Draco didn't notice the blasting spell until the moment it hit him, hurling his body back, his spine banging against a rosewood bedpost. His vision swam for a moment, fuzzy shapes dancing around a pool of black and red.

By the time his retinas returned to reality, Hermione had already clambered up the windowsill, mounting a broom behind none other than a pink-haired Nymphadora Tonks, her ponytail disheveled in the wind.

"Wotcher, Malfoy!" Tonks called out, drifting the broom slowly with Hermione latched on behind her. "Accidentally let your prisoner out for a little climb?"

Draco's retort was a curse, spat from his lips with venom. It crackled through the air, but Tonks deflected it with a lazy flick of her wand and a smirk.

"Been keeping an eye on you lot," she informed him, her tone almost conversational. "Imagine my surprise when we saw our dear Hermione hanging from your window. Getting sloppy, aren't you?"

His jaw clenched, muscles working beneath his pallid skin. He did not do sloppy. Yet here he was, letting Hermione escape on a fucking Cleansweep right before his eyes.

She belonged to him. She had stumbled into his Manor, invaded his sanctum—then he had dueled her and won, for Merlin's sake. She'd spent hours spent tending to his greenhouse, and he was the one she chose to confide in about her top-secret research, her top-secret secrets.

He had been the one sharing the couch with her, indulging in her carefree intoxication—he had been the one who'd tasted her lips, who'd grazed the tender skin below her neck. Who knew Hermione Granger harbored anything soft within her? He did—undoubtedly, he did now.

He had plans for her. No one could snatch her away, especially not a certain Nymphadora Tonks, with a shite-eating grin on her damn face.

Annoyance burnt inside him, kindling flaring into a rage in his chest, and he stumbled to his feet with a snarl. He advanced toward the window, tracking the pair's retreating form, exchanging fire with Tonks. Bursts of lightning collided in midair, violent pigments against the murky sky. Tonks was clearly a well-practiced dueler, and on a broom, her maneuvers were impossible to predict. Draco growled in frustration as spell after spell were deflected.

"You okay?" he heard Tonks yell at Hermione in between curses. Hermione replied with something inaudible, fear in her eyes. She was helpless without a wand, clutching onto the broom with white knuckles.

She hates flying. The thought struck Draco as Hermione almost jerked off the broom, letting out a shriek. Tonks swiveled around with the reflexes of a seasoned Auror, steadying her with an arm.

With her wand arm wrapped around Hermione, Tonks left their entire right side uncovered—now that was a mistake.

"Accio!" Draco hissed. The broom jolted toward him, Tonks and Hermione both whipping to the left. Tonks managed to stay aloft, twitching her wand to cancel the spell, but Hermione slid off her seat, clinging onto the underside of the broom. She screeched uncontrollably, torso swinging in the wind.

"Tonks!"

"On it!"

"I'm slipping!"

Draco's mouth went dry as he stared at Hermione, whose legs slid off the broom and began frantically kicking the air. In a heartbeat, Tonks managed to flip Hermione right-side-up with her wand and rebalance the broom in a maneuver that could only be described as a miracle of dexterity.

Hermione was plopped back on the broom, but before Draco could return to his wits and summon them again, Tonks threw a purple jet of light at him, forcing him into a crouch.

"Hope you like getting blown to bits, you wanker!" she yelled, firing another blasting curse, shattering a window to Draco's right. She let loose another barrage of spells that met Draco's shield. A stray curse met the feathery limbs of a birch below, tearing the branches down with a deafening crash.

Tonks took advantage of Draco's defensive position, pivoting the broom and accelerating away from him. Hermione twisted toward him, tracking his movements.

Shite. He needed something, and he needed it quick.

"Imperio!" Draco shouted. He had a split second to register the alarm in Hermione's eyes before the spell made contact with Tonks, who raised a useless shield.

"No!" Hermione yelled. "Voldemort will know!"

He had no time to consider her words as a soothing hum enveloped him, pitching him into control. It had hit Tonks. He felt the spell sputtering in and out like the beginning of a cough, but he could handle Tonks's resistance—he could feel it deeply, the assurance from the wards of the Manor.

Fly the broom to the window.

