible support you have shown to this story. Seriously, it blows my mind!

Disclaimer: The Wizarding World belongs to J.K Rowling. This fanfic is mine.

WILFULLY: CHAPTER 19

Draco Malfoy had learned the hard way that every choice, no matter how big or small, had a consequence and that it was nearly impossible to escape that consequence.

He had accepted the Dark Mark, and so he had paid dearly for his crimes. He had tried to save Potter against his better judgment, and so the Dark Lord had punished him. He had chosen to get romantically involved with Ginevra Weasley, and so he had found out her secret.

Here he was now, torn between a woman he liked so very much and a man whose importance in his life he could not deny. Salazar, what was he to do?

xx

It was a silent hour. The sky was dark, though slight specks of gold in the distant horizon indicated that dawn would soon arrive. Not too soon, though, for everything was still and silent in the fells around the grand Malfoy Manor, as if every living thing were in a deep slumber, barely breathing, mesmerizingly transfixed.

A lone figure trotted down a muddy path that led through the moor towards the bluebell woods, his footfalls breaking the silence with a rhythmic thump. It was not an untrodden path, but one not commonly taken, for Draco Malfoy only jogged this far whenever he sought escape or needed to think.

Tonight, it was both.

Ginevra's words kept on ringing in his head. He had not thought her capable of such pure hatred, and yet she felt it towards a man who was dear to him. The raw venom in her otherwise gentle voice had kept him up late into the night. It was only when Blaise had found him pacing restlessly in the library had he decided that perhaps fresh air would help him understand the current conundrum better. He could have shared it with his friend, but Blaise had his own problems to deal with; over a week had gone by and things were just as bad between him and Daphne. It would have been cruel to pile more worries on him.

Draco jumped over a large stone, landed on his feet with a grunt and continued on his way, eyeing the woodland that he had now entered. The trees seemed unnecessarily dubious, and the snow on the ground had melted, leaving it mud-splattered. In spring, the entire area becomes a sea of bluebells, thriving with life and beauty under a canopy of birch and chestnut trees. After the war, his mother had often brought him here for lazy strolls in an attempt to lighten his mood; though he, in his state of depression, had tried his best to stay away so as not to besmirch the purity of nature with the ugliness of his deeds.

It had been a dark time for him, and he grew out of it eventually. Sort of. Though it seemed that his past stubbornly wanted to bring him reminders – or in the current case, revelations.

Truth was, he was angry at Ginevra. She had decided to keep this a secret from him for reasons that he will probably never understand. What exactly did she think was going to happen – that he would never find out, that she would be able to hide her demons away forever? Nothing was as big a secret as Draco's Curse, and he had not been able to hide it from her. He had told her the truth, even though he would have preferred mating with a Blast-Ended Skrewt than talking about those horrors out loud.

And to think that he had found out through Ron Weaselbee, of all people! The self-righteous bastard had thrown his father's sins in his face, shamed his family name and boasted about Potter's great heroic deeds – the mere thought of it made Draco's blood boil.

The revelation itself was a shock too, and he genuinely did not know what to do with the information. Ginevra had been the one who had opened the Chamber of Secrets and she had been possessed by the Dark Lord. It was all too bizarre. But not untrue – that much he knew. Draco remembered his father telling him that things would get interesting at Hogwarts, that there was a conspiracy against the muggle-born students and that they will get what they deserve. But that his father's involvement in the conspiracy ran so deep, he had had no idea.

Salazar! The man had slipped a Dark Object into the possessions of an eleven-year-old girl – a pureblood girl, at that. What was he thinking?

A bright orange jet of light shot from behind the trees, straight towards him. Reacting quickly, Draco reached for his wand and barely managed to deflect it in time. He watched as the curse rebounded off the shield he had conjured and hit a tree nearby, splintering its large trunk with an ear-splitting crack that echoed in the woods.

He turned in the direction from where the curse had originated, wand at the ready, and saw Antonin Dolohov emerge from behind the wilderness, his twisted face curved into a smirk.

"Those are some quick reflexes, Malfoy."

"You know, most people just say 'hello'," Draco commented icily.

Dolohov laughed. "Hello, Malfoy." Bastard was trying to humour him. "We need to talk."

"Do we?"

"Why don't you invite me to your home and get me a glass of whiskey?"

