Shades of Grey

Chapter Twenty: Family Reunion

"If a man's character is to be abused, say what you will, there's nobody like a relative to do the business."

- William Makepeace Thackery

The world was pitch black; he couldn't see anything, and for the first hour or so after he'd woken from a state of unconsciousness, Draco had been terrified he'd gone blind. Seemingly lost, alone, and deserted in a sea of darkness, Draco had struggled to find a method of escape. Slowly but surely, the blond raised himself into a sitting position. The ground beneath him was cold, hard, and damp; he was almost certain he was stretched on top of a concrete floor, though due to his rather restricted line of vision, he couldn't be for certain. And as he struggled to pull himself into a state of alertness, Draco tried his damnedest to remember what the hell had happened. The last memory he could recall to mind was…was the Shrieking Shack. He'd been there, and so had Granger, and together they had—wait. Granger.

Where was Granger?

All at once, Draco was thrown into a state of panic. He had no idea where the hell his partner was—if she was alive, if she was trapped like he was. Foolishly, Draco's first thought was to call out for her; could it be possible that she was trapped close by? He doubted his captors would be dense enough to place them both in the same quarters, and yet that didn't stop Draco from croaking out—

"Granger? Granger!"

But it was of no use. She didn't answer.

"Granger…" The utterance was softer now; the quiet, desperate plea of a man who was certain he'd lost one of the only things that mattered to him.

For the first time in months, Draco Malfoy felt the crushing weight of loneliness. And it was like he was sixteen all over again; facing death and destruction firsthand once more.

He tried to move, but soon found that he was shackled to the wall. As an impulse reaction, Draco frantically scrambled for his wand—when he realized it had, predictably, been taken from his person, he slumped against the wall and grunted. The metal shackles were thick and cold, and with each yank and tug of his wrists, Draco could feel his flesh bruising and chaffing away.

Confused, dazed, and quite lost, the young Wizard then spent an excruciating amount of time wondering where he was, where Granger was, and how their capture fit into the whole scheme of his aunt's plans. And who was she working alongside with? Who was her second-in-command? Draco sincerely doubted someone like Greyback was eligible to serve as her right hand man, but then…who else could she have possibly chosen? To his knowledge, Bellatrix hadn't been exactly…close with many (if any) people in the time he'd known her. She'd spent a great deal of his life tucked away in Azkaban, and in the years she spent free from the clutches of prison, her only true aim was to follow the Dark Lord. With him dead and many of her colleagues imprisoned or deceased, Bellatrix was—for all intents and purposes—alone.

And Draco couldn't begin to fathom who would possibly be foolish enough to follow in her stead.

It was a thought that plagued him the last hour or so he sat awake. Unable to do little more than focus on slowly but surely regaining his strength and sense of awareness, Draco spent a great deal of time struggling to think of a way to escape. With no wand, limited sight, and chains that kept him bound to his prison, Draco was—regrettably—stuck. And he had no idea how long he was going to be here for; a day, a week, a year. Forever.

Reality hit him like a ton of bricks. He was going to die down here, wasn't he? He was going to be left to rot, with nothing but his metal shackles and bruises to remind him that he was a prisoner of war. And, if Bellatrix so chose, he would die here.

It was a thought that both feared him and made him more determined than ever—to escape, to find Granger, to defeat his aunt's army.

He had to get out of here. He had to.

The desperation started to set in; the gnawing, numbing sense of urgency that came with his desire to break free of his current state of purgatory—it was enough to drive a man mad. It was enough to destroy what little resolve Draco had left.

And slowly, as time passed and hours trudged by, Draco felt his eyes begin to droop shut once more. The world around him grew hazy…and then completely silent.