The command registered, and Tonks adjusted, the broom veering toward Draco standing at the sill. A mere two meters away, Hermione leaned forward with a wobbly one-armed reach, snatching Tonks's wand from her grip. She muttered something as she slashed the wand, and the broom seemed to bounce in its trajectory, springing in midair like a rubberband. The recoil nearly sent her soaring again, but she somehow clung on, applying a Sticking Charm between herself, Tonks, and the broom.

With Hermione clutching onto Tonks's wand like a lifeline, they flew parallel to the Manor, eluding Draco's direct aim. Draco felt the Imperius fizzling out with the increasing distance between them. They were above the gates now, almost out the wards. The syllables of another Imperius rolled off the tip of his tongue, but the spell missed, veering too far left.

"Fuck!" he roared, summoning his Nimbus from his closet. He would follow them. He would pursue them—no way in hell he was letting her escape. Stepping out the window, he mounted his broom in haste, leaning forward to propel through the chilly wind with dangerous speed.

Midway across the front lawn, three dark shapes materialized just under Tonks and Hermione's trajectory, causing him to hitch his broom in surprise.

Death Eaters.

Tonks and Hermione's course jerked erratically as they spotted them.

"Go, go!" Hermione urged Tonks as she turned around, flicking her wand toward the Manor. Draco couldn't discern the spell's effect, his confusion lingering. But before he could ponder it further, Tonks accelerated the broom, speeding toward the ward boundary.

Hermione flicked the wand again—a disillusionment. The two disappeared, but not before one of the Death Eaters flicked a curse in their direction.

It made contact.

Hermione's scream shattered the air, a high wail cutting through the wind and penetrating his ears like a scalpel through skin. Then, it was cut off abruptly with a loud pop.

They'd Disapparated.

"What was that?" Draco shouted at the hooded figures below him. They didn't answer and Draco brought his broom into a sharp dive, landing a carriage length from them.

"What the hell was that?" Draco demanded, commanding his broom into his hand, stalking toward the end of the ward boundary where they stood. "The spell? What was it?"

They exchanged a few inaudible words before two finally took off their masks. Draco vaguely recognized one of them, a stocky kiss-arse a few years older than himself—Moro Stilgin was his name. The second one, a rough-looking man with a scraggly beard, was part of Greyback's group of former Snatchers—Draco had forgotten the low-blooded git's name. Draco turned to the former.

"Stilgin! What was that?"

"Malfoy," Stilgin drawled, his voice just as nasally and annoying as he'd remembered. Draco stepped closer to him, staring down his snooty expression.

"Shut up. What did you do before they—before they left?"

Stilgin raised his eyebrows. "Impressed with my wandwork? I seem to have better aim than you did."

Draco glared at him. "Was it lethal or not? I need to know how many Undesirables I'll need to report alive, one or two."

"It was a blood curdler. Lethal if they don't have a good Healer. Let's hope they don't."

Draco's nostrils flared in response, but he forced his expression into a haughty annoyance. "Let's hope you didn't bloody kill the Undesirable before we've gotten to question her."

"That was the Granger bitch, eh? And the metamorphmagus?" the other Death Eater finally spoke, breathing fast. "We woulda snagged two big 'uns if we'da came a second earlier. Why the bloody hell were they here?"

Draco shrugged. "How would I know? They just fucking appeared and disappeared a minute ago. Why the bloody hell are you here?"

Stilgin turned his gaze to the tallest Death Eater, whose mask remained firmly in place. With his crony remaining silent, Stilgin continued with a smug gleam in his eyes.

"You've been detected using two Imperius curses on this property. According the Dark Lord's latest decree, Unforgivables are illegal for non-registered Death Eaters and are punishable by two years in prison," Stilgin said. He gave Draco a nasty little smile. "As a non-registered Death Eater, you'll have to answer for that… and the unexpected visitors that you just let slip away."

"I was trying to catch the Undesirables! I had to use the Imperius! Or do your eyes not bloody work?" Draco spat, advancing on the smaller man. A small feeling of satisfaction rippled through him when Stilgin instinctively stepped back, hovering pathetically near the masked Death Eater.

"It's three on one, Malfoy. Don't threaten us," Stilgin snapped, pushing his chin up. "We're searching your grounds and then taking you to the Dark Lord for punishment. You're something of… an irregular case. We have the authority to use force if necessary."

Irregular case? Bugger the fucking decrees. His registration had been stripped shortly after the war, but it would be no time before he had it back.