Draco slowly lowered his wand because he did not want to antagonize the man, but he kept his grip tight on it. They were not very deep into the woods yet, and the Malfoy Manor was a mere silhouette in the distance, obscured by snow-covered branches. He had massively upgraded the protective spells around the Manor after the war, but to invite Dolohov in would mean to show him what they were. "I don't think that would be wise. I have a friend staying over," he replied calmly. "Besides, the Aurors like to keep a weather eye on my residence."

"Aurors!" Dolohov spat, his voice turning as ugly as his face. "They're not leaving you be, then, even though you've behaved well with them?"

"Afraid not."

"See, this is exactly why we need to fight, to take control. It is a sin to treat those of ancient magical blood with such suspicion." He shook his head. "Things cannot be allowed to go on the way they are."

Draco pressed his lips together. Maybe treating muggle-borns and half-bloods like vermin and ruling over them with an iron fist was the idea of a better world for Dolohov, but it was not for him. Not anymore. He had seen enough persecution during the war to know that Lord Voldemort's world was one filled with fear and misery. Not that the world Potter had created was in any way fair; it was equally corrupt and violent, only not as obviously, but it was most certainly was the lesser of the two evils.

Still, it would be unwise to debate such matters with Dolohov, so Draco started continuing down the path, albeit at a more casual pace – and noticed with dismay that Dolohov fell in step with him.

"Have you given any thought to our previous conversation?" the man asked after a few moments of silence.

"I have."

"And?"

And Dolohov could burn in the deepest pit of hell for all he cared, but it would be foolish to say that out loud. Draco needed more time to come up with a plan; he did not want to join the man's foolish Cause, but to say that would mean certain death. No, he needed to stall – stall enough to get the man to leave for another day. "Reviving the old Cause is a noble mission, but I cannot be a part of it unless I am certain that there is a chance of victory," he said and saw Dolohov's expression darken. "I mean, are there enough people to do what needs to be done? Most of the Death Eaters are either dead or in Azkaban."

"You'd be surprised how much support the Cause has garnered. And don't think for a second that I've forgotten those whom the Dark Lord chose himself. They are the true warriors."

Of course. They were, after all, the real Death Eaters. Dolohov may have found a way to communicate using the Dark Mark, but he did not have the power or the knowledge to brand his new followers with it; Draco knew very well that that spell had died with the Dark Lord. Still, that was hardly the biggest problem here. The first step in any movement is a recruitment drive. No cause can ever thrive without those willing to fight for it. Clearly, Dolohov was either done or nearly through this phase, which meant that whatever his next plan was would follow soon. It was an alarming realisation.

"Will it be enough to win?" Draco asked. "We failed before, and that was with the Dark Lord's might intellect and power leading us down the right path." Right path?! Merlin, he had forgotten how much bile they had to spew just to prove that they truly did almost worship Lord Voldemort.

"The Dark Lord was indeed a master of intelligence and strategy, but it pains me to admit that he let his obsession with Harry Potter cloud his ambitions. Had he remained focused on bringing about the change that he had dreamed of, maybe things would be different today. You will find that I am not so easily side-tracked, Malfoy."

"Decided to style yourself the New Dark Lord?" He could not help but taunt.

"Of course not."

"So, you don't want to lead the Death Eaters?"

"We are all equals, but someone has to call the shots. I have chosen to take that mantle on everyone's insistence." Dolohov looked humble, well as humble as it was possible for a sadistic, mass murdering maniac to look.

"How democratic of you," Draco sneered, eyeing the man warily. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"Service."

"Please, hold back on the details," he muttered sarcastically. "I don't think my brain can quite handle the inflow of so much information."

Dolohov stopped to face him. "I can't tell you my plans until I know you are one of us."

"I have the Dark Mark on my arm, haven't I?"

"And yet you have failed to show up every time I invoked it."

"I will not uproot my life on your whim, Dolohov," Draco said firmly. "I highly doubt the Ministry would be as lenient if they were to discover my involvement with you."

Dolohov's dark eyes ran over him, his lips curled in disgust. "Spoken like the coward that you always were!"

"You call it cowardice. I call it calculative." As he said it, Draco realised that he had only managed to anger the man, which was perhaps almost as dangerous as denying him outright. No, it was imperative not to provoke him, but could he do that without giving him a definitive answer? "I am not opposed to join the Cause, but I need to know the risks and rewards of doing so."

