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: Dark themes, language

Chapter 6

As usual, Draco quickly regained his composure and schooled his face to show a detached amusement. "Well, if this isn't the most pathetic sight I've seen yet," he said, his voice light and scathing. Four pairs of eyes narrowed at him in the gloom, and Draco gave them a cheery smile. "You Weasleys seem to be more dense then I thought, seeing that half of you have gotten yourselves captured."

Suddenly, the tallest one, Potter's sidekick, leapt to grab the bars near Draco's face. "Fuck off you pointy git. We're not telling any of you anything more!"

Draco curled his lips. "I have never been interested in what you had to say. Why the hell would I start now?" Seeing the freckled face stirred a particular annoyance inside him that he hadn't felt in a long time. With difficulty, he stifled the feeling and peered around him at the depressing scene. The absence of his mother in this filth gave him mixed emotions. He was glad she didn't have to suffer in here, and yet, he despaired of not finding her before he left.

The little girl by his side stepped up and grabbed the side of his trousers again. "Ron!" Because she was unable to pronounce the "r," it came out rather like, "Won!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco noticed blue eyes widening in recognition. "Sophie! Where have you been?" There was a clear tone of relief in his voice.

Draco looked from the girl, to Weasley, and back again. Before she could reply to the question, Draco asked, "Sophie's your name?" When the girl nodded, he continued, "And you know him?" He jerked his head toward the redhead.

She nodded enthusiastically. "It's Ron! My friend!"

"Really," Draco grimaced. He glanced at the lanky figure gripping the bars and noticed that his long legs and arms showed a familiar trembling. "I can't for the life of me see why you would want to be his friend."

"Piss off, Malfoy." Weasley muttered. He sounded tired. In fact, his voice shook somewhat at the last syllable. He stepped back from the bars and slid down to sit on the floor.

Draco took one last look around the cell, but the Weasleys were really the only ones left in the dungeons. Without another word, he turned toward the exit, telling himself that it was finally time escape the manor. His mother wasn't here. To his irritation, Sophie did not move, nor did she lessen her grip. "Come on. We have to go." With a slight smirk, he added over his shoulder, "There's nothing here."

"Can Ron come with us?"

Draco heard more shuffling from the cell behind him but didn't turn around. He answered through gritted teeth, "I don't have time for this." Small snippets of his rivalry with the Golden Trio flashed through his mind. Quiddich games. The mudblood's punch. That bloody hippogriff. Almost dying in a bathroom. Draco didn't see each member of the Golden Trio as an individual; in his mind, the three Gryffindors made up one entity whose sole purpose was to aggravate him. He pulled the girl toward him, raising a foot toward the exit.

"Please wait," a female's voice called out through the bars.

Draco froze, recognizing the voice belonging to the youngest Weasley but still felt no desire to turn around.

"Please. I think – he's…please, he's dying." Her voice was small, trembling. Draco heard an almost inaudible mutter replying to her plea. "No, shut up. You need help," he heard the girl reply, her voice now stern.

Potter's sidekick gave a great gusty sigh. "Just quit it, Ginny. The ferret's not going to help us. Just let him go." Draco's lips twitched at the nickname. With a bitter taste in his mouth, he started walking, pulling Sophie with him.

When he was barely six steps away, he heard the Weasley girl cry out again. "Wait! You're just going to walk away, after what you did? You owe us, Malfoy! Your entire damn family owes us! But you, you fucking coward, owe us the most. Do you even realize what you did when you let in those Death Eaters? Because of you, Dumbledore's dead. Because of you, Bill's…he pretends he's fine, but I know he's suffering still. Do you have any idea how much pain you and your family have caused us? To me, and to everyone I've cared about?"

Before Draco could stop himself, he whirled around hard enough for Sophie to lose her grip on him. His steps back to the front of the cell were slow, deliberate. He struggled to control his breathing, but it was difficult. It felt as though something squeezed his chest, suffocating him. He had never felt this angry in his life.

