Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own the plot, characters, spell names, places, etc. mentioned in the Harry Potter books and movies. I am writing for fun and not for profit.
Summary: Set after HBP. After months of enduring cruel games at the hand of Death Eaters as punishment for his failure, Draco manages to escape. Seriously injured, wandless, and accompanied by a 4-yr-old muggle girl, he struggles to survive. Will he be able to help put an end to the war, or will he suffer a fate worse than death?
Warnings: Graphic/grisly violence, dark themes, language
Chapter 3
Draco was still straining to reinforce his shields when two burly Death Eaters grabbed his arms and pulled him out of his prison three hours later. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut to hold the fear at bay and concentrated almost desperately in gathering more fog. He had a feeling that the only way he would remain sane at the end of the day was to keep his mind unattached from his surroundings. Vaguely aware of putting one foot in front of the other as he walked pressed between his two companions, Draco breathed steadily, calmly.
When he deemed he was ready, Draco allowed his vision to focus. He first gazed at the Death Eater gripping firmly to his left arm. Then, he glanced to his right at the other Death Eater. Both were male, built broad, and probably as smart as Crabbe and Goyle. Draco didn't bother squirming in their hold. If he annoyed them enough, he had no doubt that they could break his arms with only a twitch of their meaty hands.
Instead, he paid attention to where they were headed. Because they were going toward the east wing of the manor, Draco guessed that their destination was the kitchen. Underneath the kitchen was the cellar, and underneath the cellar were the dungeons. Were they taking him to the dungeons?
Pondering about the near future only stressed him, so Draco abruptly stopped thinking about his predicament. He forced himself to concentrate on observing what was once his home. The corridors were darker than he remembered, but still moderately clean. When the Dark Lord eradicated every house elf loyal to the Malfoys, Draco remembered thinking that the manor will soon cease to look beautiful and elegant and instead resemble a gloomy haunted house.
When he could not find any clumps of dust bunnies, Draco imagined his mother roaming the manor with a duster and broom. The image saddened him, and subconsciously, he began to search for her. Would they finally meet face-to-face? It would be nice to see her at least one last time in case he…
Draco shook his head, dispelling his thoughts. Even thinking of his mother was dangerous territory. He must keep the fog around no matter what. Only the fog could quell both his fear of the Dark Lord and his self-disgust at marching toward torture without a fight, much like an ignorant pig brought to slaughter.
Despite his efforts in the last few hours, his heartbeat still fluttered when they came upon the door to the kitchen. His stomach flopped queasily and he suddenly felt grateful that he had not eaten that meat pie, although he did wish his godfather had given him some water. His throat was dry, making it an effort to swallow.
The left brute entered wordlessly through the door first, followed by Draco, then the other brute. Never once did they loosen their grip on him. Their silence only served to make Draco feel even more uneasy.
The kitchen was deserted. Gleaming pots and pans swung slightly from the low ceiling, clean utensils were all in their proper places, and the stove and countertops were wiped clean. Draco gave an experimental sniff. There was no aroma, not even a tiny indication that a meat pie was cooked here only a few hours ago. More importantly, he couldn't detect any whiff of his mother's perfume. Even if she left a room more than five hours ago, her scent usually lingered.
They made their way to the very back of the kitchen, where the light emanating from the crackling fireplace could not reach. Here was the wooden door to the cellar.
Once again, the brute to his left led the way, opening the door on creaky hinges and pulling Draco after him. The other Death Eater shut the door behind them.
For the first time in Draco's life, the cellar was empty of the usual crates, barrels, and shelves of ancient wine. Numerous glowing spheres across the ceiling emitted a white light that illuminated the entire room. The Malfoy Manor cellar was quite large, with half a dozen wooden pillars spaced equally throughout the area. No dust, no cobwebs, no trace of dirt could be seen. Instead, a small crowd of Death Eaters stood still, like a flock of crows awaiting the right moment to attack unsuspecting picnickers for their food.