"Pledge yourself to me and come with me today. You will understand how capable the Cause is."

"Nice try, Dolohov," Draco sneered. "Just because I am willing to follow the path laid down by the Dark Lord does not mean I am willing to follow your orders."

"Shall I count you as my enemy, then?"

"That's not fair."

"It is what it is," Dolohov took a threatening step towards him. "You swore to serve the Dark Lord and serve you shall, Draco Malfoy. It will be very unfortunate if you decide not to."

"I am willing, but I will not pledge you anything until I know what I am stepping into."

"Come, then." He held out a pale hand, an open invitation. "Let me show you what I am going to do."

Fuck. This was what he had been trying to avoid all this time, and it was foolish of him to think that Dolohov would just leave without an answer. Either Draco was with the Cause or he was a liability. It did not matter that he wanted to be neither of those, that he simply wanted to live his own life and not care about political struggles that went on around him. "I–"

There was a sound: sloppy footsteps in the mud, not far from where they were.

Draco and Dolohov shared a look as they quickly retreated behind a tree, wands at the ready.

The footsteps grew closer. Twigs snapped. Then, a familiar exasperated voice rang out: "Drake?" It was Blaise. "Where are you, you insufferable git?!"

Draco did not know whether to sigh in relief at the much-needed interruption or worry about the danger that Blaise had inadvertently walked in to. But Blaise was a pureblood – talented and powerful, too – and it was unlikely that Dolohov would hurt him. But more than that, Dolohov would most certainly not want to be seen by anyone, even if it was a worthy pureblood such as Zabini. Whatever his grand evil plan was, it had not progressed enough for him to announce his whereabouts.

"You need to leave," Draco whispered.

"This conversation isn't over."

"I didn't deem it to be," He snapped, earning himself a glare. Inwardly cursing the universe and his past self for putting him in this precarious position, he reluctantly promised the only thing that he knew would get the damned Death Eater off his case for now: "We will talk later."

Dolohov nodded curtly, then ran in the cover of a bunch of thick chestnut trees. There was no crack or popping sound, which meant that he had not yet disapparated – no doubt he was trying to gauge whether Draco would give away his position or secrets.

Very much aware that he was being watched, Draco stepped out from behind the tree and called out in a casual tone: "I'm here."

A few moments passed, then Blaise came into view. Dressed in a hoodie and shorts, he looked utterly disgruntled. "Do you have to jog so far away from the Manor?"

"Yes."

"And in all this mud?"

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked impatiently.

"I thought I'd join you. I can go on drinking in my misery for only so long." Blaise looked around, a frown clouding his face. "Were you talking to anyone? I thought I heard someone."

Draco would not have told Blaise even if he could. The man was a healer, he had no business in this whole ugly affair. "Hearing voices, huh?" he said jokingly. "This continued quarrel with your wife is making you lose your mind, mate."

"Tell me something I don't know," Blaise responded miserably.

"Come on." Draco made his way over to his friend and slapped his shoulder lightly. "Let's see if Yugo's special pancakes can cheer you up."

"Probably not, but it's worth a try."

The two friends started to sprint back towards the Manor, engaged in a banter about Blaise's choice of attire ("Why, in the name of Salazar, are you wearing shorts in this weather?", "They're comfortable And the cold doesn't really bother me", "Right, of course. I'd forgotten that you were way above the illnesses that haunt us mere mortals.", "Shut up, Drake. Even if I do sick, I can heal myself."). They had reached the pathway on the moor when there was a loud crack back in the woods.

Blaise glanced over his shoulder. "That sounded like apparition."

"No." Draco forced himself to sound as if such noises were a common occurance in the place and that he was not the least bit worried. "More like a branch snapping."

"Huh. Must be a wild beast, then."

Draco could not help but think that, in a way, his friend was right. Antonin Dolohov was a beast running wild, and that did not mean good for anyone.

xx

After the war, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had claimed to have taken quite a few steps to improve Azkaban. Many dark spells and creatures dwelling in the fortress had been banished. Stupidly, though, the Dementors were not one of them; a deal had been signed with those wraiths, granting them the guarding responsibilities of the uppermost levels of the prison, where dwelled the most dangerous prisoners. The lower levels and a newly formed administrative level had been handed over to a group of Aurors. Poor, unlucky bastards were stationed here, their shifts rotating to ensure their mental well-being, as they managed the place.

