Draco Malfoy slowly made his way into the dungeons of Domus Divereor, one of many old sanctuaries of the Death Eaters, careful to stay clear of the Dementors that roamed the corridors, keeping their prisoners trapped within their own personal nightmares. Draco had no time for them now, no wish to relive the most horrific moments of his life- there were too many, and he had neither the time nor the willingness. He was on a mission, though none had given him the orders. It was, in fact, a rumor which had prompted his little trek through the Dark Lord's prison only days after being brought here for the first time in his, so far, illustrious career as a Death Eater.

So far, the rumors did not appear to be true.

Another black-robed figure passed him, and Draco nodded behind his white mask, before slipping down the stairs to the lowest level of the dungeon where important prisoners would be kept. And if a member of the Order truly was being kept prisoner, this was the most likely of locations.

This level of Domus Divereor were dimly lit, as few prisoners were kept down here, and those who were found themselves mercilessly tortured. Few lasted down here more than a few weeks, he had heard, though if what Crabbe had been saying was true, this prisoner had been in custody for more than the few days Draco had been at the stronghold. Draco didn't want to think about what he would find. He didn't know of anyone who had been missing, but then he had had little contact with the Order of the last few weeks.

"Lumos," he whispered, and his wand lit up, casting eerie shadows onto the dull stone walls.

The dungeons were eerily still, he noticed, and he thought for a moment the rumors had been wrong when the temperature suddenly dropped several degrees. He fought to keep the memories at bay as a Dementor moved toward him. He could vaguely hear the screams in the back of his mind as he conjured a rather weak patronus to ward off the creature.

That it was even there was a good sign. It meant at least one prisoner would be found this night.

Slowly, he made his way through the dungeon, his eyes piercing the darkness of the cells, most of them empty, before stopping at nearly the last one. The figure was curled up on the floor within view of the barred window, shivering furiously, even though it was April. His shirt, or what was left of it, was little more than rags, and even in this light, Draco could see the bruises and scrapes that tracked his dirty torso.

As quietly as possible, Draco unlocked the door and stepped inside. Expectedly, the prisoner showed no sign of having heard the entrance. He was either unconscious or too weak to respond in any way. After crossing the small cell, Draco crouched down and, gently grasping the man's bearded chin, lifted it to see the face more clearly. The prisoner's groan alerted the Death Eater that he was holding onto a badly bruised portion of the man's face, but as most of it appeared to be purple and swollen, there was nothing he could do about that now.

Draco lifted his wand to illuminate the man more clearly, examining the face, and with a little surprise, the hair. "Weasley," he hissed, but there was no stir beyond the earlier groan. Glancing over his shoulder at the empty corridor beyond the door, he leaned closer. "Fred?"

The eyes flickered, then opened slowly, revealing two dull hazel eyes before closing again. Weasley licked his parched lips before answering.

"G-G-George." His voice was hoarse, probably from screaming.

Stunned, Draco did not move for a long heartbeat

"Are you sure?"

The look he was given was pure pain.

"Yeah."

Draco recovered quickly from his shock, realizing that George Weasley was indeed alive and lying in a prison cell right in front of him. This was the Order member rumored to have been kept here.

"You look good for a dead man."

"D-dea-d?"

"Yeah. A body was found burnt up in your shop. Everyone thought it was you."

"W-wasn't."

"Yeah, I know. Your brothers will be thrilled to hear that. Are you injured?" Draco asked, knowing what a ridiculous question it was, even as his hand delve into his robes for one of the many healing potions he had brought with him. "How do you feel?"

"Gr-gr-great," he answered weakly before again wetting his lips. "J-just h-hangin' out."

Draco had to suppress a smile at Weasley's dark humor as he helped the other man to sit up and pressed a vial to his lips.

"Drink this. It will heal any internal damage." Weasley choked on it at first, before finally drinking down the potion.

"Th-th-th-th." He closed his eyes, frustrated at his inability to put words together. "You're welcome."

Weasley nodded back to him, and Draco noticed his shaking was getting worse. He hoped it was merely from the chill stone he was laying on and not a sign of the torture he had undergone.

"I must go, Weasley, but I'll come back."

