Draco could not be sure exactly what had awoken him from his nightmare. The sound of his own screaming? The burning pain in his left arm? The door to his dormitory being thrown open noisily?

It was probably one of those.

Or, maybe, Draco was awoken by the grim-looking Snape, who was tearing the sweat-soaked sheets off of him, pulling him roughly from bed.

Draco was unbalanced and stumbled to the floor with a thud, bruising his left hip. The pain was nothing compared to the pain in his arm. He squirmed on the cold stone floor in agony, his arm feeling as if the blood inside was burning, boiling. He reached out for the bedframe, trying to get his bearings.

Snape was there, that much was certain, because Draco could hear hissed and clipped mutterings in the professor's unmistakable drawl. Reality setting in, Draco struggled to push himself to his knees, then feet, and finally scrambled through his sheets to find his wand.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Draco asked, his voice gruff from sleep and pain.

He'd finally found his wand and quickly cast a cooling charm on his arm, hoping to ease the burning sensation. It didn't work, of course. He doubted anything would. He forced back a moan that wanted to spill from his lips.

"Weak," he heard his father's voice ring in his ear. He couldn't shake it away, so he let out a breath.

Snape found Draco's cloak under his four-poster and threw it in his direction more forcefully than necessary. It hid Draco's face, surprising him. This cloak was worn at the hem and two inches too short, but Draco kept quiet. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. Any semblance of mental acuity was haemorrhaging from his body through his pulsating, screaming arm. He could barely breathe, let alone argue or feign pride and superiority.

"We're needed at the Manor," Snape declared. And, with a necessary shove, Draco found his feet moving through the dormitories, common room, and cold castle corridors, the professor nudging him along the way.

So this was a Summoning. A proper Summoning. Draco tried to swallow the bile in his throat but choked, coughing.

Snape glared again.

Without Snape's physical force, Draco might not have been able to take another step. His legs felt heavy with dread. But Snape reached back and pinched the back of Draco's neck, shoving him forward, urging him to move. Draco gulped down more of the acidic taste in his mouth and quickened his pace.

So this is what a true Summons felt like? It was incapacitating pain, searing, boiling, stabbing pain, which consumed his entire left arm. Now that he was moving, Draco noticed the pain was starting to fade away, albeit slowly.

Was that on purpose? Does the cursed brand on his arm burn like that until he responds? Would it get worse if he avoided it? If he turned and ran the other way? It felt like the pain would never properly leave him.

Draco ran his hand across his forehead and through his hair, wiping away any sweat he could. Snape was in front of him now, leading the way down the path to Hogsmeade. Presumably, once there, Snape would Apparate them to the Manor.

He swallowed that acidic taste again and tried to steady his breathing.

Snape didn't look back at him to ask, "How is your Occlumency?"

Draco let the silence hang, avoidance being better than his answer. 'Terrible' he would have to say. He hadn't practised. He should have practised. Fuck. His heart rate rose to a level he was sure would cause him to keel over any minute. Draco was still holding his old cloak in his arms, so he moved to wrap it around his shoulders. It felt better to do something than to just ignore Snape. But what good would it really do? He couldn't avoid this. He couldn't–

A cold drawl interrupted Draco's panic. "I was under the impression your Aunt Bellatrix had given you Occlumency lessons, Draco." Snape's pace slowed ever so slightly once they were outside the castle and down the steps.

"Just one lesson," Draco said. "She said it would be enough. That, if I was good enough, and I would be, because I'm a Black and a Malfoy, that I would be fine." He felt utterly stupid as he recounted this. How silly it sounded in his ears.

"Just one lesson," Snape scoffed. "It's like she wanted you dead."

The air left Draco's lungs in a rush and he stumbled over a stepping stone before righting himself.

She probably did want him dead, he realised. Now that his father had failed the Dark Lord so spectacularly, Aunt Bella fully committed herself to the Dark Lord's effort with every ounce of her breath. Family allegiance meant nothing anymore. Not to Bellatrix.

So it made sense that teaching Draco to be an effective Occlumens was not in her interest. She thought he was incapable of completing his task. Why would she give him the tools to be more successful? Or rather, tools to potentially lie to the Dark Lord?

With another gut-wrenching choke, Draco came to understand that she never believed he'd be capable. She was probably enjoying watching the Malfoy Family fall from grace. After all, the lower everyone else sank, the higher she rose.