As soon as he caught sight of the roomful of blue eyes, the anger left him as quickly as it had come. Draco knew he did not feel anger toward these people who chose a different path. Instead, it came from recognizing the unwanted guilt that haunted him every time he closed his eyes as he fell asleep. For too long, he fought to keep the feeling hidden, to banish it. Despite his efforts, it clung like stubborn vines, clutching and pricking him until the pain was so raw, his body finally allowed the bliss of unconsciousness to reach him. But even then, his nightmares recounted the screams, the smell of blood, and the electric feel of the air left by powerful spells on that night he chose to betray himself for the sake of both his life and his family.

Draco sucked in a deep, trembling breath. For the first time, someone had managed to bring that guilt to surface in the presence of others. He felt disoriented. This was a feeling meant only for times when he was certain he was alone. Standing here, in front of all these Weasleys, for the first time in his life, Draco was at a lost as to what to say.

He caught the eye of Ron Weasley, who stared back defiantly, neither cowed nor pleading, and let out his breath. A jumble of emotions threatened to make him ill, and determinedly, he suppressed them. Without a word, he brought the back of his left hand up to his mouth and bit hard into the pale skin.

Draco ignored the four sets of surprised eyes, moving his right hand to cover the wound he had made. Licking the irony blood off his lips, he wrapped his bloody hand around a bar of the gate, allowing the old magic of the manor to register his Malfoy lineage. It was precisely this spell preventing the imprisonment of Malfoys in their own home that led to Draco being held in the lone cell across the manor, the purpose of which used to be a holding pen for dangerous and magical creatures.

Draco caught a look of disgust upon Ron's face and heard the wizard mutter, "Blood magic." His expression brought Draco back to himself, reminding him of the situation at hand. It really was time to get out of here. He pulled the gate open and stepped aside.

He watched silently as Ron and Ginny glanced disbelievingly at each other. At the same time, they scrambled quickly to their feet to step out of their cell, as if they were afraid Draco would slam the gate shut if they didn't move fast enough. Now that they moved, Draco could see that the remaining redheads in the prison were none other than the notorious Weasley twins, Fred and George.

One of the twins had stood up, bending down to help support the other, who looked to be in even worse condition than both Draco and Ron put together. Seeing their struggle, Ron went and helped, holding up the limp twin on his other side. The three brothers made a slow progress as they stepped onto the thin pathway leading toward the exit.

Draco stood there, considering his situation. He was badly hurt. His mother was missing. Azkaban still held his father. He was stuck with Weasleys, one of which seemed likely to collapse at any second, and a young muggle girl barely out of toddler age wanting to find her own mother. Additionally, and probably the most daunting of all, Draco did not have his wand.

Before frustration could bubble up inside of him, Draco spoke, "The only Death Eaters here are upstairs, so our way out should be clear. Unless any of you know where they keep the wands, I suggest we leave immediately." When none of them spoke up, Draco sighed. "Fine. Keep up with me. I will leave you behind if you're too slow."

Without waiting to see if anyone was following him, Draco headed directly toward the stairs leading out of the dungeons, recalling a hidden exit in one of the kitchen cupboards. He grimaced when he felt Sophie's hand grab the fabric of his pants again but refused to acknowledge her.

As he climbed the stairs, crossed the cellar, and returned to the kitchen, Draco tried not to think about what his escape signified. He attempted to ignored the tiny niggle of thought trying to convince him that he was turning his back on everything he had ever lived for. The Malfoy name represented nothing but disgrace on both sides of the upcoming war. He had betrayed Hogwarts, but now, he had also betrayed the values and beliefs his family had always supported. At his side was a muggle, and behind him, a group of blood traitors.

Draco swallowed the nausea rising up in his throat as he stared at one particular cupboard that seemed no different from the rest. He closed his eyes to calm his mind, ignoring the chattering of the Weasley family, and coaxed a wave of determination across his body.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. Fuck the Dark Lo…Voldemort. Fuck the Death Eaters and his family's pureblood legacy. Fuck the war. Draco was finished with this mess. From now on, his choices were for himself. They would only benefit himself. Only he mattered. Only his parents mattered. He didn't want honor, vengeance, or redemption. Both sides of the war could go bugger themselves; Draco would have none of it. He was done.

Finally, Draco opened his eyes. Straightening his shoulders, he reached out to open the cupboard, to escape his prison at last.