Intro:

I was talking with a friend about how, in fanfiction, Draco is often represented as cold-headed whereas Hermione is usually more sensitive. But in the books, Draco is an overly sensitive hot-mess whereas Hermione keeps cool and steady in all situations. I wanted to explore that part of them. But if anything, this fiction is about healing. Draco is still just a teenager in Deathly Hallows, coming from a pretty traumatic background. But what if, in the Malfoy Manor chapter, Draco had taken the decision to follow the trio to the other side of the war? What if the part of him that yearned for good spoke louder than the cowardly part of him? What if Draco, a product of his toxic environment, could become a better person in Shell Cottage?

Chapter 1 - Malfoy Manor

"Draco", Bellatrix's voice narrowed into a whisper. "Is - this - him?"

Draco's heart pounded in his ears. It was him. It was Potter. And held by the troupe of snatchers, it was no other than Weasley and Granger. A wave of panic threatened to knock him over, and he found himself incapable of speaking, like it was more and more the case. Ever since that night at the Astronomy Tower, since the year that led to it. The day something had started to shift. And Potter's eyes, swollen, deformed, riveted themselves into his.

"I don't know… I don't think so," Draco miserably said. Coward, said his inner voice. Coward for neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Coward for always trying to escape. The ground felt uneven below his feet as Bellatrix chased him away in the alleyway to his childhood home, his home always filled with the alcoholic sobs of Narcissa and the random fits of rage that Lucius would make them endure on his bad days — which were random and recently increasing in frequency. The snatchers dragged Potter and Weasley by the arms and Granger by the hair. There was something so fragile, so miserable about her long locks of hair, now down to her waist, tightly clamped in the snatcher's fist. It looked like it hurt; like a violation of everything wild and free. Narcissa's hand gently caressed his shoulder blade, leading him towards the house. Draco walked next to her, panic rising in his chest at the idea that this was it. They had captured the trio and Voldemort would win the war. He would kill them all. Potter, Weasley, Granger, and everyone in their families. Their friends and supporters. The dead filled up Draco's vision, blurring it. He stumbled but kept walking, knowing that he could not show weakness in front of Narcissa. In front of anyone. He remembered the way he had played in his high-end, pure-blood kindergarten school, with Hannah, Seamus, and Luna. They would be wiped out soon. The war may be finished by the end of the night. Draco entered the house, and for a few seconds, didn't know where he was. Didn't want to exist. Didn't want to be the one responsible for the thousands of deaths that would soon come, or even remotely associated to them. Dumbledore's death had been enough. Enough shame. Enough desire to disappear for a lifetime. As Bellatrix started screaming about a sword found by the snatchers, Draco stared at Potter and his friends. As the snatcher holding Granger got stupefied by his aunt, Granger's forehead met the ground with a dull thud, and he saw pain in Weasley's eyes, and determination in Potter's squared up shoulders. He found himself thinking "I want them to live".

Bellatrix's treatment of Neville's parents was not casually mentioned in his family. In fact, Draco had overheard the story from some of his parents' loud fights, and from rumours among his Slytherin friends. But even then, those were not the kind of rumours that circulated fast, that people were happy to spread. It was a drunken sort of knowledge. A late hours of the night sort of conversation. Narcissa and Lucius did not discuss these kind of matters lightly. Strangely enough, they considered conversations about violence to be uncivilised, and their official educational stance was to cover topics limited to wizarding culture, Lucius' work at the ministry, and Draco's future. The little space given for Narcissa to express herself was limited to light gossip about her friends and family, which Lucius often welcomed with a smile, and always ended up using against her.

But the darker rumours that Draco had heard had not been exaggerated, he realised in horror as Granger's screams ripped through the silence. Bellatrix was capable of inflicting sustained torture. The act of torturing seemed to give her an energy, a vitality that only grew over the minutes. Over the hours.