The prisoners were allowed visitors now – two visits a month by immediate family members only. No food, no gifts, only conversation. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement arranged Portkeys to take the visitors to Azkaban and back, after they had signed a mountain of paperwork.

There was no doubt that limiting the reach of Dementors had indeed lessened the utter misery of this place. Breathing came easy and the desire to chuck oneself out the window was not entirely overpowering, which was a positive sign. Still, the place felt as terrifying as ever to Draco, who remembered the few months had spent chained here after his arrest. Six years later, the memories of tangible fears and raw pain were still so fresh that he wanted nothing more than to take the Portkey back to the Ministry and never come back.

But there were matters to be addressed, things to be said…

So, he suppressed his fears and followed the stout Auror down the dark hallway. They stopped outside a heavy wooden door and the Auror held out his hand. This was perhaps the worst part of visiting Azkaban; the Ministry had decreed that visitors would have to hand over their wands before meeting the prisoners. Grudgingly, Draco placed his in the man's open palm. He hated parting with his wand. It made him feel helpless and exposed.

"Twenty minutes," the Auror barked.

Nodding curtly, Draco stepped inside the visitor room. The stone walls were as black as death, and a small, barred window overlooked the stormy North Sea as far as the eye could see. In the middle of the room, at a small metal table, sat Lucius Malfoy. His white blond hair was grimy, his skin sickly pale and cheeks hollow. His hands and feet were bound in heavy iron chains. Clearly, his glory days were far behind him.

Taking a deep breath, Draco took a seat in the vacant chair across from him. "Father," he greeted coolly.

"Draco," Lucius said hoarsely. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, as if he had not had proper sleep in years, which was probably true. He was, after all, imprisoned in the high security cells and had to constantly deal with the horrors that the Dementors inflicted on him. "I haven't seen you in a long time."

"Yes. I've been busy with work. But enough about that," Draco glanced at the door and lowered his voice to a cautious whisper. "Has your Dark Mark been hurting?"

Surprise flashed in Lucius' eyes, but he seemed much more interested in the conversation all of a sudden. "Yes. Others too. I heard them cry out in fear through the cell walls."

"It's Dolohov. He wants to fulfil the Dark Lord's mission."

"How do you–?"

"He came to see me, twice. Says he wants me to serve."

"How can you serve?" His father asked. "You have neither sway at the Ministry not a voice strong enough to convince the public." He sounded bitter about it, as if it was a shame that the power that the Malfoys once had was gone.

Draco did not comment on his father's disappointment in the world. Instead, he said: "I don wish to join the Cause again."

"No, no," Lucius agreed almost instantly. "It would be folly to follow Dolohov."

"The Aurors?" Even as Draco suggested it, he grimaced in distaste. He could only imagine how they would treat him – the interrogations, the raids on his property, the demands to go through his official documents; they might even insist on either tracing or tailing him. He had dealt with enough of their tactics over the last six years to know that they were not going to be kind to an ex-Death Eater, even one who was willing to provide them with vital information.

"They will only make life more difficult for you and your mother." Lucius shook his head. "Perhaps… you ought to do what the Greengrass' did during the war. Do you remember?"

"Yes." Draco frowned thoughtfully.

Daphne's father had come to the Manor shortly after Dumbledore's death and met the Dark Lord. He had claimed that while his family were supportive of the mission, they were mere businessmen and not warriors. And so, with the pledge to support the Death Eaters financially if need be (which was never going to happen, of course, not with the riches of the Malfoy, Lestrange, Crabbe, Goyle and Nott at Lord Voldemort's disposal), the family had moved to France for a few years for 'business reasons'.

But would that work for Draco? There was no way he was going to move anywhere else. The Malfoy Manor was his home and his entire business was run from England. Besides, he had been a fighter during the war. In fact, he had gone on a number of horrendous Death Eater missions with Dolohov. Of course, that did not mean that he was obligated to participate in the same capacity now. Should he negotiate with Dolohov? The prospect of doing so felt as foolish as putting on his Death Eater robes and joining Dolohov wholeheartedly... It was a bad idea, he decided. It would risk everything he had achieved over the last six years. Sure, the Malfoy name was still in the gutter, but he was trying to change that. To get involved in Dolohov's crusade, in any capacity whatsoever, would mean taking on the Ministry – his assets would be seized, his father put through hell in Azkaban, his mother harassed and he would be hunted. That, simply, was not an option.