He woke up to a swift kick in the ribs—an action that caused the young man to double over in pain, groaning and clutching at his torso with trembling, dirt-caked hands. Forcing his bleary, heavy eyes to pry open, Draco glanced up at the bulky, shadowy figure of what he could only assume was one of his captors. Not Bellatrix, of course—his assailant was far too muscular to pass for her. Peering through the darkness in an attempt to pick out who it could possibly be was more than a little foolish, so Draco merely eyed the shadow of his attacker warily…and then he was being hauled to his feet, and all at once he was aware of the fact that he was no longer shackled to the wall.

But rather…being dragged out of his prison.

"Let—go—of—me! Now!" Draco grunted, yanking and tugging at the large hand that had fisted itself in the back of his shirt. But it was useless—whomever had been sent to collect Draco was far larger than the lithe Slytherin could ever hope to be, and soon he found that he was being pulled to his feet and shoved forward. Unused to being handled so roughly, Draco nearly stumbled over his feet, finding that his legs were rather unstable after having gone so long without standing.

…How long had it been, exactly? The thought terrified him more than he cared to admit.

Unfortunately, though, Draco wasn't given very much time to fret and wonder how long he'd been locked up for—no sooner had he been hoisted to his feet than he felt the cool tip of a wand press against his back, and all at once Draco went completely stiff. Was this how he was meant to die, then? At the hands of someone else? Someone he couldn't even identify? Standing straight and jutting his chin forward, Draco focused on evening his breathing pattern and reminding himself not to panic.

Easier said than done, of course.

"Move," came the low and guttural growl of his captor, who promptly poked the small of his back with the tip of his wand, gesturing for Draco to move forward…and so he did. He shuffled, one foot in front of the other, until he reached the bottom of what could only be a staircase. He hesitated, uncertain of whether or not he was meant to climb, but then the vaguely-familiar voice grunted once again, and Draco nearly tripped over himself in his attempt to climb the steep, creaking stairs before him. He held his hands out in front of him, feeling his way up the stairs and struggling to find solid walls around him…until the voice barked out for him to stop, and Draco was begrudgingly forced to bring his arms to his sides once more.

How the hell had they even seen Draco's arms through this impenetrable darkness? How had they known?

By the time they reached the top of the stairwell, Draco was uncertain of what to do next—stand there? Wait for further instruction? The wand digging into his back was rather uncomfortable at this point, and so it was with a bit of deliberation that Draco pushed open the door, lifting his hands to shield his face as a shaft of sunlight from a nearby window nearly blinded him. He was given little time to adjust to the drastic changes in his surroundings before the wand pressed against his back pushed him forward, urging the Malfoy heir onwards. He stumbled blindly through a narrow corridor, blinking rapidly and feeling his eyes sting and tear with irritation; the air was too fresh, the light too bright. It took a few minutes for his vision to adjust, but…once he could make out his surroundings, the first thought that struck him was that he'd seen this corridor before—the painting on the walls, the portraits hanging up and down the long, narrow corridor. He'd seen this exact wood furnishing as well as the dark green drapes that hung off the nearest window. He'd only ever seen it in picture albums and paintings, of course, but he'd seen it quite frequently during his childhood nevertheless.

It was Bellatrix's house—the one she had moved into as a young bride.

So did that mean…?

"In here," came the gruff grunt of the person pushing and prodding him down the hall. Draco lost his train in thought in favor of stepping forward, and he was suddenly thrust inside a large, elegant parlor. And there, in the corner, with a wand in one hand and a blade in the other, was Bellatrix Lestrange.

And Draco was horrified.

Immediately, he foolishly tried to break free; to run loose and (possibly) find an exit. Quickly, though, he was caught—strong arms wound around his torso and tugged him over to a chair that had been placed in the middle of the room. Trying in vain to break away and kicking all the while, Draco was placed in the rickety wooden chair—he supposed it looked very much like a toddler being punished for misbehaving. And then, quick as lightning, the same deep, gruff voice that had spoken to him for the past ten or so minutes began to laugh. And Bellatrix spat out a quick "Incarcerous", magically binding Draco to the chair with thick, tight rope. It was as Draco was squirming and grunting—visibly struggling to break free of the ropes that bound him—that the tall, bulky figure came into view.