"Have you put the plan you came up with into motion?" Snape asked. "Your spectacular Boxing Day Plan?"

Draco might have rolled his eyes if he wasn't in such a state of panic. He might have challenged the patronising tone or the way the professor's mouth melted into a scowl. Instead, Draco breathed and responded bitterly, "Yes."

"Tell me." Demanded Snape forcefully.

Malfoy nearly tripped over his cloak; the tattered edge of this faded cloak needed repair. "Tell you what?" He shot back.

"Pull your head out of your arse, Draco, and focus!" The command might have been whispered, not wanting to disrupt the quiet of the night, but to Draco, it might as well have been shouted.

Snape jerked Draco to a halt, turning the pale boy to face him, frowning at the sweat shining on Draco's pathetic forehead in the dim streetlight. "Tell me your plan," Snape repeated. "Tell me, exactly, what you've done. Every step," he demanded.

Resigned that explaining the plan to the grim professor, however stern he was, would be significantly easier than confessing the shitty plan to Lord Voldemort himself, Draco spilled everything in one fair breath. Everybody was going to find out soon enough, anyway.

"I used the Imperius curse to convince Madam Rosmerta to add that vial you gave me to a bottle of Mead. I made sure it was properly sealed and delivered through the post to Professor Slughorn, who has been Confunded and intends to give the bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas. I have received confirmation that the poisoned bottle has been delivered to Slughorn, though I'm unsure if it has made it into the intended's possession yet."

The intimidating professor looked thoughtful and focused, no longer stern and aggressive. This change in demeanour helped Draco feel the tiniest bit more at ease.

"Horace gives mead to everyone on staff," Snape stated, voice now neutral. "How do you know he'll give this particular bottle to the Headmaster?"

"I paid Rosemerta a bit extra to upgrade the drink. She sent one bottle that is significantly nicer than the others."

Draco clocked a look of disbelief, annoyance, and disgust in his professor's eyes. A look that most often crippled incompetent first years, or Longbottom, or Finnegan after he caused another explosion. Never Draco.

He supposed there was a first time for everything.

Severus Snape continued scoring down the empty alley, Draco rushing to follow and keep up.

Draco's heartbeat was racing again, his breath becoming laboured. "What do I do, Sir? When we get there, what do I do?" Draco pleaded, asking for help for the second time in just a few days.

They were almost to the point where they would apparate. The houses were far behind and the forest's edge crept closer with every frantic step.

Snape's voice was low. "You're not the only wizard Summoned. There will be others. I'm not sure who. Don't move a muscle once we're in the room. Keep your features neutral. Don't make eye contact with anyone – anyone, Draco, if you don't want them in your mind. Don't say anything unless the Dark Lord addresses you directly, and when he does, divulge only exactly what you must. No details. I'll step in when I can."

Draco nodded his understanding, though Snape was in front of him and wouldn't see. When Snape stopped walking, he held out his left arm, wordlessly prompting Draco to grab on. Without even a moment to steady his breath, they were gone in an instant.

It was home, but it wasn't.

Not a single beam of moonlight managed to reach the parlour where the Dark Lord's throne sat. Though Draco knew that to his left was a row of brilliant arched windows that looked out over his mother's gardens, it didn't matter one bit. The rug that lay under his feet was an antique French piece his mother adored more than most things in the manor, but no one could tell now. Not with the stains of red and brown that covered the space.

He'd hoped that being in the house he'd grown up in, in the home he'd always known to find comfort, in the same place as his mother, he might feel more at ease. More in control. But no. Not at all.

It was home, but it wasn't.

His father was there. Lucius. Just standing silently, head bowed in submission, like a chastised house elf. His hair hung long around his shoulders and into his face, and it looked dirty, and greasy, like he hadn't showered since he'd been released from Azkaban. And he actually leaned on his walking stick as if he needed the support to stand.

Lucius. His father. The mighty and magnificent.

Oh, how things have changed.

This was not his father. This was not home.

Draco was here, in the Malfoy Parlour, where he took his first steps, met his first friend, and broke his first bone. By all memories and definitions, Draco was in his home, but this house wasn't home anymore. Was it?

If this wasn't home, what was?

A brief flash of the Room of Requirement played behind his eyes. A large wooden desk. A high-backed chair. A couch. An overflowing bookshelf. A soft, but somewhat ugly rug.

Hermione.