Draco knew that his parents disapproved of him watching. He also knew that like him, they were powerless about it. No sign of weakness would be permitted. After Lucius' failure to support any activities related to the Dark Lord during his years of disappearance, all of them had to be on their best, most violent behaviour. Granger's blood formed a pool around her, and it struck him how dark and shiny her blood was, how none of it was mud-like. It was more like icing, like velvet, like a sharp sword. Narcissa had enveloped herself, Lucius and Draco in an invisible lavender smell shield, protecting them from the scent of sweat, iron, and most likely urine of tortured Granger. As he inhaled the lavender, Draco's blood started to boil. It had always been about appearances. No-one could suspect the extent of the dirt his parents threw at each other in the silence of their home, no-one could suspect how little they cared about his wellbeing. That was a realisation Draco had had in the past year. His parents had always given him money, possessions, connections. They had done the very best for his education, funding the school, even buying new broomsticks for the entire Quidditch team. But they did not care for his happiness. When he had been tasked to kill Dumbledore, none of them had truly protested. That day Voldemort had spoken directly to him, in front of them. Had made it clear that he was their only asset within Hogwarts, and that should she fail his mission, he would kill off his entire bloodline. None of them had protected him, or advised him correctly. Or helped him escape, as so many parents did. When they had heard him cry at night, they had cast a silencing spell on him. Boys don't cry. And especially not the heir of the Malfoy family. "I was sixteen," Draco thought, as if he was much, much older than his current seventeen year-old self. "I was only sixteen."

In the middle of Granger's torture, Draco heard a faint popping noise. The sound of the only creature who had ever shown him kindness as he was growing up. Dobby. Draco held his breath. "They must live," he thought again, and that thought grew inside his head, became something so large, so true, he couldn't believe how it was only becoming obvious now. He stared at Granger's figure sprawled on the floor, her wild hair in knots over her face. He wanted it all to stop for her. He wanted her to be safe. And that unexpected feeling of care, so stifled by his education, grew as he watched. Dobby, he thought. Please, please save us. He remembered his childhood, when Dobby would read him stories in bed. Already then, he knew not to reveal his true thoughts, his true emotions. He knew that empathy was something best crushed, as it was a sign of weakness. But he had leaned into the elf's long, gentle donkey-like ear. "Dobby? Can you send me to nice parents?" and Dobby had hit his head with the bedside lamp violently when trying to answer why that was impossible. "It's an order", had tried to insist younger Draco, tears filling up his eyes. "Please, send me to a new family, Dobby please", but the house-elf had only beaten himself up further, digging the endless void of guilt and self-loathing in Draco's chest.

"Please take me to a new family," Draco thought as Bellatrix's knife cut through Granger's flesh. "Please. Please. Take me anywhere."

Pop.

Something opened. A sort of door. Things moved too fast for anyone to process them. People fighting back. Trying to escape. A sort of knife being throw at Hermione. A knife that Draco leapt in front of.

The first thing he felt was the overpowering smell of the sea, followed by the feeling of something warm and small and alive nestled between his arms. The burning tip of a wand on the back of his neck, a girl screaming. And the feeling of something stuck to his belly. Something that moved when he moved. Everything tore up. The past. The present. His insides.

"Master Draco!"

The wand burned harder against his neck. He tried to say something, but only blood came out of his mouth. Fresh blood. Fresh air. And the intense burn of the Dark Mark on his arm. "Cut it," he tried to say, his words remaining inside of him.

"Wait, he's trying to speak!"

Waves of adrenaline made him feel like he was going to vomit. He gargled more words, more blood. He couldn't tell why it was all so dark. If it was a spell, or his own body shutting down.

"Let him speak!" she said.

"Dark mark," he managed to stutter, his sentence drowning into a groan. "Traces me."

"Muffliato!"

A buzzing sound. Only the smell remained. The smell of the sea. The smell of his own blood. The smell of Granger's blood. The agonising feeling of the knife stuck in his belly. Knife? Someone kicked him in the shin and he thought he heard someone else shout. A second wand was brought to his neck, cool this time, almost soft. He was far away. He was finally nothing. And he felt it all. Freedom rolled over him as a hand grabbed his arm, the sound of Apparition taking over the Muffliato spell; taking him away.