It was Fenrir Greyback. He should have known.

"You," Draco spat, trembling with rage as he glared up at Greyback. The werewolf, clearly pleased with this reaction, gave Draco a ghastly, toothy grin—one that practically had the young blond quivering in fear.

"Me," He replied in a voice that was far too pleased for Draco's liking.

"Alright, Greyback," Bellatrix began, moving forward at once and giving her lackey a quick nod. "I've got it from here." There was something…almost giddy about her tone. Something that suggested Bellatrix was about to engage in a bit of playtime.

Draco had always been warned that Bellatrix preferred to play with her toys before breaking them. And…he supposed he was next. Nephew or not, he was still a Blood Traitor to her. In the scheme of things, Draco knew quite well that family meant very little to Bellatrix if she found them unworthy. His deranged aunt might have held a high opinion of Narcissa, but it was clear that Draco was little more than the dirt under her fingers.

He was trash to her—incapable of the pure lineage he'd been born into. And Draco knew that, to her, having someone so traitorous closely connected to her simply wouldn't do.

"Leave us, Greyback," Bellatrix ordered, twirling the handle of her most precious blade in one hand. "My nephew and I are going to have a bit of a chat."

Fenrir might have been ferocious and intimidating, but even he knew when he was no longer needed or welcome, for he soon dipped out of the room with little more than a chuckle to indicate his departure. And that meant…that meant that Draco was left alone.

With his bloody thirsty aunt, her most prized knife, and the wand in her possession that had once tortured and murdered so many. Still did, more than likely. There was an evilness about her; something dark and sinister. Something that unsettled Draco Malfoy in ways he couldn't even begin to explain. Bellatrix had been in prison for a large majority of his life, so his contact with her had been brief, at best…until she'd escaped from Azkaban. She had never exactly been capable of many heart-warming emotions (none, come to think of it), so Draco had just barely—and bitterly, at that—regarded her as a blood relation.

Luckily, his father seemed to abhor the woman nearly as much as Draco did. Fat lot of good that did him right now, though; his parents had probably hidden themselves away in France or Sweden the moment they heard about Bellatrix's return. Narcissa might have held a lingering soft spot for her elder sister, but that didn't mean she was willing to sacrifice the lives of her husband and son by being closely-acquainted with the madwoman. She knew what Draco had given up by being indicted into the Order; they all knew.

Bellatrix included.

"Well, well, Draco," Bellatrix began, the heels of her well-worn boots clacking against the dusty hardwood floor beneath them. She stepped forward and instinctively, Draco flinched. "I must say, I'm not terribly surprised we find ourselves in such a position—not surprised, but disappointed, nevertheless." She clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth, a sound that caused Draco to gnash his teeth together in blatant discomfort.

"Tell me, Draco," She continued, swinging the handle of her precious blade in one bony hand. "What is it that finally made you turn against the Dark Lord? What caused you to shift your…softened ideals?" And then she was on him, leaning forward and exhaling against his cheek. Her breath was warm and pungent, and Draco just barely refrained himself from crinkling his nose in disgust. He stilled the moment she lifted the freshly-sharpened edge of her weapon to rest against his throat, dragging the metal tip of the blade across the plane of his neck; almost as though she was attempting to trace a pattern of sorts into his very skin.

Either that or she was attempting to figure out which would be the most efficient way to cut him up.

"Answer me!" She pressed, pausing applying pressure into his skin. Draco watched, horrified when he felt a sharp sting at the base of his throat. He struggled not to breathe; not to swallow or blink or do anything that would defy her. He wondered what it would be like, having his neck slit—he wondered if she would commit the act quick and roughly, or if she would cut him just enough so that he bled out at an excruciatingly slow rate. The thought taunted Draco; it caused an ache to bloom at the hollow of his throat, and he found himself squirming uncomfortably against the ropes bound around him.

