Chapter Three

Thrown into the cell as if she were nothing but a shabby doll, Luna lay in a mangled heap upon the freezing stone floor; she barely registered the achingly cold water seeping into her clothes. In a way, it helped to cool her fiery skin that was still searing from the lingering dark magic. Her waif figure convulsed involuntarily as a result of Draco's curse, but she found the corners of her mouth twitching upward despite her incredible discomfort. Mr. Ollivander's slow but steady breathing was still sounding from his new upright position against the wall, and she deduced that her taking his punishment had been well worth it.

Though many thought her to be spacy, flighty, and rather undeserving of her place in Ravenclaw, Luna knew she was clever; she knew by directing attention to herself and insinuating that she was more aware of the wandmaker's state than Bellatrix Lestrange would cause insult on the haughty Death Eater. This insult would prove to be more important and in need of punishment than the information the crazed woman meant to extract from Mr. Ollivander. Thus, Luna was immensely proud of her accomplishment. Though she was in great pain, she knew she had done the right thing, the honorable thing.

On shaking, pale arms, Luna pushed herself up slightly so that her back rested against the cool wall. She leaned her throbbing head back wincing sharply as a protruding stone struck a sensitive spot on her skull. Feeling a warm liquid seeping down her face, Luna tremblingly brushed the back of her hand against her swollen lips; pulling back she could faintly make out the dark red substance staining her alabaster skin. She was unfazed by the image; in fact, it had turned into one of comfort during her stay at Malfoy Manor. Blood meant you were alive, and judging from the steady flow escaping her mouth, Luna was very much alive. Before her body and mind gave out sending her into a dreamless abyss, Luna remembered the perfect autumn day and the flawless green apples hanging so tantalizingly from their branches thriving just outside the Malfoys' window.

Two floors above, a million scenes of a beautiful autumn day could not offer peace to the mind of Draco Malfoy. After excusing himself feigning fatigue he no longer felt, the young Slytherin walked up the marble staircase with a mask of indifference towards what he had just done. However, once in the confines of his bedchamber, Draco could no longer maintain his forced composure. Both of his graceful hands shot to his white hair gripping the snowy locks with a frightening force causing his scalp to throb in protest. He paced, back and forth in front of the burning fireplace that did nothing to warm his icy skin. He felt sick, disgusted with himself and his aunt, repulsed by the people in his basement, and simply confused by everything around him both internal and external. Nothing made sense anymore; nothing was simple.

Draco enjoyed simplicity; he found comfort in the idea of everything being black or white, yes or no, right or wrong. However, he was realizing, slowly yet surely, that nothing was ever certain. Nothing was every fully one thing; most everything was a blurring shade of grey. Draco knew that he believed in pureblood supremacy; that was a certain fact in his mind, steady and concrete; however, he did not know how far he would be willing to fight for this belief. Sure, he knew he was better than the likes of those with tainted muggle blood, but did he think they should be executed because of it? To this, uncertainty plagued his mind. Then there was the issue with blood traitors; purebloods, like himself, who, unlike his family, did not agree with the Dark Lord. People like Potter, Weasley, and Longbottom, people like Lovegood who had been kidnapped and was being held captive in his basement.

With the thought of the dazed blonde, Draco remembered her anguished screams; her wide, blue eyes squeezed shut in agony as his wand ignited her body in unbelievable pain. He knew what that particular curse felt like; he had been on the opposite end of the Dark Lord's wand for failing to complete his task, but that was not his first encounter with the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix had also used the Unforgiveable against him multiple times in their Occlumency training sessions; if he failed to block her from his mind, she cursed him. Though harsh, it was a very motivating incentive to keep her out.

His room was becoming unbearable to be in; it felt as if the walls were closing him in, drowning him in uncertainty and fear of change, fear of disappointment. Draco felt the need to escape, to flee from his current space of confinement. Turning sharply, he practically ran to the double doors that led to the balcony overlooking the famous Malfoy Manor gardens. Draco wrenched the doors open uncaring towards the harsh slamming that reverberated behind him. He braced both of his hands on the wrought iron railing, his white knuckles turning pink with the straining grip. Hanging his head, Draco heaved in a deep breath of the rose scented air remembering a time when the sickly sweet scent made him want to stay inside, but now, it was fresh, a cover to the decay so often prevalent in his home. Opening his silver eyes, Draco peered down at the gardens below. The white peacocks were elegantly strutting around the gardens displaying their intricate feathers as if putting on a show. Maybe they were, maybe they all were.

