Draco awoke on the bed feeling marginally more comfortable. He felt warm, and his neck was less sore than it had been since sleeping on that chair. Bloody stupid mudblood. And fuck the stupid idiot who had put him here, he would kill them. Never mind being Crucio'd, they were torturing him enough just leaving him here with nothing for entertainment but Granger.
He tossed uncomfortably and hugged the warm thing in his arms tighter.
WHAT?!
His eyes flew open, horrified to find he was clutching Granger's legs and feet to his chest. He scrambled to sit up as he shoved them away, revolted. She was still sleeping, her unruly curls just visible at the bottom of the bed. Thank Merlin for that.
He shuddered. Why the bloody hell was she still in the bed? Stubborn bitch.
He got himself to his feet, suddenly feeling extremely dirty. He headed to the bathroom, flicking the light switch with not much hope. The room had one bulb, but thank merlin the room lit up dimly. He looked into the mirror and noted he looked an absolute mess.
His shirt was torn and grimey, he looked like he had died and came back to life. He was ghostly pale, almost grey.
He looked away from his reflection towards the bath and prayed that there was hot water. He turned the stiff tap, which sputtered a little before lukewarm water flowed out slowly. There was also an old bar of soap on the side of the bathtub. At least he could wash.
He scrubbed away the grime on his body as best he could. He wistfully thought of his grand clawfoot tub at the Malfoy Manor, with his magically warmed towels. At the thought, he looked around and sighed in resignation as he noted that there was nothing to dry himself with.
After a few minutes, he climbed out of the tub and was hit by the cold air on his wet skin. He grimaced, shivering, as he used the clean parts of his shirt to dry himself rather unsuccessfully. He pulled back on his trousers, but refused to put his dirty and wet shirt back on.
He walked out of the room and back to the bed, where Granger was still asleep. He felt like shoving her out, but then he would have to listen to her incessant whining and he really did not feel like arguing just now. He climbed carefully back into the bed, relishing the warmth. He could see his breath in front of him when he breathed. Putting as much room between him and the witch as he could spare, he lay back down as he tried to heat himself up.
Great. Stuck in a freezing cold room, huddled in bed with a mudblood. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut and go back to sleep, but his brain was thumping and he had a million anxious thoughts whirring through his mind. Disregarding the fact he was kidnapped, in all honesty, he had had a hard time sleeping without dreamless sleep for months now.
Every time he tried to drift off, his mind became a battlefield of haunting memories. The images of people being tortured flashed before Draco's eyes, each one a stark reminder of the darkness that had consumed his world. He saw faces contorted with pain, their cries echoing in his ears. The sounds of curses and spells being cast, the crackling of dark magic, filled his mind. The vivid recollection of the Dark Lord's wrath and the screams of his victims sent shivers down his spine.
The war raged on, its chaos and destruction permeating every aspect of Draco's life. In the midst of the ongoing conflict, his focus shifted primarily towards himself and his family. Initially, he had believed that if he could fulfil the task assigned to him, killing Dumbledore, his life would somehow become easier. But instead, it had turned into a relentless nightmare, haunting him at every turn.
Draco had been naive to think that eliminating Dumbledore would magically solve all his problems. The weight of the task, the burden of carrying out an act of violence against the revered headmaster, had taken a toll on his already fragile conscience. He had underestimated the consequences of his actions, and now he found himself trapped in a never-ending spiral of fear and uncertainty. His least favourite recurring nightmare was a memory of Dumbledore on the Astronomy tower.
"You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts ... so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it..."
Draco clenched his fists, anger surging through him as the memory resurfaced once more. Dumbledore's final words had haunted him for an entire year, replaying in his mind like a broken record. The old fool, always trying to find the good in everyone, had dared to speak to Draco with unwavering compassion.
Draco had indeed made an effort. He had tried his best, despite the weight of his mission that felt like an inevitable death sentence. But then, in a twist of fate, everything had changed. The desperation within him had reached its breaking point, fueled by the Dark Lord's relentless threats against him and his family. Their lives were held at the mercy of his father's failures.
And then it happened. He did it. Dumbledore died. The monumental event that shook the wizarding world to its core. But Draco knew the truth. Snape had seen through his wavering and weakness. In a calculated move, Snape had stepped in and taken the life of the great wizard himself.
The resulting conflicting emotions had swirled within Draco. On one hand, there was a sense of relief that he had been spared the burden of ending Dumbledore's life. On the other, he felt a surge of bitterness towards Snape for robbing him of that opportunity, for extinguishing any chance for Draco to prove his worth and loyalty to the Dark Lord. More recently however, he had struggled to admit that maybe Snape had done him a favour. There was a brief moment when Draco had wavered, his wand lowering a fraction of an inch as he took in Dumbeldore's last words to him.