Draco was scared. All of his efforts to remain in control of his emotions were a waste. No amount of fog could prevent his heartbeat from quickening or nausea from rising or his limbs to increase their manic trembling. The horrible white masks seemed to multiply before his eyes, floating in a sea of darkness, staring at him, judging him, condemning him. It was as if he were at the threshold of death, come to hear his sentence, whether it is paradise in heaven or an eternity of suffering in hell, and these terrifying beings acted as a biased jury.
His two escorts roughly pushed him, forcing Draco to continue forward. Draco obeyed, struggling to place each foot in front of him as if he were wading in a pool of the thickest mud. Only the support from the firm grip on each of his arms kept him from collapsing onto the rough stone floor. He pushed his lips tightly together to prevent a whimper from escaping.
All around him, the Death Eaters jeered, hissed, and laughed. They taunted him, urging him to fight back. Throw a punch. Knock someone out like a filthy muggle. Cry, beg for his mum.
Draco was led to the center of the cellar, where there was a circle of space cleared of Death Eaters. Curiously, this small space appeared to be more brightly lit then the rest of the room.
Standing in the center of the cleared space, dressed in long robes of midnight black, stood the most fearsome wizard Draco had ever encountered. Blood-red eyes stared almost hungrily at Draco as he waited for the trio to come to him. Draco suppressed a shudder as the monster's lipless mouth curled into a smile. "Draco Malfoy," he said, lifting out a thin, long-fingered hand toward Draco. "Welcome." His voice made every muscle in Draco's body tense. Raspy, smooth, cold. With this voice, the Dark Lord had been able to force even the bravest of men to his knees in fearful submission.
His escorts brought him just an arm-length before the Dark Lord. The death cold hand grasped Draco's shoulder and it took all of his efforts not to jerk away. He could feel the cold touch right through his silk shirt.
"It has been quite awhile since I've last seen you, hasn't it Draco?" the Dark Lord said. He leaned forward slightly as if he and Draco shared a private conversation. Even his breaths felt cold, as if he weren't even alive. "Although we haven't seen each other in so long, I have thought of you many times." The grip on his shoulders tightened painfully, causing Draco to flinch. The hunger in the blood-red eyes increased. A pressure began to throb inside Draco's head.
He wanted to close his eyes or look away; however, his gaze remained glued to the Dark Lord's eyes. Draco gritted his teeth, forcing his inner shields to stay in place. Despite his consuming fear, he had been practicing Occlumency constantly, and it was now almost second-nature to him.
Surprisingly, the pressure disappeared almost instantly. The grip on his shoulder relaxed. The Dark Lord took a step backward to create more room between him and Draco. "You're a powerful wizard, Draco, and from the purest of families. It would be a grievous waste to ignore such promise. Although I gave you the mission as a punishment for your worthless father, I was also curious about your talents." The lipless mouth once again curved into a smile.
Draco could not stop staring at the object of all his nightmares, even though he would like nothing more than to close his eyes and allow the fog to consume everything. What little fog there was left in his mind was only good for stifling the screams threatening to burst from him.
When the Dark Lord began to stroll leisurely to the left, moving out of Draco's line of vision, Draco attempted to turn his head to follow him; however, the Dark Lord's cold fingers suddenly wrapped around the back of his neck, successfully freezing him. He was left to stare forward, where the crowd of Death Eaters had moved aside to leave a cleared pathway to a door made entirely of thick steel.
"You know where that leads to, don't you Draco?" The words, uttered so close to the back of his right ear, almost made Draco yelp. The hand around his neck disappeared but the cold breath still breezed against his ear. "You must've arrived thinking that in a few moments, you will die. But I am a generous man, my boy, and I am willing to give you a second chance." The last word was drawn out in a hiss, and Draco couldn't help but shudder.
Draco knew the steel door led to the underground dungeons. He had no clue what the Dark Lord was planning. Deep under the heavy fear rose a spark of morbid curiosity.