Draco stood there on his balcony until a House Elf apparated behind alerting him lunch was behind served. Without his usual harsh words towards the creatures that kept his home running, Draco nodded slightly dazed and stiff from standing stoically for an extended period of time. Mechanically, Draco made his way downstairs his legs feeling as if they were filled with lead. In comparison to the cold, distant atmosphere in which breakfast was served, the air within the dinning room was positively euphoric for the afternoon meal. Lucius was seated at the head of the table; Draco noticed his usual pallid cheeks were slightly blushed. The rosy hue seemed out of place on his father's skin, for Draco couldn't remember the last time his father was genuinely pleased. Apprehensively, Draco sat to the right of his father looking towards his mother for clarification on his father's somewhat cheery disposition; however, Narcissa, as poised as ever, simply looked indifferent.

Throughout the first course, a butternut squash soup adorned with fresh sprigs of thyme, not a word was spoken, but as the House Elves levitated the main course into the opulent dinning room, Bellatrix could no longer contain her elation. Clearing her throat, the devoted Death Eater looked at Draco pointedly with a wicked grin on her face; like Lucius, her cheeks were blooming with color. Draco felt a weight of dread drop into his stomach nearly forcing the soup to make a reappearance.

"Draco, dear," Bellatrix said with a shake of her wild hair, "I've told your father how brilliant you were this morning; I'm sure he is most proud, as the Dark Lord shall be once he returns," she grinned madly.

"Yes, Draco," Lucius said with a curt nod. "I am pleased to see your commitment to the Dark Lord remain strong," he said. Then looking down at Draco's covered forearm where the Dark Mark etched his fair skin, he reached over and tapped where the haunting imaged lay. "This honor means nothing if you do not uphold it."

Draco responded with a nod; he had always been taught that the Dark Mark was a great honor, a symbol reserved for the Dark Lord's most loyal and reverend supporters, his soldiers. The young Malfoy looked up, his grey eyes meeting his mother's blue; unlike her husband, Narcissa Malfoy did not look pleased, yet her normal mask of indifference was lost. For the first time, Draco was not able to decipher his mother's expression. Before he could look deeper, her mask of grace returned as her older sister spoke.

"As a reward, Draco, for your loyalties and dedication, I've reassigned your watch of the blood traitors to Rodolphus here. I'm sure he won't mind," Bellatrix smiled sickly sweet at her husband who looked as if he minded very much.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Aunt Bella," Draco said before he could stop himself. "But the Dark Lord appointed the position to me, and I will honor his wishes," he said with a smirk; Bellatrix looked at if she could burst from the pride she felt for her nephew in that moment, the child, now man, she so often called weak and cowardly.

"Of course, Draco," she nodded.

The remainder of lunch was spent in polite small talk. On his mother's request, Death Eater business was rarely spoken about during meals. Instead, conversation was held strictly between courses and only on approved topics such as weather, gardening tips, and light gossip. Draco tuned it all out giving his full focus to the food before him. He stabbed a stalk of asparagus in aggravation; he had told the bloody House Elves how much he despised the offensive vegetable time and time again. Though he was not forced to eat the green stalk any longer by his mother, he felt an unwanted and unfamiliar pang of guilt as he remembered the skeletal girl in the dungeons. He chewed the vegetable bitterly.

Once lunch was finished and the apricot strudel situated nicely in his stomach, Draco excused himself from the table. On their own accord, and to his disbelief, his feet carried him outside to the gardens where he would roam as an innocent child. Once again, the aroma of roses assaulted his nose in a sugary tickle, but he did not shy away from it. The air around him smelled like roses swirling with the tartness of green apples and savory scent of autumn leaves. Looking up, Draco felt the warm rays of sun on his skin; he cringed away from the unfamiliar feeling and tucked his chin walking towards a patch of shaded grass. The smell of apples grew stronger and looking up, Draco realized he was standing under the great tree adorned with perfect jade orbs. Without thinking, Draco grabbed one and stuffed it into the pocket inside his robes before returning to his bedchambers until dinner was served.

Mr. Ollivander, the famed wandmaker, had become very worried. When he had awoken, the young girl, a Ravenclaw like himself, had been unconscious against the cell wall. Through the meager light and his aging vision, he could faintly make out the trail of crimson that had dried against the corners of her pale lips; her head was lolled at an odd angle, her matted blonde hair falling messily over one side of her face as it pooled by her hips on the filthy floor. Though dreadfully thin and beaten down, Mr. Ollivander had never met such a lively spirit.

