Chapter Four

A week passed by in a blur; Luna lived her life in the darkness of the dungeons while Draco lived in the light of the day, surrounded by dark magic performed by himself and others. He was commanded to torture Luna once more, her screams tearing him apart piece by piece. Though she was a blood traitor, muggle lover, and overall repugnant to Draco, he couldn't find a reason she should have to suffer so severely. She was so emaciated and physically weak, so near to Death's door. Was her existence not torture enough? His nights continued to be spent in the dungeons where he pointedly ignored the whimsy blonde and her constant humming and talking. She spoke to him occasionally, never pushing for information or asking for favors; she would only say hello and ask him of his day as if they were friends at Hogwarts instead of prisoner and jailer.

The morning after Draco had healed her ribs, he had a panic attack in the confines of his room. He kneeled over, gripping the plush, fur rug in both hands, his fingers tearing at the soft texture as if it were the only thing that could save him. His lungs heaved uncontrollably as his mind raced with a million possibilities. If he was figured out, if Bellatrix or Rodolphus, his father or the Dark Lord found out what he had done, he would be severely punished, possibly even killed. He had helped a traitor, an opponent to the Dark Lord's grand plan; he had helped the enemy. In some ways, he could also be seen as a traitor; he went against everything he had been taught. He showed compassion, weakness, when he should have been strong. He had given in to those wide, misty blue eyes and dreamy voice not because he liked her or cared about her, but because he knew she was good; he knew she was in need of help. He couldn't fight the urge to do good, to help. His entire life had been built around destruction and violence, and Luna offered him an opportunity he had never been granted. Bellatrix was right after all: he was weak.

When Bellatrix summoned him, her dark, mad eyes alight with joy, he knew what he was going to be asked to do before Luna was dropped before his feet. She was still as bruised and skeletal as he remembered; the cut above her left eye remained as did the dried blood that had not flaked off. His stomach churned at the sight of her, white skin, blue veins, and black bruises; she was repulsive. He wanted her out of his sight. He used the Unforgiveable curse against her, sending fire through her bones and eliciting screams of anguish from her swollen, chapped lips. Bellatrix had danced around her convulsing form again, though when she was taunting the young girl, to Draco's relief, Luna kept quiet. Though he nearly missed it, he saw her large blue eyes flick to him when Bellatrix teased her about her father, her family's reputation in the wizarding world, and her love of Harry Potter. He felt his mouth form into a thin line as if he were warning her to keep quiet, which, thankfully, she did. However, her answer remained the same when she was asked about Potter's whereabouts: she didn't know. Draco wasn't sure if she was lying or not, but he knew she would never give up the information if she possessed it. She didn't have a bone of betrayal in her body.

He had paced more in the last week than he had in his entire life. If it weren't such a ridiculous idea, he would think there would be a hole in the floor from his constant, compulsive tracing of steps occurred. With his left hand tangled in his hair while his right clutched the hawthorn wand, the one he bought from the man locked away in his basement, Draco attempted to think of what to say should it be discovered that he assisted a prisoner. He could say she was dying; it wasn't entirely a lie. He could say he wanted her well enough to torture again. The possibilities were endless, yet he knew they were all a lie. He feared the Dark Lord would be able to see through his blatant lie no matter his skills in Occlumency.

As soon as he had placed the apple in her lap, Draco regretted his decision Not only had he healed her, but he had also fed her, given her more than she deserved. Yet, he couldn't rid his mind of the way her eyes filled with gratefulness and awe at the sight of the green fruit; he had never seen such a genuine, honest expression meant for him. He was accustomed to looks of jealousy, fear, and fury; he knew the filtered looks of disdain, scorn, and arrogance, but never had he witnessed such an innocent reaction. Draco sighed as he crumbled into the leather chair situated before the crackling fire. His head fell into his hands, elbows propped on his knees, and scratched his scalp, tearing at his hair. The stress of it all was becoming too much, the confusion, the disgust. It was all entangled in his mind in a treacherous web he could not escape or decipher.