"T-take your t-t-time," he stammered, his eyes sliding closed. "I-I'm not g-going anywh-where." He coughed again; this time, blood stained his lips, menacingly bright against his pale skin as he gingerly lowered himself to the ground again.

Draco backed away. Glancing into the corridor to be sure it was still empty, he slid out of the cell and relocked it before trudging back the way he had come, attempting to appear calm, but feeling a great fear in his chest. Could he be saved? Or would he merely become another casualty in a war that had claimed too many already? Potter understood the difficulties of his position as a spy, but Ron would try to kill him. Fred would be the one to succeed. Once, in fifth year, George had punched him in the face after a Quidditch match and sent his world spinning. And he was the calm one. Draco was in no hurry to find out what Fred was capable of with his fists if George ended up dying. Again.

George remained curled on the floor for a long time after Malfoy left, unable to contain the shivers that traveled through his limbs. He was freezing, as always, but was scared too, as he had not been for a long time. He'd grown used to his captivity, if that was possible, but speaking, or trying to speak, to another person and make sense had been much more difficult than it should have been. He wondered when the stuttering had begun. It had been some time since he'd spoken to any of the guards that made their way down, but that had generally been more colorful language. Trying to get an idea across was almost painful. But then, everything was painful. That was why he did little more than lay on the floor.

It was how he spent most of his days anymore, feeling too weak to get up and move around. Even with the potion the spy had slipped to him, he doubted he could stand very easily, and certainly not without help. His muscles had already begun their slow deterioration thanks to a lack of nutrition and exercise. And without an outside window, he had no way of knowing how long he had even been here. A few months, as least, but for all he knew, it could have been a year. Early on, the daily visits by sadistic dignitaries had given him a sense of time, but apparently they had bored of him and their visits had become less frequent.

Not that he minded in the least. Given the choice, only Malfoy would get the engraved invitation to his cell. At least he brought gifts.

But George knew it was coming. He'd been left alone to long.

A heavy dread settled in his stomach as this thought fluttered through his brain. It was something he tried not to think about, but with so much time with nothing but his brain, there was little else to do. He attempted to block out the thoughts and listened to the long silence, punctuated by his own shallow breaths, but whatever calm he gained was invaded by footsteps- several footsteps- outside the door. That was more than one person, and Malfoy was not likely to bring help this soon.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the door was thrown open and people moved inside, talking and laughing at their game. Prostrate as he was, George could feel them closing in on him and felt the panic pervading his bones, gripping his chest.

A boot caught him in the stomach, and he curled in further to contain the pain with a hoarse cry.

"Wakey, wakey, little Weasley."

Please, just let them go away.

"Now, now, no point playing dead." A pair of hands grabbed him pulling him roughly to his feet. He swayed, throwing out his arms to catch himself on the wall, but Death Eaters grabbed each arm and held him in place. Fingers thrust their way into his long hair, grabbing a fistful and snapping his head back so he was staring up into a white mask. "You have company coming, Weasley. We need to get you ready."

That voice terrified him. He had heard it the night he had been captured, accompanying pain like he had never felt. And he had heard it more times than he could count while he'd been in the hellhole. He had never seen the man's face, but the voice sent chills down his spine every time he heard it.

"No! NO!" He fought them, attempting to throw what little weight he had to tear himself from their grips, but he was too weak, too beaten, and was dragged to the middle of the cell. As chains began to snake their way down from the ceiling, all strength left George and he collapsed to the floor, but it did nothing to save him. His captors made no sound as they clapped the manacles around his wrists. Against his will, a sob escaped his throat.

He was so tired of this. Tired of being strung up, of being beaten and cut. Tired of sleeping on stone, of being cold and hungry. He was tired of being alone and being scared.

George was just tired of everything.

How long would it be before Malfoy comes back, he wondered as his arms were yanked over his head by the chain.

How much longer until help comes?

He was pulled back to his feet by the shortening chain.

Or until they finally tire of me and put me out of my misery?

As his feet left the ground, a small part of him hoped this would be it, that it would finally end with this meeting.

But they've found me, his mind argued. I just have to hold on. Just a little longer.

The door to his cell crashed open, but George did not lift his head. There was no reason. He knew the Death Eaters were backing away from him- that a greater danger was in the room.