"You see, Draco, I am confident that you will make a valuable addition to my army. I am also confident that I can force you to do my bidding. But first, we simply have to get over your unreasonable fear of killing, now, won't we?" The sense of menace in the tone sent all the warning bells in Draco's system clanging out of control. He wanted desperately to struggle his way out of the two brutes' iron grips and run the hell away from the monster.
"Draco, I have a gift for you." A pale, thin hand reached over Draco's shoulder, back into his line of vision. Held between bony fingers was a small phial of a dark emerald liquid. "Drink this for me, Draco." The arm curved around Draco's neck until the phial touched his lips. When Draco only tightened his lips, the Dark Lord said, "I have no qualms about putting you under the Imperius Curse, Draco, but I would appreciate it if you would save me the energy."
With a sharp feeling of self-disgust, Draco opened his mouth to allow the contents in the phial to slip down his throat. The potion was tasteless, like water.
Almost immediately, Draco felt the effects of the potion. His vision suddenly became almost painfully sharper. The tiniest of cracks in the stone wall and floor were as noticeable as a giant rift between mountains. Every inch of his skin became overly sensitive, so much so that he could feel each individual finger of the two brutes and sense the shapes of their palms. The Dark Lord's breath became harsh upon his skin, as if a rough wind had hit him instead. There was a sudden onslaught of smell that made Draco wrinkle his nose. Sweat, dirt, shampoo, soap, and the unique smell of each Death Eater assaulted his nose. Finally, his ears twitched as sounds he did not detect before became heard, as if everything that could produce a sound was amplified through a megaphone.
"An interesting potion, isn't it?" the Dark Lord whispered, but to Draco, it sounded as if he had shouted straight into his ear. "This potion increases the performance of each of your five senses up to almost five-hundred percent. Do you know what this means, Draco? Do you know that with that much of an increase in awareness, even the smallest of cuts feel like an amputation? The lightest of a pinch feels like the bite of a vicious animal? My favorite part though, Draco, is not the fact that you would be unable to fall unconscious while the potion is still in effect, but that throughout the pain, you would be aware of everything around you. Despite feeling the pain, you can still make rational decisions. And this, my dear Draco, is your punishment and my gift to you."
To say Draco was overwhelmed was an understatement. The overload of information bombarding his senses threatened to unhinge his mind. Praying mentally to whatever higher being they may be out there, Draco struggled to gather the soothing fog. Little by little, he removed himself from his surroundings until finally, he reached a tolerant point. Although everything still appeared overly intense, Draco no longer felt the pressure of going insane.
Draco heard the Dark Lord's footsteps as he returned to stand before him. Looking at the wizard through his potion-affected eyes made the Dark Lord appear more frightening than ever. Draco's blood ran cold when he saw that the Dark Lord now held a shining blade that was about half a meter long in his right hand. The edge of the blade was noticeably sharp, thinner than a piece of parchment. The Dark Lord raised the blade slowly until the tip rested lightly against Draco's stomach.
"Allow me to explain to you how the next few minutes will play out." The tip of the blade rose until it was only a finger-length away from Draco's eyes. "You will prove to me that you will follow my every order, no matter how you feel about it, because Draco, once you accept my Mark, you are mine. You body, your power, your feelings, and your thoughts are all mine. However, judging from your unwillingness to allow me into your head, you do not yet understand this." The Dark Lord jerked his head slightly toward the steel door behind him. "In that door are useless muggles, mudbloods, and blood traitors. I want your help in removing a few of them."
He lowered the blade and gave Draco another one of his blood-curdling smiles. "Bring out the first one," he said over his shoulder. Then, he returned leisurely to his position behind Draco. Despite the Dark Lord's fearsome appearance, Draco would rather he stayed where he could see him. With him hovering behind Draco with the sword, Draco wished to turn around and face him so that he could see what was coming at him. As if they sensed his thoughts, the two brutes tightened their hold on his arms. With his heightened senses, their grips felt like his arms were slowly being squished by thick iron pincers.