He pushed himself back up, his legs feeling restless, and resumed his pacing. At his third lap around his seating area, a light knock sounded at the door; it was hesitant and polite. Without being admitted permission to enter, Narcissa Malfoy stuck her head inside her only son's bedchamber. Draco nodded at her as consent for her to enter effectively halting his pacing. His mother looked as well maintained as she always did. Her icy blonde hair tied in a sophisticated twist as sparkling diamonds sat delicately on her ears and above her collarbone. She looked every ounce of the aristocratic woman she was; she oozed of good breeding and social etiquette. However, her eyes betrayed her composure; she was in a state of desperation.

"Draco," Narcissa addressed her son, "I must speak to you in private."

"Of course," Draco nodded clasping his hands behind his back. He watched as his mother waved her wand around the door, most likely casting a nonverbal silencing spell. "What is it, Mother?" he asked apprehensively.

"Draco, I know that everything can be confusing during war," she said sitting on the ottoman before his grand bed, dark wood with four pillars ascending to the ceiling; her hands folded carefully over her onyx robe covered lap. "I need to know that, as my only son, you are being cautious of your actions."

"I haven't a clue what you might be referring to," Draco stated with a breezy indifference despite his palms breaking into a cold sweat.

"Don't play coy with me, Draco," Narcissa said, her carefully painted rose lips pursed for a moment, her pale blue eyes flickering to the silenced door. "I know what you did for the girl in the basement; I know you healed her."

"And what makes you so sure, Mother?" Draco asked calmly; the cold sweat once isolated to his palms had spread over his entire body; he could feel beads of sweat accumulating against his temple. "Why would I ever help a blood traitor?"

"I know, Draco, because I went down to do it myself, but it had already been done," Narcissa admitted looking into her son's silver eyes, his father's eyes. "Bellatrix's assault was heard throughout the manor; the girl is too small, too frail to survive such an incident without serious internal injury."

Draco stared at his mother; there she sat, perfectly poised and calm though she admitted to going against the Dark Lord's orders. She showed no look of remorse or guilt; unlike Draco, she would not have regretted healing Luna. A million questions formed in Draco's mind, though none of them seemed to be able to escape his mouth. Instead he continued to look at his mother in silence trying to make sense of what she told him.

"I can see the confusion in your eyes, Draco," Narcissa said after several stretching silent minutes. "I see the doubt and the turmoil. I'm your mother, I see things others do not, my son," she sighed standing up smoothing her perfectly ironed robes. She walked over to her son, who stood over a head taller than she, and placed her fingers lightly on his. "But you must keep these to yourself; it's not safe to go against anything that happens here. Draco, you must keep the doubt you feel to yourself and never let it be discovered."

"What doubt, Mother? I live to serve the Dark Lord; I bear his mark," Draco said pulling at his sleeve and showing the horrific mark marring his white skin. "I am loyal to the Dark Lord, as are you."

"Above all, Draco," Narcissa said pulling his sleeve over the ugly mark, "I am loyal to you, my son. You are the most important thing to me; more than anything, I want to see you safe and well. I think of the girl below us; she's a child, Draco, just as you are. In war, age does not matter. I never want you to be where she is now. No matter what you feel, you must be careful, Draco."

"I feel nothing for the disgusting blood traitor filth in the basement," Draco seethed, his words spitting fury to hide the uncertainty of his words. "She and her lot absolutely repulse me. I was weak to help her."

His breaths began to come in shallow pants as he remembered the possible fates he could face because of his weakness. Torture, isolation, death, it was all plausible and all frightening. He thought of being on the receiving end of the Dark Lord's Cruciatus curse again, to be struck by the spell from a man with so much hate and fury in his soulless body. Draco knew no one would ever math the fury in the Dark Lord's curse; no other could hate or hold the desire to hurt so completely as he did. Draco could feel his heart beating erratically; his breaths continued to come in quick pants.

"Bellatrix is right, the Dark Lord was right, I am weak. I am spineless creature," he said breathlessly. "They're going to find out," he mused. "They're going to find out, and they're going to kill me because of it. I'm a traitor, and traitors must be eradicated," Draco said hysterically distraught.