"Perhaps Dolohov is interested in you because of your recently acquired links," his father spoke up, his tone rather snide. "Your mother told me about your new girlfriend."

Draco stilled, and a fury that he had been trying to suppress flared through his veins, cold as ice, chilling him to the bone. "Would that be the girlfriend you tried to get killed when she was a child?"

His father raised an eyebrow. "Did I, now?"

"You tell me. Did you slip Tom Riddle's diary, the very diary through which he opened the Chamber of Secrets, into Ginevra's belongings?"

To his credit, Lucius Malfoy did not deny it. "The Dark Lord had tasked me to smuggle it into Hogwarts, where it would cleanse the school of those who were unworthy. I merely put his plan into motion."

"The Dark Lord, at that point, was gone," Draco pointed out. "No one knew if he was ever going to return, not even you."

Lucius shrugged nonchalantly. "So, I wanted to cause a bit of mayhem."

"Mayhem?" Draco's eyes widened incredulously. "The Dark Lord possessed her through the diary, father! He made her unleash the monster on the students and forced her to come to the Chamber to die. She was nearly killed!"

His father did not seem the least bit bothered by extent of the damage he had caused. "Get off your high Hippogriff, Draco. I recall quite clearly that you rather enjoyed the chaos at your school back then."

Draco flushed. "I enjoyed watching muggle-borns suffer because you taught me to see them as vermin." He no longer believed that, of course, but he also could not deny what he had been. "What I don't understand is how you, with all your wisdom and experience, were so calm about putting an eleven-year-old girl in mortal danger."

"I'm certain you wouldn't have batted an eye had you not been romantically involved with her."

"That's not true."

"Really?" Clearly, Lucius did not believe the claim. "Am I to understand that you've grown to be self-righteously sentimental, Draco?" He leaned back in his seat. "Your mother told me that she has asked you to end this horrid affair with the Weasley girl numerous times, and that you've refused."

"Yes," Draco said defiantly.

"You're not even apologetic."

"I don't see what I have to be apologetic for, father."

"She's a Weasley!" Lucius snarled, some of the anger that had been swirling in his eyes seeping into his voice. "Considering your recent ways, I would have calmed myself at the thought that at least she is a pureblood, but that's hardly a consolation in the present case. The Weasleys are the lowest of the purebloods, blood-traitors, a disgrace to our kind–"

"You cannot possibly still believe in that manure!"

"Those are our ways–"

"No more." Draco had decided that a long time ago. The blood of Hermione Granger had been the same colour and texture as his own when they had lain on the floor of the Main Hall of the Malfoy Manor on two separate instances, tortured within an inch of their lives.

His father stilled. "I wonder where we went wrong with you."

"You have the audacity to ask that?" Draco demanded, jumping to his feet. He had been trying to control his temper, but all restraint seemed to have evaporated from within him. "You, who ingrained this hatred into me, took up arms against those who had done you no harm and enrolled us in the Dark Lord's mad mission? Hell, you couldn't even do that right! They thrust the Mark upon me and gave me an impossible mission just to teach you a lesson. Your failures put us in a position where we were the lowest even among the Dark Lord's circle!"

Lucius rose to his feet calmly, his chains clanging as he moved. "I would remind you that you are speaking to your father."

"You are a failure of a father!" Draco shouted. "Our family is in ruins because of you!"

It was true. His father had gotten himself locked away in Azkaban. His mother was living in the middle of nowhere just so she could escape the scorn of the people. And Draco was left trying to rebuild the Malfoy name up from scratch, all the while dealing with the Curse that Lord Voldemort had so kindly bestowed upon him. It was the Cause – his father's foolishly ambitious Cause, which he had also adopted just to make him proud – that had turned him into a monster, and then a bloody cripple.

"I will not be spoken to in this manner!"

"Oh, fuck you!"