The screeching of the steel door got Draco's attention. From within the dim dungeons came a thin elderly man, his body forever bent with his age. A wispy beard adorned his jutting chin, bushy eyebrows partially covered his squinting eyes, and a bald scalp spotted with dark freckles gleamed in the white light. He wore a shaggy robe with clearly nothing else underneath. Shuffling forward, his eyes darted frantically from Death Eater to Death Eater and finally rested upon Draco pressed between the two huge brutes.
Theodore Nott appeared behind the old man, the only Death Eater without the white mask. He grinned maliciously at Draco over the old man's bony shoulder. He pushed the prisoner roughly forward with the tip of his wand until they stood only two meters away.
Draco's nose twitched in complaint the moment the door opened and the prisoner entered. The smell of human waste, body odor, and vomit permeated so strongly from the old man that Draco's eyes watered from the stink.
Something bumped against Draco's left hand. Looking down, Draco saw the Dark Lord's hand push a wand onto his palm. His wand. For the first time since he arrived back home, he held his wand. The familiar texture and weight in his hold felt like bliss. For a moment, he contemplated whether he could overpower everyone in the room and escape.
Of course, he dropped that thought as soon as it appeared. Besides, the left brute held his arm too firmly for him to be able to lift up his arm and aim at anything.
A cold whisper into his right ear made Draco tense his shoulders. "Kill him, Draco."
Suddenly, his left arm was released, but Draco barely noticed. His eyes widened and the fog inside his mind stirred restlessly. Immediately, he thought back to the moment on the tower, where he faced Dumbledore. He had been so scared, desperately trying to think up a way out of his situation.
"You know the incantation, Draco. Simply two words. I order you to kill this filthy mudblood." The Dark Lord's words slithered into Draco's mind. Instead of motivating him to act, however, the words only succeeded in freezing him. His body was locked in his current position, while his eyes stared into the fearful blue eyes of the stranger before him. Wrinkles at the corner of those eyes indicated a lifetime full of laughter.
Draco's heart skipped a beat as the image of his former headmaster replaced the old man. Stooped, weakened by unknown forces, Dumbledore gazed at him as if he understood, as if he desired to help him. He even offered his family protection.
"I will allow you five seconds, Draco," the Dark Lord hissed, tone dangerously low.
Draco had to kill him. This was his second chance. No one before had held this opportunity. He had a chance to fix his mistakes.
"Five."
Draco tried to gather the determination and malice required for a successful casting of the killing curse.
"Four."
Unfortunately, his efforts required him to sacrifice quite a bit of that soothing fog, and his hesitation wiped all his determination away. He stood frozen. Not even a pinkie twitched.
"Three."
Panic bloomed from deep within his gut, surging quickly throughout his body. His body still did not want to move. Never before had Draco felt a greater need to throw up.
"Two."
He couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to even mouth the killing curse's incantation in front of this old man who probably didn't have many weeks remaining.
"One."
A sudden burning pressure through his middle put a stop to all his thoughts. A fraction of a second later, his body registered the fiercest pain he had ever endured in his life. It felt as if ravenous beasts were gnawing mercilessly through his stomach.
Draco's eyes had rolled to the back of his head when he felt the horrible pain, though he did not fall unconscious. When his eyes settled back into their proper positions, he looked down to see the source of the pain.
Sticking out of his stomach, ripping through his shirt, was the Dark Lord's blade. The tip was covered in his blood, yet it still gleamed.
The pain was unbearable. Draco wanted to scream, yet nothing came out of his mouth except shallow gasps. His legs no longer bore his weight. Instead, the two brutes held him upright to prevent him from falling and running himself through with the blade.
"Draco, can you hear me?" the Dark Lord asked.
Draco heard him, although the pain prevented him from answering.
"Let me know if you can hear me, Draco." There was a warning note in the tone.
Summoning strength from places unknown, Draco forced his throat to work and his lips to move. Hearing his mouth produce an incomprehensible sound, Draco tried again. He shook violently with the effort. "Yes," he barely managed.
