A/N: Thanks so much to all who continue to read and review! Here's a shorter chapter. Hope you like it.

Stolen

Chapter 43: In the Darkness

There was window, and a lighter darkness there. Sometimes, he allowed himself to sit in it. But only sometimes.

It was a reprieve from the mindless chill, the repetition of suffering and then, worse, the suffering of repetition, but to pull away from their grasp, further himself from their hovering rags gliding ever backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards—to feel the cool and angry mist brush his face—was Heaven!

When he was there, the harsh breath of the outside world assaulting him, he could feel through the cold and see past the bitter memories. Only when he could take it no longer. Only when for many hours he had trembled, wept, rocked attempting to endure the memories he was drowning in…

Mother!

"Mother, where are you now?" He asked aloud with no one to speak to. No one at all. Not a single touch to his skin in so long save the rags and the stones and the wind. "You're sleeping somewhere deep within the tunnels. Ashes now. All ashes. Black now, and windblown like me. Forgotten. Disappeared from the earth." Did they even exist now? He had died too. How had he died? He had forgotten. Oh yes he felt as though he was…

…drowning.

Another pass, a glimpse of sanity, a gap in the cold. He could see and feel and smell brown hair. Brown eyes. Memory of peculiar warmth, and he let it wrap around him like a blanket. Clung to it.

Kiss me. Taking her small wrists in his cold hands. Kiss me. She had. Fireworks twirling overhead. A room by the sea…powder blue and garnet…Then a storm nearing the ledge where they perched. A storm ripping across the beach. A storm drumming outside as they tore away at each other. His blood stained the floor.

This too was a form of torture, but sometimes he longed to remember it anyway. All the past came and went in splinters and fragments and muddled itself with his dreams and nightmares. As he grew weaker, it became difficult to know when his mind was lying to him.

Certainly, there was a faint roar outside all the mad murmurs and pleading and wails and hours of the most pathetic silence. Silence like the abandoned halls of Hogwarts. Shadows only. Shadows of the Heir of Slytherin. Shadows of his own life there. Shadows cast by an old castle upon a back lake.

"If the monster killed a girl before, then it's only a matter of time before it kills another. As for me, I hope its Granger."

The same hallway, a few years later his own voice pleaded inside his head: "Please, just let Granger be alright."

The sick breath of a Nundu pressing close upon their backs. Strange cry of an Irish Phoenix. Rain pouring. A smile.

"Please," he said to emptiness. "Let Granger be alright!"

Time passed this way for so long he could no longer remember time. He could not remember his name nor how he came to be there. He could not remember deciding that he would no longer entertain this vain fantasy of running forever with her. He would instead return her to safety, to where she belonged, but for a very long time, he could not remember this either.

"Take her with you," he had instructed John once Hermione was unconscious. With her wand, he cast a spell to lighten their figures and then one to tie them to the older man with invisible ropes and then a disillusionment spell to disguises their floating bodies. Then, he safely tucked Hermione's wand away in her pocket and without thinking took her hand. It was bare. The ring, the lie that they were somehow to be together, somehow linked, was a slight imprint around her finger and he knew that in time that would go away.

Collecting only what he required, he apparated. It was one thing for the others, the Order, who were returning to their home. He had destroyed his. He had other responsibilities, loyalties which could not be so easily dismissed, questions he could not leave un-answered. He could not go with them. Not yet. First, he had to see if there was any chance.

The falcons fluttered nervously in the shack as he disturbed them. As did his insides, his heartbeat. The smoke was on the wind still, and a great mass in the distance smoldered. Some of the garden had burned as well. The hounds still baying filled the estate in the distance. Everything else was being enveloped in night and an eerie silence.

As he approached his home, alone with long legs shaking, the stirring of small figures became apparent on the horizon.