"George Weasley, I see you are still alive." Long, elegant fingers reached up, gripping his chin. "How have you been enjoying your accommodations?"

George Weasley never claimed to be a genius or any type of intellectual, though it was fairly common knowledge that he was the brains of the twin duo. True, test scores never reflected the extent of his intelligence, but he was a fairly smart person in his own right. Therefore, he had been pretty quick to pick up on certain lessons over the last eight months as a guest in this tiny little cell. That first lesson was learning when to hold his tongue. Like any good Weasley, his first instinct had always been to fire back some quick wit. He had done that only once with Lord Psychopath himself and learned quickly after waking up in a pool of his own blood and vomit and learning he had lain unconscious in it for three days. He had few memories of that particular visitor's hour, though that he could not remember it was nearly as terrifying as the prospect of having it as fodder for his nightmares for the next fifty years of his life. He had enough without that one.

With Lucius Malfoy, the lesson had come more slowly. He did not have the sheer power of his twisted master, but he was every bit as sadistic. George had become intimately acquainted with the Cruciatus Curse and Lucius' joy in mixing it with other lesser curses. Chase a Bone-Breaking Curse with a good strong Crucio, and guarantee that your victim would not stand up to you again- at least, not on his own legs. Of course, Lucius had to fix the damage. It wouldn't do to mess up Lord Psychopath's toy, but that didn't mean it had to be done right. The exquisite pain promised this Weasley would not be standing too often or for too long without absolute necessity.

Severus Snape was leaning over his work bench, contemplating his latest potion when Draco found him at Spinner's End. He hadn't knocked when he walked in, as the wards had recognized him for many years- since his escape from Hogwarts at the end of sixth year. In all that time, Draco had never returned to the school, though Severus had several times, under cover of darkness, to speak with McGonagall. Snape had changed greatly in those years, becoming harder, more cynical, if that was possible. Even now, had Draco not seen him work first-hand, he would never believe the man worked against the Dark Lord. He was the quintessential Death Eater.

"Snape."

"You're back early, Draco," Snape commented, not turning toward him, but continuing to gaze into his cauldron. "I thought you were sent to Domus Divereor."

"I was, but I need some things," Draco told his back. "And I need you to deliver a message for me."

Now, Snape did turn around, his eyebrow raised slightly over his right eye in curiosity.

"Speak."

Draco hated it when he did this. It made him feel like he was a student again, reciting his lesson to his professor. But he wasn't a student, and hadn't been for a long time. He closed the door, waving his wand lazily to seal it against eavesdroppers, namely Wormtail.

"Tell them I found George Weasley. He has been the Dark Lord's guest at Divereor, but I'll need help getting him out."

Though his expression did not change, shock was in Snape's eyes in the slight widening.

"George Weasley? Draco, are you positive?"

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it either. He looks like he's been to hell and back, but he's alive."

"I'll pass on the message, but you will have to report yourself. I have no doubt they will want details."

"When I can get away."

"Good. Now, your supplies."

"Weasley is weak and in constant pain. Internal injuries are a given. External-."

"Do nothing for the external. You will be found out too easily if his cuts are healed."

"I agree." He examined Snape who now leaned casually against the bench with his arms folded across his chest. "However, there's something else- something much more troublesome." He furrowed his brows, not knowing if Snape would even have anything to help.

"Continue."

"He stutters, has problems putting thoughts together, unable to retain body heat."

"Could simply be a result of his extended captivity."

"His hands shake, badly. His skin was clammy. His eyes are glassy."

"What do you think?" Snape asked, as though testing his knowledge of symptoms and treatments.

"As you said, it could be a result of being in a cold dungeon for so long."

"It could."

"Or it could be- neurological."

"There are no potions to heal that." Snape unwrapped his arms and went toward the cupboard where he kept his stores. "If his brain has become damaged, he must be placed in proper care. There is nothing that can be done for him while he is in captivity." He selected several bottles and placed them in the bench. "If they are purely physiological in nature, these should help. Worry only about internal or life-threatening injuries. Leave anything minor to elude suspicion."

Draco nodded, placing each bottle into his pockets.

"Thank you." Snape merely nodded in return as Draco left.