"Excellent," the Dark Lord hissed. "Tell me, Draco, how many Death Eaters are there in this room?"
Draco struggled to calm his mind. Where's that blasted fog?
His overly sensitive skin felt the blade give a slight twitch, as if it would twist inside him. Frantically, Draco sniffed and strained his ears. White mask after white mask blurred with the saccades of his eyes. Keeping track of each individual intake of breath, smelling each unique scent, Draco counted. "Thirty-seven," he rasped.
The blade abruptly twisted, forcing Draco to let out a groan.
"Thirty-seven? That's odd, Draco. I counted thirty-eight. Do you no longer count yourself as my loyal Death Eater?" The tone was colder than ever.
Somehow, Draco still had enough control over his inner mind to curse himself. This was not the time to act stupid. "Thirty-eight," he said quickly. Oh, the pain.
He heard the Dark Lord chuckle. Then, he said, "Nott, show Draco what I wanted him to do. Perhaps the boy needed a demonstration beforehand."
Draco's eyes immediately swiveled to land on Nott. His old schoolmate appeared bored, standing with his weight on one leg. Almost lazily, he aimed his wand at the old man's back. Before Draco could even widen his eyes, he heard Nott murmur, "Avada Kedavra."
The spell flashed green, and then the prisoner fell face-forward, his expression not even slightly changed.
Draco stared dumbly at the dead body.
However, the pain searing inside him didn't allow him to be concerned about what he had just witnessed. He felt his blood trickling down the sword wound, dampening the waistline of his trousers.
"Draco, I will give you another chance," the Dark Lord hissed into his ear. "But be warned that for every time you disobey me, the blade goes closer to your heart. This sword was created with old magic and will easily slice through your muscles and bones. Do not worry, I will be sure to avoid any other vital organs. Ready, Draco?" Without waiting for Draco to answer, he called out, "The next one."
No one made a move to retrieve the old man's body. Draco couldn't help but stare at the unmoving figure, trying his best to ignore the searing pain. He found himself wishing for the Cruciatus Curse instead of this. The potion made the pain too sharp, too fierce.
When the second prisoner was brought up by Nott, Draco actually believed that the pain had succeeded in splintering his mind to insanity.
The tall, gangly body was slumped in either pain or exhaustion. Hands curled in tight fists. Limp, red hair hung forward, covering up half his face. However, Draco could still make out the pale brown freckles through the filthy locks. With his enhanced vision, he noticed plenty of bruises on lightly-muscled arms, and even around the neck. Dry lips were cracked and bleeding.
It was Ron Weasley, that dirt-poor Gryffindor idiot who appointed himself as Potter's useless sidekick.
The weasel appeared to be just as surprised as Draco. His hand flew to his face to sweep away the hair to reveal widened incredulous blue eyes.
The potion kept Draco aware enough during the pain for him to be able to tell that the redhead was not well. Dark circles stood out under bloodshot eyes. His skin was paler than usual. Even those abominable freckles seemed paler.
"I have no more use for this blood traitor, Draco. Kill him for me. Once again, I will allow you five seconds."
Draco could do nothing but stare once again. His days at Hogwarts seemed lifetimes ago. To see such an unexpected figure from that long-ago past suddenly brought up feelings of such a deep sadness that it slightly dulled the agony. How he wished he could be back in that time, in a moment when he didn't have to fear for his and his family's lives. He had enjoyed his childish bouts with Weasley. Oddly, it felt even harder to lift his wand against such a familiar face, although he had no qualms about it before.
His nostalgia was brutally cut short. Draco felt the sword viciously rip upwards through his body. For the first time in all of his torture sessions, he let out an agonized scream. He had felt his muscles tear apart and his ribs sliced as if they were butter.
"Really, Draco. Judging from the blood traitor's memories, the two of you despised each other. You are trying my patience, my boy." Indeed, the Dark Lord sounded angry. Draco could hear his icy voice through his own screams, thanks to that blasted potion.