Quick as lightning, Lucius' hand cracked across his face with a startling amount of strength. "Leave! Leave and do not return until you have seen some sense," he thundered. "I am so disappointed in you!"

Draco blinked back tears, his cheek stinging. "And I am ashamed, so very ashamed, to call you my father," he shot back. "I can't believe that even after all this time, you have still not seen the error of your ways, you selfish, prejudiced arse–"

The rest of his words were drowned in a thundering explosion.

He was blasted off his feet and landed against the wall with a sickening crack. Pain erupted in his head and his vision blackened. There was ringing in his ears, but there were also sounds – shouts, crashes, was someone calling his name? – but it was hard to make sense of anything. Something warm and thick trickled down ihs neck. He knew it was blood.

Determined not to pass out, Draco stubbornly forced his eyes open.

A large hole had been blown open in one of the walls. Through it, he could see a corridor and a staircase that led to the upper levels of the prison. There were shadows on the walls of the staircase, as well as streaks of red and green light; people were fighting upstairs. In what remained of the visitor room, Lucius Malfoy lay in the rubble, broken bone of his arm protruding from a profusely bleeding wound.

"F-Father," Draco called out.

His father stirred.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Draco moved to get up and regretted it instantly. His vision swam dangerously, and he fell on all fours. He wanted to throw up, but knew that doing so would hurt. Perhaps he ought to go to sleep? Merlin, no. He needed to get up. It was too dangerous to linger here.

The door blast open and there was a flash of bright green light that caused Draco to flinch. A moment later, the portly Auror who had let him in dropped nearby. He was dead, and the Killing Curse had split his wand into two. Shit.

Draco crawled over to him and fumbled in his robes, madly searching for his own wand, when a shadow fell over him. A cloaked figure stood in the doorway, masked in the very familiar way of the Death Eaters, though he did not recognise that particular mask. Everything was starting to make sense now; Just that morning, Dolohov had hinted at this – 'Come with me today. You will understand how capable the Cause is… Let me show you what I am going to do' – The bastard had intended on breaking into Azkaban and had wanted to enlist Draco for the task.

The Death Eater before him seemed to be the same height as him, and lean. He tilted his head to the side in consideration, then raised his wand.

"Wait, I'm not an Auror!" Draco said, panicked. From the corner of his eye, he saw his own wand poking out of the inner pocket of the dead Auror's robes. Letting his old Seeker instincts take over him, he made a quick grasp for it, but even as his fingers wrapped around the very familiar, very comforting wood, he knew it was too late.

The Death Eater had already made a slashing motion with his arm. A bright purple jet of light streamed out of the tip of his wand–

And something, or rather someone, shoved Draco hard. He tumbled sideways and looked up to see the curse hit his father squarely in the chest. Lucius Malfoy let out a pained grunt, then collapsed.

No, no, no…

Spurred on with horror and instinct, Draco shot a curse at the Death Eater, propelling him out of the room and out of sight. Without waiting to see if the attacker would return, which was probably a foolish move, Draco scurried over to his father. Careful not to dislodge the already broken arm, he rolled him onto his back. There was a scratch on Lucius' forehead from the earlier blast, but whatever harm the Death Eater had caused was internal. His eyes were closed, his lips blue and his skin far too pale.

"Father," Draco whispered frantically as he waved his trembling fingers underneath his nose to sense any sign of breathing. When he could not detect it, he grabbed his father's wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none.

No, no, no…

Lucius Malfoy cannot be dead, he could not be dead. Not like this, not after everything. They had survived Voldemort, they had survived unspeakable horrors and made it to the other side; how could his father die of one stupid little curse then? No. This was not happening. This was a nightmare. A bizarre nightmare. This was not real. His father was alive, he had to be. He couldn't not be.

Draco placed a hand on his father's icy cold cheek. He was so still, too unnaturally still.

No, no, no…

There were curses flying around him now, the red and yellow light of which reflected on his father's pale skin, but he could not bring himself to care. What more could anyone take from him? The world, his world, had come crashing down all around him.

A hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

"Get up!"

Blinking dazedly, Draco looked up into the familiar green eyes of Harry Potter. It was bizarre that he should be here with him at the end of the world. But was Potter really here or merely a figment of his imagination? It was hard to tell. He felt detached, as if he was not in his body but rather watching these things happen to him from far away.