He remembered the first time he'd met the young girl very well. Six years prior, a bubbling little blonde girl had danced into his shop. Her eyes wide and clear, the color of a spring sky, filled with joy as she bounced in place. She had been wearing a floral, lavender dress with pink and yellow polka dot stockings; perched upon her long, flaxen waves was a set of rabbit ears, white and fluffy, and a butter beer cork necklace hung around her neck. From the moment he looked at her, Garrick Ollivander knew she was a Ravenclaw; he could see the curiosity and creativity swimming in her blue eyes. He remembered her wand, nine inches long, oak wood, with a unicorn core. When he had placed the wand in her hand, her hair that hung down to the small of her back had blown around her as if a strong breeze had blown through his shop. He looked at her face, full of wonder and elation, and knew the wand was meant for her, Luna Lovegood. He had never met a girl such as her since, and he didn't think he ever would.

"Ms. Lovegood," he whispered in a harsh, raspy voice. "You must wake, child. I fear you are not well."

But Luna did not wake; she did not stir or move a muscle. She remained motionless against the cell wall, her hair resting on the floor, blood dried on the corners of her mouth. With what little strength he had, Mr. Ollivander placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, her skin cold as ice, and shook gently. To his utter dismay, he received no response. She remained unconscious.

"What have they done to you, dear child," he sighed helplessly.

After dinner was finished, Draco sluggishly made his way to the kitchen to receive the slop tray for the prisoners. He cringed at the sight of the lumpy greyish brown substance and turned up his pointed nose. Seeing what was on the tray made him slightly more thankful for the roasted lamb and steamed vegetables currently residing in his stomach. Looking around, he pointed at one of the House Elves who started to tremble under his gaze.

"You," Draco pointed at the creature wearing nothing more than a disgustingly filthy and destroyed tea cloth. "What goes into this repulsive concoction?"

"Dippy, doesn't know, young Master," the elf said quietly, her squeaky voice shaking with fear.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Draco sneered. "Who makes it then?"

"No one makes it, young Master, promise. I would never lie to young Master," she responded, her mangled fingers pulling at her large ears. "Dippy just pulls it from the bin; it's what Mistress Lestrange tells Dippy to do."

"So, it's rubbish?" Draco asked thoroughly sickened.

"Yes, young Master," Dippy nodded still pulling at her ears. "Mistress Lestrange said the trash deserves to eat as such."

"Well, she's right," Draco nodded though he strained to do so. "They are trash. Just like you lot."

Without another word, Draco turned from the cowering creature and made his way to the door leading down into the dungeons. Upon opening the door and smelling the revolting undergrounds, Draco began to regret refusing to hand over his duties to Rodolphus. He wasn't certain on what made him deny Bellatrix's offer, especially as he descended the stairs fully immersing himself in the dungeons, but something inside him hated the thought of Rodolphus being down here. Lighting the way with his hawthorn wand, Draco headed directly for Lovegood's cell fully expecting to see her wide eyed and lively despite the horrible morning she underwent; the memory sent a shiver down his spine. However, when he reached her cell, she was anything but lively. In fact, she looked rather dead.

Draco stood unmoving for several passing seconds; he stared at her, his wand illuminating her broken form in the darkness. He hardly registered the old man trying to speak to him; all he could see was Luna, unconscious and bloody. Had she been that bad when Rodolphus took her away? She had been awake then, talking even. Draco's hands began to shake; the light emitting from his wand began to wobble around the cell. There was blood everywhere, on her face, her clothes, smeared across the stone floor; it stained her pale hair crimson, it highlighted the wounds on her face, the bruises marring her flesh. He had done that to her; he had broken her just as his aunt commanded him to do.

"Child," Mr. Ollivander said placing a hand on Draco's shaking arm through the bars of the cell. Draco snatched his arm back; the tray of slop went flying across the floor.

"How dare you touch me," Draco seethed; despite the harsh words, his voice cracked with emotion.

"She needs help, Mr. Malfoy," Mr. Ollivander pleaded. "I'm afraid I have no way of helping her."

"What's wrong with her?" Draco asked trying to mask his voice with indifference.

"I'm not sure; she hasn't responded to anything since I woke to find her in her current state. She has not moved an inch."

"Why do I care what happens to her?" Draco spat realizing where he was, who he was. "She's nothing but a blood traitor. I don't care if she dies; let her rot."

"You are not a murderer, Mr. Malfoy," Mr. Ollivander said gently as slid down the wall to rest once more on the floor; his strength was waning. "But if you leave her, and she dies, her death is on your hands."