Draco forced himself to stop screaming once the initial shock wore off. He gasped more heavily than before. He felt light-headed from the blood loss. He hung his head and closed his eyes when his vision blurred.
"Bring in the next one!" the Dark Lord shouted. He sounded impatient, annoyed. He thrust his face closer to Draco's ear. "Kill for me, Draco," he hissed.
Draco struggled to lift up his head. Opening his eyes, he first noticed that the weasel was still alive. Was the Dark Lord that keen on getting him to kill someone that he would forget about that ginger? He transferred his gaze sluggishly from the weasel to what appeared to be a young girl who couldn't be more than five years old. Her face was tiny, emphasizing her large green eyes. The girl looked horrified as she stared transfixed at the blade poking out of him.
"She's a useless muggle, Draco. A sister of a mudblood. Kill her, and you would be doing the world a favor."
Draco gripped his wand tighter. The blade was so close to his heart. Why should he sacrifice himself for these people? They meant nothing to him. He had to get over his irrational hesitation and do it!
His throat convulsed as he tried to swallow. The left brute supported him by gripping onto his upper arm and shoulder, leaving him free to lift up his wand and take aim. He did it slowly, and noticed when the little girl's gaze shifted from his wound to his wand. He heard Weasley draw in a quick breath.
The incantation sat on the tip of his tongue. He had to do this. He couldn't die right now, not when he still needed to rescue his mother and father.
His lips mouthed the words, but no sound came out. He grinded his teeth, then tried again. Still, nothing came out. His arm was weak and shaking violently. His wand felt heavier than anything he had ever carried in his life. Holding it was too much of an effort, and groaning, Draco allowed his arm to drop back to his side.
The Dark Lord's reaction was quick. The blade tore further up his torso, stopping just before the aorta. Draco could sense that small distance and knew he was close to death.
It was suddenly too difficult to breathe, and he felt his breaths involuntarily slow down. His vision became blurrier. The smells that were previously so strong dulled to nothing. His ears felt clogged and every sound he registered seemed muffled. This rapid change scared Draco. Am I dying?
Draco did not want to die. Giving up his life went against every fiber of his being. His godfather's voice sounded in his head. I trust you to keep yourself alive.
However, the tip of the blade teased him, worried him, as it was just a few millimeters from snipping that vital aorta artery. The excruciating agony surging across his entire body did not help him foster any determination either. Draco knew he was panicking during a crucial moment, but he could not help it. He was too close to death, and he did not want to die.
"Last chance, Draco. I do wish it has not come to this." The Dark Lord's voice sounded distant in Draco's head. Draco tried to convert the growing flame of panic into something more helpful. Instead, he became aware of a terrifying obsidian fog rolling across his mind like thunderheads. This fog did not appear to be his usual inner shield that protected him from unwanted thoughts and feelings. This fog was something else. It felt menacing, dark, and deadly. He was falling unconscious. After only a few minutes, the potion was wearing off. Somehow, Draco understood that if he passed out, the chances of him waking again were slim. He had lost too much blood in the last few minutes.
Blearily, Draco raised his head. His terror-stricken mind struggled to keep the menacing fog at bay. The pain felt insignificant in contrast to his growing panic. He must get this right. He must stay alive. He knew he was a powerful wizard, capable of enduring anything. He would get through this torture session wounded but alive. He shakily raised his wand, desperately convincing himself that he could do this.
The sight of the new prisoner kneeling on the stone floor had Draco abruptly choking on air. For one time too many, his resolve flew out the window. Time seemed to slow down as he stared into those familiar light-blue eyes. As a child, he strived to make those beautiful eyes glow alight with approval and laughter. Now, those same eyes gazed in horror right back at him, full with unshed tears.
It was his mother. The Dark Lord wanted him to kill his own mother. The dark unfamiliar fog thundered ever closer as Draco's emotions whirled in troubled chaos.
Mother and son stared silently at one another. The blade tensed near his fluttering heart, and all was still.