The pressure to prove his loyalty to the Dark Lord and the expectations placed upon him by his family suffocated Draco. He constantly walked a tightrope, trying to maintain appearances and uphold the ideals ingrained in him from a young age. But the reality of the situation had shattered the facade of superiority he once wore. Despite his ability to do the unthinkable and play an instrumental part in the murder of Dumbledore, the Dark Lord still saw fit to punish Draco as he saw fit.
He had forced him to Crucio his muggle studies teacher, as practice. He had tried his best, swallowing the bile rising in his throat as his former professor had begged him to let her go. And when Draco hadn't managed to inflict enough pain, he himself had been Crucio'd, as "demonstration".
He had never felt anything like it. His body had felt alight with a thousand blades of fire, penetrating his very soul. He didn't know if it had been hours or minutes.
"You have to truly mean it, you weak hearted boy. You have to want to see the light leave their eyes and feel the screams of their pain until they submit themselves to you fully. Do you see now, Draco?" His master had crooned in a low voice, as Draco writhed on the floor in the aftermath of his torture.
Since then, Draco had become a master at concealing his emotions in the presence of the Dark Lord. The fear that gripped him was relentless, a constant reminder of the consequences of failure. Whenever he was forced to engage in acts of torture or take another's life, he drew upon the memory of his own torment, using it as a twisted source of motivation to carry out the same pain on his victims.
With every curse and every strike of his wand, Draco disconnected himself from the humanity of those he harmed. He averted his gaze, refusing to meet their eyes, as if it could shield him from the reality of the pain he inflicted. He dissociated from the horror unfolding before him, allowing himself to become a vessel for the Dark Lord's cruel desires.
The echoes of his own suffering resonated within Draco as his wand slashed through the air, leaving devastation in its wake. He couldn't escape the haunting knowledge that he was perpetuating the same anguish that had been inflicted upon him. The torment he endured had twisted his perspective, blurring the lines between victim and perpetrator, as he reluctantly mirrored the actions of his master.
During his waking hours, his mask stayed firmly in place. He played a great pawn to the Dark Lord, never complaining despite the unthinkable acts the Dark Lord expected of him. It was only at night time, when his subconscious mind swam back into focus, that the faces and screams of his victims swam to the surface of his mind.
He never forgot the face of a single person he had tortured. Never forgot the sound of their shrieks, never forgot each way they had begged him to stop. Not one.
He closed his eyes, wishing more than ever he had his dreamless sleep potion, and tried his best to tune out the phantom screams, to ignore the fact he was curled up in bed with Granger for company.
No luck. His mind continued to race, and he eventually gave up on sleep and sat up, staring around the room. There was something distinctly familiar about the room, although he was sure he had never been here before. It was just the familiar feeling of presence, the style of the wallpaper, something nagged at him.
His eyes wandered to the sleeping mudblood in front of him. He stared as the blanket around her rose and fell slowly with her breaths. His mind drifted to the look on her face as she took in his dark mark.
He had no intention of calling his master, but he certainly wouldn't tell her that. The very thought of summoning his master here, to admit to being captured, to admit that he had been in this room with Granger and left her alive, was too much to think about. He could only imagine the punishment he would receive for allowing himself to get into this situation, even if he had no recollection of why he was here.
He thought with a pang of his mother, who would no doubt be in hysterics awaiting his return. He often caught her staring at him with remorse and guilt, although she told him often that she was proud of how useful he had become to the Dark Lord. Still, she was his mother, and he knew she fretted for him every time he had to meet with his Master and didn't stop worrying until he had returned safely to the manor.
His father shared her proud sentiments, and did his best to continue to grovel to the Dark Lord to make up for his failures throughout the past years. As his father wallowed in the aftermath of his failures, Draco grappled with the repercussions. The Dark Lord, unforgiving and merciless, took pleasure in punishing Lucius for his shortcomings. However, Draco had noted a disturbing trend: the burden of these punishments was increasingly shifting onto his own shoulders. Unsure whether it was a sign of his master's trust or a means to torment his father further, Draco found himself entangled in ever more perilous tasks.
The burden had worn on him as time progressed. And now he was stuck here, while his master was no doubt furious with him, with the mudblood bitch sleeping by his side.
As Draco stared at the witch sleeping calmly in front of him, he wrestled with a dark temptation, contemplating the ease of ending her life in that very moment. He envisioned countless methods, even without the aid of magic. It would be so easy.
Yet, as he gazed upon her serene, peaceful slumber, an unfamiliar feeling crept over him. The absence of an explicit order to kill her and the prospect of having to use his own hands made him pause. Weariness consumed him, weakening his resolve. Despite his disdain for the witch before him, he found himself unable to go through with it.
He was certain to go mad in this very room. He almost hoped his captor would make an appearance, at least to give him some inclination of why on earth he was here and what was to be done with him.
He was still contemplating when Granger stirred, opening her eyes and stared straight back at him.