Stilgin spun around with an unnecessary flourish, marching with the former-Snatcher toward the main gate while muttering some revealing charm on the property. Draco cursed them under his breath.

The masked Death Eater remained eerily still, merely propping up his wand arm toward Draco. Though seemingly nonchalant, Draco discerned the subtle positioning, recognizing it as a dueling stance. With his wand angled directly toward Draco, it was almost as if he expected to exchange curses.

"Who are you, their mute friend?" Draco sneered at him, hands locked around his own wand.

The man didn't respond to the provocation, but he kept his wand aloft as he took off his mask.

As a few strands of lanky black hair slipped out from under the hood, Draco's wariness spun into sudden comprehension.

It was none other than Severus fucking Snape.

In the Hall, the Dark Lord was quick—brutally efficient. Stilgin had barely concluded his explanation when Voldemort slid into Draco's mind, his familiar, chiling presence infiltrating his thoughts.

His shields were up—they'd been ready since he'd been Apparated into the gold-sconced mansion. A lifeline of feeder thoughts waited in the foyer of his mind, a litany of images and intentions he'd prepared throughout the last few years.

He'd steeled himself as he was led to Voldemort through the dark hallway. He'd had plenty of practice already. The only complication was a new directive—not dwelling upon the escape that had just unfolded across his front lawn. If he thought of Granger—if he allowed himself to feel the loss—Draco shook his head sharply, staring ahead into the ugly pool of Snape's bat-wing robes. He chased the thought out of his mind.

Voldemort sought answers, and Draco supplied them. Why were two top Undesirables interested in Malfoy Manor? He couldn't fathom why, but he pushed forth a surge of smug importance now that they had targeted him. How had they gotten in? No clue, though the Malfoy wards had been shaky lately. What were the two Imperius curses used for? To catch the Undesirables and deliver them firsthand to the Dark Lord; it was only logical. Why weren't his mother or father with him? Because they were useless, dammit. Here, Draco let the truth take over, allowing the disdain to wash over his consciousness, sending waves of it to the intruder in his mind.

Bellatrix cackled when Narcissa arrived, then Lucius. His mother's eyes were wide with fear, his father's cloudy with confusion. Voldemort had just exited Draco's mind, finding nothing of particular interest. He would turn to torture next; it was the way he conducted these things.

The first Crucio tore a scream from Draco, his nerve endings tearing themselves apart. Every millimeter of his body felt like it was on fire—a searing, excruciating burn that felt worse than anything death could bring.

Narcissa's pleas echoed in the air—stop, stop, please, he didn't know! Draco wished someone would silence her. It was just like that time all over again, but he had more conviction that he'd live this time around. He'd proven his worth, after all, with the cage, and the Dark Lord needed all the pureblooded protégés he could find.

It was unendurable, hearing his mother's wasted words. The pain engulfed his body, but he wished it would take his mind. Don't you realize you're making it worse, Mother? It was far easier, to blink his bleary eyes apart and see his father, looking away with a dead expression, like the gaze of cattle resigned to their fate.

Draco Malfoy, you have violated a decree twice over. However, the Dark Lord is merciful and regrets the waste of such a bloodline. I shall grant you one last chance to prove your worth. Fail me again, and the consequences will be severe.

The words weren't for him. Voldemort toyed with him carelessly, performing for the audience. Draco was blinking in and out of consciousness, knowing he'd soon be impossible to question further.

So… close.

Draco reached for the embrace of nothingness.

"While I may appreciate this… spectacle, he is hardly deserving of further attention, my Lord," Snape's voice interjected with his characteristic coolness. The greasy bastard was standing very closely nearby, but he sounded a world away. "Your schedule is filled with more pressing engagements today."

The Dark Lord uttered something that sounded like agreement, but Draco couldn't be sure. He was fading into a darkness that swallowed him like a tide, echoes of voices lapping into distant murmurs as he sank beneath.

20 months prior

The laboratory was a windowless expanse of steel and cold blue-tinged lighting, the air heavy with the wet-sock stench Draco had only grown to hate more over time. Perched rigidly on a tall stool before a stone countertop, Draco tapped his fingers together impatiently, his legs growing numb from the prolonged stillness.

