Redemptions were hard to come by, Draco knew, but really, he didn't even want that. When he had lied to the Snatchers, he hadn't intended to help Potter escape. He didn't want much part in the war at all actually. Really, all he had wanted was to finish Hogwarts, find some beautiful witch, and enjoy a lavish lifestyle typical of the blond. Under normal circumstances (and just what were those exactly? He was beginning to forget), he would have been perfectly happy to never see Potter and his friends again.

Yet here he was, staring up at the sky, faintly aware of the knife embedded in his stomach. For Potter, of all people. The absent-minded thought flickered through his mind that this was much more Potter's style than his own, but he banished it immediately, not prone to finding comparisons between himself and the other wizard.

Vaguely, he became aware of Weasley's annoyingly dense voice and his own labored breathing, and sluggishly lifted his head to look at Potter. He was holding several bottles of potion, his fingers fumbling through them. If he could have, Draco would have rolled his eyes. Trust Potter to be incompetent without Granger.

"The Dittany, you fucking moron," he gritted out. "It's on your left." Potter uncorked the vial instantly, dropping to his knees besides Draco. In one movement, he had pulled the knife out of his body and pushed down on the wound, inciting a sharp exhale from Draco. He poured the dittany onto his side and he quickly felt it take effect, stretching his skin back over the wound.

He let out a breath. The pain had dulled, as if only a phantom knife remained. Gingerly, he tried to press himself onto his elbows, only to be met with the end of a wand.

"Not so fast, Malfoy." Said Potter. "You're not going anywhere."

He lifted an eyebrow. "And just where would I go?"

Potter shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me where, just that you don't."

And with that, he saw the red light of a stunner.


"Enneverate."

His eyes snapped open, and he found himself tied to a chair in what looked to be a dining room. Weasley and Potter were standing above him, wands trained on his body. He snorted.

"No doubt you have my wand. You can stop with the dramatics."

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Weasley, fist clenching tighter at his side.

"Or what, Weasel? Ask yourself first, where would you be without me?" He retorted calmly. He watched in amusement as Weasley's face turned a disgusting shade of red, rivaling the hair atop his head.

"Potter's threatening me with the wand I gave him, for one."

Before he could say anything else, Potter interjected, putting a hand on Weasley's shoulder. He whispered something to the redhead and after a brief moment of deliberation, he nodded and promptly left the room, leaving him alone with Potter.

He paused for a beat before pulling out a chair and sitting down. He set his wand on the table, disarmed, but pointedly still in view. Leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, he regarded Draco curiously. He met his stare dead on, gray eyes locking onto green. Potter quirked an eyebrow before leaning back into his chair.

"I can't get a read on you, Malfoy." He said. "One minute you hate us, the next you're opening secret passages for us. What's your play?"

"Oh rest assured, Potter, there is no love lost between us." Draco replied.

"The feeling's mutual. But you knew who we were the second we walked into that room. Yet you didn't give us up. Why?"

He huffed irritably, hair falling into his eyes. "Potter, this may be difficult to believe, but my dislike of you is mutually exclusive with a desire to contribute to your demise. By all means, go and get yourself killed, just don't involve me."

"Why not just stay silent then? Why tell us how to get out?"

"Despite your overwhelming stupidity, the fate of the Dark Lord inexplicably rests with you." He paused for a second, considering his words. "I can't go back. Bellatrix saw me leave. She'll have alerted the Dark Lord by now, and they'll be after me next."

Potter shook his head. "No, she hasn't."

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter, of course she has." He shook his head again.

"No, trust me, she hasn't. I'd know." He fell silent, hand absent-mindedly scratching the scar on his forehead, before suddenly speaking again. "You know, I was there that night."

"What night?" Draco asked.

"On the Astronomy tower." Draco winced. "Dumbledore had put a body-bind on me below the rafters, so I couldn't move, but I could see everything."

Draco frowned. "Dumbledore stopped you from intervening? What good would that do?"

Potter shot him a glare and continued to speak.

"You were lowering your wand. You wouldn't have done it."

"You don't know what I would have done, Potter." He said.

"I know you weren't prepared to kill him. That you would have accepted help. And, with a few conditions, I'm hoping you'll accept it now."

"I don't work for anyone, Potter."

"The mark on your arm says different," He snapped. Silence fell onto the room.

He sighed. "...I don't want to be part of this war, but I don't think I have a choice either way. The mark is a reminder of that."

Potter looked at him curiously, eyes scanning his face.

"Would you take it again?" He asked. Draco responded immediately.

"Yes. For the same reason I did this time."

"He was threatening your mother, wasn't he?"

"Fucking stellar power of deduction, Potter. Really, you deserve an award." Draco sneered.

"Well, she's safe for now," Potter said, standing to leave. "I'll let you know if that changes." He waved his wand, dropping the ropes encircling Draco.

"Your bedroom is up the stairs, last door on the left. Don't make me regret this." And with that, he left the room. Draco rubbed his wrists, taking in the room for the first time. It was a cottage of some sort, with shells of all shapes and sizes adorning the wall. A slight draft came in from behind him, along with the musty smell of the sea.

He crossed the room, peering out into the hallway to ensure it was deserted before quickly climbing the stairs. Where were the others, he wondered. He hadn't seen Lovegood and the others since he had left the manor. In fact, he hadn't seen Granger either, which was odd, as she was never far from the others.