"Master Malfoy!" Knobby gasped. The elf ran to him, looking up anxiously with wide and teary eyes. "Master Malfoy! What do we do now?" And a number of them turned to him with similar expressions, their home too burned to the ground. They turned to him holding a tea kettle or a mop, wearing a tea cozies, trembling. He was their master now, and just as they were bound to serve him, he was bound to protect them and provide a roof for them.

Draco sighed. He had nothing to offer them. "Things are going to dangerous for a while." He announced. Then honestly, "I don't know what's going to happen."

They waited. Oversized faces expectant.

"You are free to go. When things clear up, if you'd like to return, you will of course be welcome." There was no other option, after all. He turned to the rubble. To what they may return, he was not sure. If he would ever return and to what he did not know either. Someone pulled the bottom of his coat.

"Pardon me master, but you've given us no clothes, sir." Knobby notified him tentatively.

Well, damn. He could not take care of them and he certainly could not free them without giving them clothes. There would certainly be nothing left in the expanse of ash and debris before him. It was no longer cold out, so not knowing what else to do he removed his coat and handed it to Knobby, stopping half way and examining it. He ripped a shoulder off and handed it to the elf next to him. Then another shoulder, and handed it to another. The remainder of the jacket went to Knobby.

Behind them, several more elves waited. He frowned and rummaged through his pockets. He handed out his handkerchief then removed his watch. Still there were more before him. He took off his shirt, then removed his shoes one at a time. Then his socks. The belt from his pants. A shirtless Draco stood in the darkness of his own yard looking down at a single remaining elf. "That's alright, master."

"What is your name, elf?"

"Pip, sir."

And Draco stuffed his hands in pants pockets finding nothing, but his finger brushed against his other and he, having no other choice but to go about naked, removed his birthday ring—finding himself missing it very sorely— and gave it to the tiny creature.

"Here you are, Pip. That is a very important ring. Hermione Granger—"

"How DARE you speak that filthy mudblood's name on THESE grounds!" a voice roared, making him jump.

"Go!" he commanded the free elves, though some of them hesitated finding themselves shocked that they were not bound to obey. "GO!" he insisted and a curse hit him squarely in the chest, twirling him in the air and knocking him to the ground several feet behind.

"Father?" he coughed, hopeful. A shadow appeared through the darkness, and then two more on its side. Massive shadows.

"Your father is dead." They confirmed his fears. He let his head fall back to the ground and lay there a moment, stunned and dizzy. "Expeliarmus." Still dazed, he was unable to stop the spell and he found himself cold with fear, half clothed, and at their feet, utterly at their mercy.

"Where are they?" The brother demanded in a low voice which was soft and dangerous.

"Who?" He heard a boy's voice, a voice from years ago fearfully reply.

"Harry Potter and your mudblood whore." One of them sneered, prodding him with his own wand.

He could give them up and perhaps save himself, but if he did that, they would have no chance to escape this reign. No chance at all. And if he could hold for a just a little while, someone would come to help, or the Dark Lord would be defeated and they would be forced to flee. Did he have the strength to endure the pain until then? The pain due to a traitor?

"You have no idea what joy it would give me to see their bodies laid out." His cousin spoke softly. "Their blood emptied. Stiff. White. Eyes vacant and staring up into nothingness. You used to share that dream, Draco. You used to be a man."

"I used to be a man," he repeated. "A man of hate."

"And what are you now?" he spat, vicious. "A scared child. Naked." They laughed at him. "A Traitor!"

"No!"

He was interrupted by a thrill of horror and a few long seconds of unbearable pain which caused him to bite a large portion of the inside of his mouth. Gasping for breath, spitting blood, he considered giving them up. He was weak and afraid. But he knew that was impossible. He had asked Hermione to write down the address and give it John. He had not followed or even seen the direction in which he headed. He did not know if he could bear what awaited him if discovered, did not know if he could abandon his family, reject the kind of offers the Dark lord could make. He still did not know what he would truly be when it came down to it, and wanted to make sure there was no way he would ever have to find out. In a way, there was no pressure. In another way, there was no hope.