He realized he had yet to answer his aunt's inquiry, and as she glared at him with those dark and beady eyes of hers, Draco quickly struggled to think of a convincing solution to his current…dilemma. Lying. Could he lie to Bellatrix? She'd taught him all about Legilmency and Occlumency, of course, so the concept of managing to ward himself against any mind-intrusive techniques she planned to use against him were slim to none, but…but he could still try, surely. He was, after all, a Slytherin—then again…so was she.

"I've always been a servant of the Dark Lord," He found himself hissing; the words were so hushed that even he could barely hear them. Licking his lips and steeling what little confidence he had left, Draco cleared his throat and spoke again. Louder this time. "It's a trap, you know—setting the Order up. Making them believe I was one of them…and all for the sake of protecting the Dark Lord's ideals. His system of blood purification."

For just a moment, understanding dawned on Bellatrix's features. He'd managed it, then! He'd convinced his lunatic aunt that he was working as an independent double agent all along!

And that's when Bellatrix lifted her blade and sliced open his left cheek.

The pain, while not the worst he'd ever endured, was sharp and stinging. He permitted himself a muffled cry of agony, wincing as he felt the blade tear across his supple flesh, splitting his skin open with little more difficulty than cutting into softened butter. He had no idea how drastic the cut was; he was just aware of the warm stream of blood that trickled down the side of his face…down his neck and splattering onto the collar of his shirt. And then, when Bellatrix spoke, he found himself flinching away from her in response.

"Lying to me," She spat, rage controlling and warping her already unstable emotions. "You're weak, Draco, just like your father. He too ran and hid the first time the Dark Lord fell…the resemblance between Lucius and you are uncanny, really. You're both cowards."

Under ordinary circumstances, being compared to his father and having his family name made into a mockery would have been a grave insult; Draco wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut. As it was, he'd already endured one (relatively) small injury for lying…who knew what sort of trouble he'd get himself into if he talked back to her. Getting tangled up with Bellatrix Lestrange was dangerous; she was a reckless force of nature, and at any moment she could snap and turn against anyone and everyone she knew. He'd seen it happen before; he'd seen her topple over the edge and lose the small shred of humanity she had lurking within her. It was…devastating; it was terrifying.

It was everything Draco knew he'd be forced to endure again if he kept up with his deceitful pretenses.

"Filthy Blood Traitor," She continued, her lips practically quivering with fury. The insult, though expected, stung. It was the first time he'd ever…been addressed as one before; at least out loud.

Strange, really, how Draco Malfoy could still manage to feel injuries inflicted on his pride when he was already in such a compromising situation to begin with.

"I'm not a Blood Traitor," He hissed through clenched teeth, and for a long moment, he truly believed himself. The rest of the world melted away, and he saw himself for what he was—a young man who had been forced to make a decision in order to right the wrongs he'd committed so young. He saw a man who would do anything for the sake of his family; a man who had thrown himself in the thick of things at a time when maturity and understanding were still so far out of reach. He saw himself for what he was…a terrified Wizard simply struggling to get by.

But then he remembered Granger, and everything came tumbling down.

"The Mudblood—what of her, then?" Bellatrix questioned. It was a tease; something meant to taunt and provoke him. Draco was perfectly aware of that. She knew who Granger was; she was aware of the role the young Witch played in Potter's rebellion.

"She's nothing," He answered, his throat thick. His tongue sat rather heavy and awkward in his mouth—the words had been difficult to force out. He didn't want to think about why that was; not just yet.

"She's filth, and so are you for associating with her," Bellatrix answered with an air of finality, shoving away from Draco in favor of standing. He saw the glimmer of blood that coated the tip of her knife and shuddered—his blood. All too familiar with Bellatrix's tactics to assume she was merely done with him for the evening, Draco's body grew stiff as he struggled to prepare himself for whatever it was she planned on throwing at him next.