As if on command, the door on the right opened, and out came Weasley, revealing Granger's sleeping form behind him. A blonde witch sat at her bedside, applying some sort of cream on her arm. He sneered.

"Shove off, Malfoy."

Draco deigned to respond, choosing instead to slip into his room. It was small, but livable, with a single bed in addition to a desk and wardrobe. He sat on the bed, contemplating his next mode of action.

There was no returning to the manor. He would be punished immediately and extensively, and most likely killed. The Dark Lord did not take well to breaches in trust. He could contact his parents, but did not want to put any extra strain on his mother. If the Dark Lord were to find out, the consequences would be dire. Perhaps he could find some way to relay a message to them, ensuring them he was safe without being intercepted. Owl post was out, as it was frequently monitored, as was the floo. Regardless, he doubted the cottage was even connected to the network.

He paused. Snape was an option. During the school year, he had met with his only Godfather once, as he was often out of the castle, yet the man had given him instructions for how to reach him should something arise. As far as he knew, only he knew how to reach him. The only question was his loyalty. To contact his parents was one thing, but he was unsure whether his Godfather would inform the Dark Lord of their contact. Yet his mother had told him of the Unbreakable Vow he had performed to protect him. Perhaps, if the message concerned only his safety, he would withhold the information from the Dark Lord. It was certainly an option he would think on.

For now, he would remain here, and wait for Potter to outline his conditions. He expected he wanted mostly information, which he would provide. Potter had his wand, after all, and he expected that cooperating would see it returned to him sooner.

He would need clothes as well, he realized, and crossed over to the wardrobe. Opening it, he found it full to the brim with muggle clothing. He wrinkled his nose, poking at a sturdy pair of blue trousers. The material was rough, but upon further investigation, there appeared to be some black trousers that would do for now, as well as a few dress shirts. He closed the wardrobe, and returned to his bed, resigned to his confinement.


The next few days passed in solitude. Draco did not leave his room, and no one came to visit him. Food was dropped at his door three times a day, but other than that, the occupants of Shell Cottage were content to leave him be. Draco, however, was getting restless.

It was on the third night, therefore, that he ventured outside of his room. Under the cover of moonlight, he crept down the staircase, hoping to find a book of some sort to keep him entertained. He passed through the dining room in which he had been interrogated and into a kitchen, where he took a moment to survey the area. The sound of the sea crashed through the open window, but he could see no shoreline, just the black expanse of the sky.

He continued onward, coming into a sitting room. A bookcase stood in the far corner, and he made a beeline for it, when a voice startled him out of his reprieve.

"Oh hello." He whipped around, hand reaching for a wand that he no longer had. Sitting on the couch was Lovegood, curled up in a little ball. Her hair was tucked into a braid, and she sat with a blanket wrapped around her legs.

"Merlin, Lovegood, you scared me," he said. She smiled serenely.

"I knew you hadn't noticed me. It seems the wrackspurts have made you particularly unfocused today."

He blinked.

"The what?"

"Oh, wrackspurts. They're little invisible creatures, you see. They fly in your ears and make your brain go all fuzzy. Is that why you haven't left your room at all?"

He shook his head.

"I'm not exactly popular around here."

She shrugged.

"It's been lonely. Dean is planning to leave, and Harry and Ron spend all day with Hermione. Fleur does too, of course. I'd help, but I'm afraid I'm no good at healing."

"Healing? What do you mean?" He asked. She looked owlishly up at him.

"Well, Hermione, of course."

"Is she hurt?" he asked sharply.

"She hasn't woken up since you arrived. Fleur thinks she got a concussion that reacted poorly with the Cruciatus Curse. Too much pressure on the mind, you see," She said. "It's quite sad. I do hope she gets better soon. Will you be staying with us long, Draco?"

"I don't know," he said, startled at the sudden change of topic. "I suppose whenever they decide I'm no more use to them."

"I want to go back to Hogwarts, if you'd like to come. I've spoken to Mr. Dobby and he can help me get into the castle."

"Dobby? What is he doing here?"

"Mr. Dobby has been quite kind. He showed up when you did, and he has spoken of a new secret passage into Hogwarts. He comes and goes, never staying for too long, almost like a traveler."

"I'd like to speak to him the next time he's here, if you could tell him that." He said. Luna smiled, and stood.

"Goodnight, Draco. I hope you find what you're looking for," she said, almost floating out of the room. Draco shook his head in response and turned back to the bookcase, grabbing an interesting title and making his way back up to his room.

Granger was injured. He had wondered why the trio hadn't asked anything more of him, and that explained it. With the brains of the group incapacitated, there was little that could be done. He stopped outside his door, and after a moment's hesitation, turned instead to the right. He pushed the door open gently, pausing as it creaked. Granger lay on the bed, her small body dwarfed by the sheets. Her skin was unnaturally pale, highlighted by the moon beams strewn across her sleeping face. His eyes fell on her forearm, bandaged in white. It would scar, he knew. The knife Bellatrix favored was cursed so that even the smallest knick was impervious to healing. The wound would close, but it would invariably leave an ugly raised scar.

His own stomach already featured a jagged scar above his right hip bone. It was almost in the shape of a lighting bolt, he thought wryly, although with less precision.

"Goodnight, Granger," he whispered, closing the door and retreating to his own room.