Potter glanced towards the corridor, where the shadows on the staircase were getting bigger. Whoever had been fighting upstairs was coming down. "We need to get out of here," he whispered urgently. "Get up!"

Draco no longer had any will to resist, or do anything really, so when Potter tugged at him, he slowly got up and allowed the Git Who Lived Twice to all but drag him over to the half-blown wall so that they had some cover. He watched numbly as Potter quickly cast the Patronus Charm and instructed the beautiful stag that had burst out of his wand to go and get the Aurors at once.

Something registered to him, but he was slow to realise it. His head was pounding and there were odd little dots dancing before his eyes. "You're alone?" he asked dumbly.

"Yes," Potter grumbled. He seemed particularly disgruntled, which was understandable, seeing that it was his first day as the Head of the Auror Office and there was a major prison break going on. The news of his promotion had been published in last evening's Prophet; no doubt Dolohov had decided to act today because of it. "I was only visiting to speak assess how things were so I could see what reforms I– Merlin!" He ducked even lower just as a jet of green light flew inches above their heads.

Something in Potter's face changed, and his frustration slowly faded away, only to be replaced with a resolution to fight. It was as if he had decided that it was beneath him to sit and wait for help, that he would do what needs to be done for as long as he could do it. His eyes moved calculatingly about the half-torn room they were in, and he tilted his head to study the light streaming from the corridor to the hole in the wall, studying the shadows and assessing the threat. Then, without any warning, he stepped out.

Draco sat there numbly. He was in a shock like no other; he wanted to just sit there, not move, not speak, not think… But when had life been so kind as to give him what he wanted? His gaze somehow found its way to his father's unmoving body.

No, no, no…

Just so he would not have to stare at his father, Draco slid to the edge of the wall and chanced a peek beyond. He saw bright jets of light flying in all directions as Potter duelled three Death Eaters at once. Had Draco been in a normal frame of mind, he would have thought of a snide remark about the spectacled git's heroics. As it was, he felt anything but normal and he was hit in the head, so he could not help but be impressed with the man's skills.

Potter moved with precision, his wand movements sharp and his reflexes quick. His eyes continuously darted about the place as he tried to improvise. He was probably not a Legilimens, but years of fighting the Dark Arts had given him such sure instincts that he seemed to anticipate his opponent's attacks. Within a minute, he had put a full body bind on one of the Death Eaters, who had fallen face first to the floor. Then, he jumped to the side to avoid an oncoming jinx, and charmed the rubble from the explosion to shoot at the second Death Eater, who deflected the onslaught with skill – but it had given Potter the time to engage with the third opponent.

Through the daze, Draco saw someone run up the stairs. It was the man with the unrecognisable (but now very much recognisable) mask.

A rage like no other boiled inside his blood. He wanted to attack, he wanted to kill.

His body moved on its own accord: he ran for the stairs. He heard Potter shout something like "Draco, no!" behind him, but he ignored that. The only thing that mattered now was getting to the person responsible for his father's state.

A feeling of dread descended over him the moment he stepped onto the upper level. Dementors. Shit. And yet as he forced his feet to move forward, he found that the fear was not incapacitating. With a frown, he chanced a glance outside the barred window – sure enough, the wraith-like creatures were swirling about madly outside, but they were not attacking the intruders.

Figures. After all, how else could one break into Azkaban?

A masked figure stepped in his way, halting his hunt of his father's attacker. With a growl, Draco deflected the curse shot at him and retaliated with a special one of his own. The man let out a terrible scream as his hands mangled in the most unnatural ways, fingers twisting and the palm curving in on itself as each of the bones in his hands shattered and the nerve endings set themselves on fire.

He had learned a version of this curse from the Dark Lord and then he had tweaked it to make it more powerful, something that both the Dark Lord and his Aunt Bellatrix had been quite impressed with. She had called his version of the curse a "stroke of genius" at one of the Death Eater meetings.

Confident that this man would not bother him, or anyone else for that matter, Draco continued down the hallway. More than half the cell doors were open and broken iron chains littered the doorways. It would seem that a number of quite dangerous prisoners were being freed from Azkaban. Not that he cared. That was Potter's problem. His concern only lay with punishing one specific Death Eater.

He turned around a corner and saw his target some thirty feet away. The man who had hurt his father. His father who lay lifeless back in that room.