"We will find out." They promised him. "One way or another." They raised their wands.

"You cannot." He told them, both sick and satisfied with himself. "They did not show me the address. I couldn't help you even if I wanted to. I made sure of that. Even if you gave me a truth potion or read my mind, I do not know where they are."

"DAMN!"

"Then we have no reason to keep you alive."

So it began— the torture. He could not breathe. He fell the ground, pulling up the grass, struggling, feeling himself grow light headed and dizzy. His lungs pleading with him to inhale. His hounds struggling to get to him, barking furiously, was hexed aside with a yelp. Air came in a delicious rush and was taken away. Again and again it continued, each time longer as if testing his limits or trying to increase his endurance.

They did not spare his blood. He grew weak with the loss of it. His ears rang with his own screams until they too ached. What else they did to him, and they did unthinkable things, he body and his mind tried very hard to put away immediately.

It may have been days or it may have been hours before they were disrupted by urgent and fearful voices, before wizards began to apparate onto the ground and preoccupy his tormentor's wands. He was too weak to engage or to flee. Too confused to protest as the man rounding up his relatives grabbed him by the hair and attempted to identify him.

His face was unrecognizable. Bruised, bloodied, scabbed, and scared. A man in uniform robes leaned over him, his large nose pressed close to Draco's.

"Let's see, what's your wand says then?" The ministry official eagerly grabbed it. Of course, the last three curses were killing curses—Harry Potter, his father, missing his father. As they arrested him with the others, he felt himself cry out Potter's name and beg them to call him, to call Snape, to call anyone. He was not the enemy.

"That mark on your arm says different, my boy."

'Oh yes, the irony,' he thought. 'The mark remains.' The ministry man shoved him into a train car which was very cold. With horror, he realized why.

He could not remember, very soon afterwards, if he had actually been able to scream at all. And he could not later recall feeling happy that she was gone even though he already missed her, but he had.

Since that terrible time, he had gone, though he could not say how or when, in the darkness until he could no longer recall the names of his pets, or his enemies. Nor the magic he'd learned, or his favorite foods, or the girl he dreamed about. He could not remember the story of Casus Malfoy. He could not remember his own story. He was plagued with strange feelings until he abandoned them in exchange for the solace of feeling nothing, expect during the fleeting moments in which he allowed himself to explore memories he hardly recognized in haphazard flashes. Allowing himself the breeze in the lighter darkness and the brown warmth pleasantly curled up in his mind that he had once felt such fierce emotion towards—emotion he could no longer decipher.

But he could remember the way he had felt once, long after he could no longer feel anything human. He held on to that, even after he was not sure it had ever been real. He repeated words he did not know he was saying; he did not know what they meant.

And after a time—he could not say how long—they took him from that place in chains, like a dog. The cold and shadows came with them into a place that was too bright and loud. They took him and shoved him into a room where faces stared, strange faces he did not know. They spoke words he did not understand about things he did not know and waited on answers he could not give. He told them. He told them over and over again all he knew.

They simply shook their heads.

In frustration, he screamed against the bars and chains and something hurt him. He leapt in surprise. How wonderful it was to feel again. The filth and cold not numbing one's skin. Warm blood pouring down his arm. How pleasant.

They prodded him. Their voices assaulted him, making him twist uncomfortably. Writhing, he called out for help, voice strangled. Was this it? Was he to be killed now for something…he could not recall…if he had done it or not. Probably he had. He felt he must have done something very bad.

Through the darkness and the cold, through the vast shadow of his memory, he glimpsed something familiar and warm.

A/N: Is that where you thought Draco was? How different is this ending from the book and what you expected?

I know this chapter was very short, but it could not be helped. The next chapter will have to be rather longer than I'd like too, but I hope you're enjoying it.

Please review and let me know what you think of what just happened or is about to happen!

Only two chapters left to go…