Narcissa could see her son breaking down before her. His pale skin, which he inherited from both his mother and father, was positively ashen, his hands were shaking and beads of frantic sweat fell down his temples. She knew he was in turmoil. She wanted to take away his pain, his confusion and desperation. However, Narcissa knew that voicing her true feelings of what was happening in her home would cause trouble not only for herself, but also for her husband and her son. She would not, could not take the risk; the outcome was too uncertain and precarious. Though she was opposed to some of the Dark Lord's ideas, her sense of self-preservation and need to keep her family safe and intact won out against her desire to speak out against the Dark Lord.

Reaching out, Narcissa wrapped Draco in her embrace as she had done so many times before. However, those were times when his greatest need for comfort came from his falling off a broom or out of the apple tree, from being scolded by his father, or being frightened over something trivial; never had he needed comfort for such a perilous matter. Draco broke down in his mother's loving embrace. His tears flowed freely as his lean form shook with terror and confusion. He didn't register his mother leading him to sit upon the wide ottoman with her, for she never broke her physical contact. Draco felt her smoothing down his hair in the manner in which she had done to calm him as a child; he leaned into her hand welcoming the caring caress as she hummed a soothing song in his ear. He never felt the tears falling into his hair where his mother's cheek rested.

At dinner that night, neither Draco nor Narcissa acted as if anything had happened. Draco had cleared his face from the red splotches and swollen eyes caused by salty tears before combing his hair back into perfection where his mother's hands had ruined his meticulous sculpting. Narcissa refrained from casting her son a knowing look and made it through dinner with a mask of nonchalance and composure. However, the mask Draco wore slid off with every step he took into the dungeons. He felt his limbs fill with lead and his heart hammer against his bones; he dreaded this time more than pointless classes such as divination, care of magical creatures, or muggle studies. He would rather spend a lifetime with Hagrid taming wild, dangerous beasts than spend another night in the dungeons with her and those wide, blue eyes.

Draco walked achingly slow to the cell shared by Luna Lovegood and Mr. Ollivander; he thought that if he dragged his delivery of their daily slop, the prisoners might be asleep by time he arrived to push the metal trey under the rusted bars. As his wand led the way with light provided by his nonverbal casting of Lumos, Draco cursed his misfortune as the light landed on her flaxen hair and wide eyes. Despite his mind telling him to look away, Draco made eye contact with her; the corners of her chapped lips quirked up slightly in greeting as the glare he wore to hide his trepidation remained steady. He kneeled down delivered their provisions before turning to leave; however, her dreamy voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Have you been crying, Draco?" she asked in a whisper though it felt as if she yelled. "You look as if the wackspurts have muddled your thoughts; it's alright, I know how it feels."

"No, Lovegood," he sneered at her after turning around to face her. "I haven't been crying. What reason would I have for doing so?"

"I think you're very unhappy," she shrugged as she reached out with shaking fingers to grasp the slightly less stale than usual bread. "But, I suppose I would be unhappy too if I was forced to live a lie."

"You don't know anything, Lovegood," Draco smarted bitingly. "I live exactly the life I want; I support a righteous cause, I get to eat, to sleep in a bed, and I have access to a means to bathe myself. Look at you, you're filthy, inside and out."

"You don't realize it yet," Luna nodded as she placed a small piece of bread on her tongue, her eyes closed as she imagined steamed green beans with just a sprinkle of brown sugar. "But why else would you help someone like me?"

Draco turned red as his vision blurred with anger. He charged the cell wanting to yank her off the ground and shake her until his words made it through her thick skull: he did not care for her and he never would. His long fingers wrapped around the rusted bars and dug into his palms where his nails reached his skin. Draco's glare never wavered from her, but in his peripheral vision, he could make out Mr. Ollivander's form in the corner asleep. Staring menacingly at Luna, whose aura of dazed dreaminess and curiosity never wavered, Draco mustered up his most harsh tone.

"I had a moment of weakness, Lovegood," he spat. "It will never happen again."

Luna sighed as she shook her head, her matted blonde hair hardly moved. He could tell she was contemplating something and that his best chance of peace was to walk away while she was silent, but he couldn't escape the feeling of wanting to know what her mind was creating, what her unorthodox way of thinking was configuring. He found himself standing there, fingers still wrapped around the bars, waiting for her response. Finally, Luna lifted her head, her blue eyes flickering up to meet Draco's silver; a sad smile formed on her full, cracked lips.