Finally, from the brewing room emerged Snape, his Potions robe billowing behind him. He always wore the same robe, a billowing cascade of black with a thumbprint-sized bleach stain on the left arm. It stunk of kerosene and Draco had come to associate the scent with Lylium Subimperium, even as he had no idea how the potion truly tasted.

"Last dose," Snape declared, holding forth a vial of the greenish beige, spoiled-meat colored potion. "I'll have no more use for you after this, so spare me your presence."

Draco swallowed his surprise, instead narrowing his gaze at Snape.

"How absolutely thrilling," he said with a scoff, insincerity coating his voice. "Would you like me to thank you?"

Snape remained silent, his expression as unreadable as ever. He flicked his wand to spell the potion into Draco's stomach as usual, but there was no preparation this time, no spell tracking his breathing, no pulse-reader—just the stool, and the Sticking Charm holding him to it.

"Tell me when," Snape instructed impassively. "Don't force me to clean you up again."

"But that was rather fun, wasn't it?" Draco retorted, a dry smile on his lips. "I thoroughly enjoyed waking up in my own piss."

"Silence," Snape commanded, but his attention seemed divided. He scrutinized a chart adorned with indecipherable runes, eyebrows furrowing together. "Say the word, or there will be consequences."

Draco snorted.

As if getting dosed with an experimental poison every weekend wasn't a consequence enough. As if there existed a fate worse than feeling his own flesh crack open and letting his veins bleed out like an open faucet. As if there was something more humiliating than waking up in his underwear like a soiled corpse, in front of Death Eaters clapping Snape on the back like he'd spun some elaborate joke.

"No enhancers this time? Did you forget the Prolixus?" It was the Subimperium, gurgling in his stomach, that made him chatty.

"It's more potent. None needed," Snape replied curtly. Laying down his chart on a countertop, he summoned a quill, jotting down notes on the parchment with singular concentration.

"No observers today?"

Snape looked up sharply. "If you're requesting an audience, I can summon my… friends again. I'm sure they wouldn't mind a bit of midday entertainment."

"No," Draco responded quickly, and then fell silent. He could feel the potion now, mellowing out his senses. Looking down, the feeling of his palm on his thighs started to melt away, until all that remained was a tingle that enveloped him like lukewarm bathwater.

That was the first stage of Subimperium—a state of suspended reality, dulled perceptions, his mind simple and acquiescent.

"What's the point, anyway?" Draco piped up again, his words tumbling out without a second thought. "Isn't torturing someone with a potion… inconvenient?"

"The motivation is not torture," Snape said, with a slight sigh. "Must I explain this again?"

His tone was simply exasperated—not bitter—and Draco found himself leaning forward, inviting more answers.

"Then what is it?"

Snape looked at Draco with something resembling disappointment. Draco sensed that this explanation had been given multiple times, but his addled state prevented him from recalling any details, or even trying.

"The Dark Lord needs control of all the sectors of wizarding population in order for effective rule, but certain populations of creatures are difficult to subjugate," he explained tonelessly, as if repeating a section from a textbook. "Subimperium is required for those populations."

"Like me?"

"No."

"Then why… am I here?" Draco's mouth was starting to lose the ability to articulate words.

"You're proving a… counterpoint," Snape said. "I've informed the Dark Lord that the potion is not effective for use on humans—it overwhelms their circulatory system. He wants proof, still."

"I'm… proof."

"Yes," Snape affirmed, meeting Draco's sluggish gaze with a hard look. "You defied his orders, Draco. It was extraordinarily foolish not to identify Potter. Did you not expect punishment?"

Snape said something else, but Draco didn't hear. In fact, he had only truly heard one word: his own name. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized it was the first time the man had called him by his name, ever since the beginning of the Subimperium trials.

He smiled slightly, his head starting to feel very distant from his body. Swaying to the right, he caught the gray countertop and leaned his head on it, panting against the cold stone. The world was spinning and his neck felt an uncomfortable pressure, like someone was pressing a cinder block against it. There would be a tear there, soon, and his skin would split.

The room blurred, shapes melting into indistinct shadows as the potion worked its way into his chest. His body betrayed him, limbs growing heavy and unresponsive. His struggle for breath intensified, each gasp more desperate than the last.

"It's… happening," he croaked.

The last thing he remembered was Snape walking toward him, a weary, tired look in his eyes.