Draco felt the impact of Mr. Ollivander's words: you are not a murderer. He wasn't a murderer, at least not yet, but he knew there was going to be a time when the words were no longer true. One day, he was going to have to kill either by orders from the Dark Lord or in necessity to protect himself. Looking at Luna, he knew he wasn't ready for that quite yet; he didn't want his first kill to be so meaningless, so trivial. Swiping his wand across the cell as he had witnessed Bellatrix do the night before, Draco pushed the door in giving Mr. Ollivander a stern look to remain still. Draco sank down to the floor settling on his knees and facing the small girl thoroughly repulsed as the wetness of the floor began to seep into the knees of his trousers. He pointed his wand at the skeletal figure poking her in the shoulder; she remained motionless. He looked at her face, dried with blood as her neck tilted at an odd angle.

"Rennervate," Draco whispered; he nearly toppled back as Luna's blue eyes shot open immediately, her mouth forming into a grimace as she doubled over in pain.

Luna cried out; her insides felt as if they were on fire. She clutched her torso, her breathing labored as her right ribcage ached agonizingly. Ignoring her present company, Luna pulled the bottom of her dress up, along with her turtleneck shirt to try and assess the damage. Before she was able to see her wound, a hiss of shock sounded from before her. Casting her eyes up, Luna saw Draco Malfoy gazing at her bruised and scarred body. His eyes were wide staring intently at the massive discolored bruise that covered most of her right ribcage, exactly the spot where Bellatrix's heavy boots connected.

Draco stared at her in shock. He remembered the kick that caused the injury; he remembered how Luna had barely acknowledged the attack. Looking at the black and purple mass that covered most of her protruding ribcage, Draco wondered how she hardly moved when she was assaulted. She never cried out, only stared out of the window behind him and into the gardens. Draco shook his head, his wand still shining, pointed directly at the harm his aunt had inflicted.

"I think they're broken, probably poking into my lung," Luna sighed hoarsely; she winced as she took in another breath. "Have you come to help me?" she asked peering up at Draco, her wide eyes hopeful, yet still the pity and sympathy lingered.

"Why do you continue to look at me like that!' Draco yelled ignoring her question as he stood up abruptly. Luna didn't respond verbally but merely cocked her head to the side in confusion; the pity remained. "You look at me as if you feel sorry for me! As if you pity me!"

"I do, Draco. I do pity you," Luna said softly, her wide eyes blinking in sincerity.

"Are you delusional? I'm not the one being tortured here; I'm not the one being held against their will and beaten!"

"Aren't you though?" Luna asked calmly; her dreamy voice remained though her body protested at every movement.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Draco seethed; he could feel his blood boiling, the tips of his ears turning red.

"Maybe not physically, but you are being tortured. I can see it in your eyes, Draco. You're being tortured worse that I ever have. Physical wounds will heal," Luna said smoothing a gentle hand down her still exposed bruised flesh. "But emotional and mental wounds, well, those can last a lifetime."

Draco stared at her dumbly unable to form a clever remark or scathing insult. He looked down back down at her ribs; the hideous bruise somehow beautiful on her pale, marred skin. He felt his mouth go dry, his mind fill with a million reasons to walk away. Instead, he found himself replying with one word.

"Yes," he said faintly, so softly Luna didn't think he'd actually said anything. "I've come to help you," he said slightly louder, yet more broken than he'd ever sounded before.

He said nothing more for the remainder of his time in the cell apart from healing incantations. Once the bruise was nothing more than a greenish yellow blur and her three ribs were fused back together no longer causing shooting pain when Luna took in breath, Draco watched as the waif blonde lowered her shirt and dress smoothing them down in an attempt to look presentable. Draco glanced back to her face still bloody and bruised though more alive, brighter than before and saw the overwhelming silent thanks in her big, sapphire eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, most likely to voice her appreciation, but Draco shook his head as he stood up and brushed himself off in attempt to rid his robes of the filth from the cell; he quickly deemed it a lost cause and turned to leave.

Just as he was about to exit the confines of the metal bars, he felt a lump in his pocket. With a humorless snort, Draco turned back around walking the short distance to crouch in front of Luna, their faces inches apart. Draco pulled out the shining green apple showing it to her with a small smirk pulling at his lips. He placed it in her lap observing as her wide eyes grew impossibly larger in awe of what she now possessed. Without uttering a syllable, Draco turned once more and left them alone in the dark. He walked back to the rickety chair at the bottom of the cellar stairs and plopped down. For the remainder of the night, he cursed himself for what he had just done.