He really shouldn't have been all that surprised when she chose to lift her wand and point it straight at his chest.

"Now tell me, Draco, where are the others?" Spoken more like an order rather than an inquiry, Bellatrix walked slowly and deliberately around the chair Draco was bound to. He chose to focus on the click-clack sound her shoes made against the hardwood, but found that nothing could distract him from the gnawing discomfort and growing sense of anxiety that accompanied her presence. She made him unbearably uncomfortable—and that was putting it lightly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," was his response. Firm. Cold. Without a trace of reason or regret. Completely wrong, too, for no sooner had he managed to spit the words out than Bellatrix was lifting her wand and screaming out the first curse she could think of—Crucio.

And it sliced into Draco like a thousand knives.

The pain was amplified; it shook him to his very core. Truly, he was shocked that Bellatrix had chosen such a harsh method of torture so early on…however, his shock did nothing to dull the agony that shot through his system. It consumed him; it defined him. It felt as though someone had taken a knife and cut away bits and pieces of his skin; as though hot wax was being poured on him. The pain was so fierce that, at one point, Draco had deluded himself into thinking that he could feel his bones crushing and grinding themselves into dust. It was unlike any known pain in the world…and with each and every moment that passed, Draco found himself growing weaker and weaker.

It wouldn't be too terribly long before he passed out—he was sure of it.

Bellatrix paused her magic just long enough to ask if he'd had a change of heart; if he was willing to provide her with the names and locations she so desperately needed from him. The pause was sweet; brief and exhilarating. However, when Draco yet again feigned ignorance and denied Bellatrix of any answers, the manic woman picked up directly where she left off.

And Draco, try as he might to tell himself otherwise, was unable to stop the Earth-shattering cries of pain that fled his lips and filled the room around him. It was inhumane, what his aunt was doing to him, and as he writhed and convulsed in mind-splitting agony, he felt the rickety chair attached to him topple over…and then Draco was on his side, shivering and twitching with unbridled anguish on the floor of her spacious manor. It had gone on for entirely too long, the torture session, and Draco was only faintly aware of Bellatrix lifting the curse long enough to converse with someone. There was a dull ringing in Draco's ears, and his heart was thumping far too loudly for him to make out any sort of intelligent conversation. Beaten near unconsciousness, Draco found himself unable to focus on anything around him. His cheek felt hot as it rested against the smooth wood of the floor beneath him, and he exhaled in short bursts of breath, struggling to regain what he had so easily lost.

He was broken and defeated, just as Bellatrix had wanted.

Much to his shame, tears blotted his dark grey eyes. They were the proof of his pain; of the agony still pulsating and coursing through his veins. He blinked back the bitter remnants of his torture, swallowing the ache that had bloomed in his chest and forcing his fingers to flex—it was vital for him to make sure that he still possessed basic motor skills. And it was there, lying on the floor of his aunt's long vacated mansion, that Draco was met with the figure of a man he'd never met. A man he'd heard plenty about since he was a young child, but had never spent time with. A man who he had only known through stories passed down to him and old photographs. A man who Draco had long since believed to be dead.

"Hello, Draco," came the low, smooth drawl of Rodolphus Lestrange.

And then the world fell away, and Draco was once again swallowed by darkness.

a/N: Hey there everyone! First of all, I'd like to apologize for taking so long to upload this chapter; real life got in the way and I was so busy I could barely manage to sit down and write out a RP reply, much less complete an entire chapter! But here we are finally, up to a plot point I've been looking forward to writing since I first began Shades of Grey! There are only a few chapters left in this story, and I'm really eager to see how it's received by all of you! If you don't already know, a few weeks ago I uploaded the prologue for my upcoming multi-chapter fic, Creatures of Hope, so if you're interested then please, by all means go read and review! Thank you so much to everyone who's taken an interest in this story; you're the best! And as always, please leave your comments!