"Crucio!"

The red stream hit the man squarely in the back and he writhed on the ground, screaming in agony. The sight filled Draco with a savage glee, and for perhaps the first time he understood why his Aunt Bella had been particularly fond of the Cruciatus Curse.

"Draco, no! Stop!" Potter's voice sounded behind him. A moment later, the git grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him lightly, as if asking to see some sense. The movement did force him to end the curse, albeit reluctantly. "We do not kill."

"Maybe we should!" Draco glared at his old nemesis, noting with no remorse whatsoever that there was a rather ugly gash on his cheek. Good. Scarface needed more scars. Did the bastard not realise that mercy could only be helpful for so long?

The brief pause in the torture had provided that Death Eater, that wretch of a human being, with a perfect opportunity to get away. The sound of his fleeing footsteps caused them to turn, and they saw him scurrying up another flight of stairs.

Draco moved to follow, but Potter grabbed him by the lapel. "No, you stay here," he ordered. "I'll go."

"Like hell I will!" Draco shouted. "He killed my father."

"Draco, stay!" Potter gave him a strong shove, causing him to stumble a few steps back. And then he was off, running down the hallway.

Bastard. Fucking, shit-faced bastard! The whole Wizarding World may see Potter as their master, but Draco did not. And if he thought that he could order him about like a dog, he had another thing coming.

Draco took a stubborn step forward when a strong pair of arms wrapped around him, firmly holding him back.

"No, Malfoy. Stop!" It was Ron Weaselbee, which meant that the cavalry of Aurors must have answered Potter's summons.

Well, fuck them all.

"No, no. Let me go!" Draco struggled to get himself free. The abrupt movement reignited his head injury and he saw spots dancing before his eyes. No, he would not lose consciousness and he would not let Weaselbee keep him from his revenge. "He killed my father. Let me go–" As he grappled to get free, his gaze had somehow landed over his shoulder, where he saw flaming red hair.

Ginevra.

The thought of her, and how she had believed that he was better than his past caused him to stop fighting, though only for a moment. But that moment was more than enough for Weaselbee, who shoved him against a wall, wand pressed under his throat. "Stop struggling, Malfoy," he warned. "Or else–"

"He killed my father!" Draco ground out.

"Your father is alive!"

He blinked. "A-Alive?" It had to be a ploy to make him cooperate, a cruel joke that the Golden Trio will justify as necessity like they had done so many of their horrible acts, but the words were exactly what he had been hoping against hope to hear, so how could he not fall for it?

"Yes, I think." Weaselbee said. "They're taking him to St. Mungo's."

It was a sliver, just a tiny sliver of hope, but he took it. At once, all the energy left his body, leaving him so utterly drained. The world started to spin – his head hurt terribly and he wanted to lay down and fall asleep.

"Malfoy?" There was concern in Weaselbee's voice. Ha! To think that such a day would come. This had to be a cruel joke. How could it be anything else?

"Alive," Draco whispered in relief. His head was lolling, or was it the world? And then, out of the blue, a burning pain seared on his left forearm. He grasped it suddenly with a hiss, realising only too late that perhaps doing so in front of an Auror had been a mistake.

And sure enough, a moment later, Weaselbee exclaimed, "Bloody hell!"

Draco fixed a defiant glare on the man, ready to tell him to go fuck off, when he realised that it was something else that had elicited the reaction. Curious, he looked out of the window and froze.

There, shining bright on the dark North Sea sky, was the Dark Mark.

So, it had started all over again. Fuck.

xx

Draco Malfoy had learned the hard way that every choice, no matter how big or small, had a consequence and that it was nearly impossible to escape that consequence.

He had told Dolohov that he might be interested in joining the Cause, just to get rid of him temporarily. He had told his father that he hated him. He had performed an Unforgiveable Curse in front of Potter. And he had actually grabbed his searing Dark Mark in front of Weaselbee.

All of this in one day. He shuddered to imagine what the consequences of his actions would be. Nothing good, if his past experience was anything to go by. Hard times lay ahead of him, and he was not sure if he had the strength to face whatever was coming.

Salazar help him.

Oh God, I'm terrible with action scenes! I hope it didn't suck too bad and that you did enjoy reading this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know. Your feedback means the world to me.

Until next time! x