"You're wrong," she said simply. "It takes a rather strong person to stand up against what is happening around him. You are strong, Draco, because you did what you felt rather than what you were told, what you were commanded to do. You were never weak, you were brave," she said with conviction lacing every word. "I'm alive now because of your bravery."

Draco found himself breathless at her testament. He knew in a way he had saved her life, but to hear the words aloud cracked something within him. He hung his head, his forehead scratching the rusted metal slightly as he suppressed a groan of frustration. Sure, he may have saved her life, but at what cost to himself? He was no hero; he saved someone but instead of basking in the glow of knowing he had saved a life, his thoughts only went to himself and the trouble his decision was causing, the prosecution he could face because of his moment of weakness. The panic began to swell within his stomach again and his fingers tightened impossibly on the bars as they popped in protest.

"Draco, are you alright?" Luna said suddenly more serious than she had ever been.

She pushed her self up on wobbly legs as she carefully walked towards the troubled boy before her as to not frighten him. Luna stood before him, all skin and bones and less than a head shorter than his impressive height; she peered at him with concern overflowing from her wide blue eyes. Draco fought the overwhelming hysteria that threatened to explode from within him and wrenched his silver eyes open to stare at the waif girl before him. He had never seen her so close before other than the time he had healed her, and even then, he never focused on her face. Seeing her at that moment, illuminated by the harsh light of his wand, Draco thought she looked more ghost than human. With eyes wide and shadowed with dark circles of malnourishment and exhaustion, full lips cracked with dehydration, jutting cheekbones, and skin the color of fallen snow, Luna Lovegood looked positively haunting. Yet Draco couldn't find it within him to be disgusted by her close proximity, at least not in that moment when her eyes were so full of concern for him. No one had ever looked at him like that.

"Draco," she said softly disturbing his observation of her face, her voice dreamy and musical in the echoing space. "Everything is going to be alright."

"I don't see how it could be," he whispered not bothering to add the typical biting tone to his words, his head still resting on the metal bars. "They're going to kill me because I helped you; they'll find out. They always find out," he croaked as his throat filled with emotion and his eyes closed in fear that she would see his façade crumbling, see the scared boy beneath the stoic exterior.

Luna looked at the boy, no, the young man before her and felt her heart breaking in two for his troubled soul. She could see deeper than the stoic face he wore daily; she could always see beyond the sneering, petulant child he once was. Luna saw him for his true self, a frightened young man constantly searching for approval and belonging. However, he had made all the wrong choices resulting in him standing where he was now, miserable and confused. Hesitantly, Luna reached up with her long, trembling fingers placing them delicately on Draco's where they still clutched the metal bars. To her surprise, he didn't flinch away or call her scathing names. Instead, a lone tear escaped his silver eyes, drowning with shame and fear, when he looked up at her.

"Things have a way of working themselves out," she said cryptically. "Good will win in the end, you know. It always does."

"Then I'll lose once again," he snorted humorlessly staring at her fingers on his, icy and trembling.

"No, I don't think you will," she said in a wistful sigh laced with certainty.

"You're not as vapid as you pretend, Lovegood," Draco said before he could stop the words from falling from his lips.

"I'm not the one pretending," she said simply.

To this Draco had no response; as usual, Luna's remarks left him quite speechless. He opened his mouth to say something, searching for a snarky remark to shake the tender caring swirling in her blue orbs, but nothing came out. As Luna looked at him, she saw his inner turmoil return, so she gently squeezed her fingers which were still over his and backed away from the young Slytherin who continued to look at her with uncertainty. His mouth snapped shut and he nodded his head. Pivoting gracefully he returned to the bottom of the stairs; however, he couldn't sit down as his legs were far too restless.

Draco paced in front of the bottom step for what could have been hours. He only stopped when a light, melody traveled through the dungeon in a familiar arrangement. He found his tense shoulders relaxing, his breathing evening out as his eyes closed in serenity. The one melody that could calm him, the light tune he had fallen asleep to as a child as it fell from his mother's lips was now coming from the dreamy blonde locked in a cell beneath his home. Draco turned his head towards the ceiling in disbelief. He knew something had changed that night, and nothing would ever be as it was before.