He forced the image away quicker than it came and began to Occlude his mind. He couldn't afford to think about her right now. Not here.

Emotions schooled properly into place, Draco casually took another look around the room.

His mother was nowhere in sight, which worried him. He wanted to see her face, to feel her warmth, to feel her gaze.

He wondered, sadly, if she had even been made aware of his coming? Was she tucked away in her wing of the house blissfully unaware that her beloved son was wearing his Death Eater Mask for the very first time? Was she tucked around the corner, listening in, waiting to hear his voice like he wanted to hear hers? Was she being kept from him on purpose, The Dark Lord or Bellatrix strategically withholding any and all promises of Draco's pleasure?

On second thought, Draco was glad she wasn't here. His stoic facade might break if he saw her, honestly, and he shuddered to think of how she would feel seeing him, her son, standing in a ring of the Dark Lord's servants.

He'd never worn these robes before. He'd avoided touching this mask until now. He'd avoided it as long as he could.

When Draco and Severus had arrived in the manor's apparition room, he'd been roughly sent off to his bedroom by the dedicated professor. "You must wear proper robes when Summoned, Draco. Not that ratty old thing you call a cloak. Your father would have something to say about the tattered and too-short hem, I would think," Snape had snapped at him with a sneer, chuckling darkly at the mention of Draco's father.

"There are new robes in your room," Snape expanded, "and a mask."

Snape's eyes met Draco's solemnly. Through softened black eyes, Snape gave Draco an uncharacteristic look of seriousness. A look without any patronization, without judgement, without malice. He didn't need to say anything else.

Draco nodded his understanding. A sobering chill ran down his spine. There was no time to panic anymore.

He'd done what he'd had to do. He donned the robes. He took hold of the mask. He placed the cold, hard steel up against his face, and muttered the spell he'd heard his father use time and time again.

"Estachier" The spell scratched at his throat as he'd whispered it.

He was numb. He was bitter. He was dutiful. He was terrified.

He'd walked from his bedroom, his childhood room, past the study, down the grand staircase, and into the parlour where, for the first time in his life, Draco felt pity for his father.

And he waited for the Dark Lord.

One by one, masked figures entered the room and took their places in a circle facing the Dark Lord's throne. Some masks Draco recognized, like his Aunt Bellatrix's, Severus Snape's, and his Father's. But a few he didn't know. Three unknown figures took their places in the Dark Lord's ranks.

Draco wasn't sure if these other wizards were here to report on their own missions, like himself, or if they were here just to witness the Malfoy Family's downfall. Did they come on their own accord, or had they been Summoned, too?

Draco would never know.

The entrance of the Dark Lord was preceded by the slithering figure of Nagini. The sight of the massive snake made Draco's stomach churn, but he swallowed the feeling and turned his eyes away.

Draco's stomach churned at the memory of the last time he saw Nagini. He couldn't help picturing his own lifeless body floating above the dining room table, blood dripping from his neck, as the snake moved to consume him whole.

But the effect of the snake was nothing compared to the Dark Lord himself. An immediate chill spread through the room. The fire dimmed, and Draco could now see the ghost of his breath puffing out from behind the mask.

Draco bowed his head, as he was supposed to. Then, he stood up taller, squaring his shoulders, and focused on his breathing. He counted each exhale.

"Don't move a muscle," Snape had told him.

"Don't say anything," he'd warned.

"Don't make eye contact with anyone – anyone, Draco," Severus demanded.

So he didn't. He didn't look at anyone. He didn't say anything. And as much as he could help it, Draco didn't even hear anything. He listened for his name. He listened for his father's voice. He listened for Snape. He listened for the important things. But Draco didn't want to listen. He didn't want to hear who he now recognized as Macnair discuss his most recent mission, who he'd killed, who was next.

He kept breathing. He looked straight ahead, and he kept breathing. He could do this, right?

But it wouldn't be that easy, would it?

Draco had been Summoned for a reason.

He heard his name. He felt the gaze of seven sets of eyes turn to look at him.

He counted to three. He swallowed twice. He thought, "This is the day I'm going to die," one last time.

And then he engaged.

Snape's drawl filled the room, telling the Dark Lord about the potion he'd created to assist Draco with the task. A new undetectable potion. He listed the ingredients, the method, and the theory behind his creation.

Snape was giving all sorts of bloody details! Hadn't he told Draco to do just the opposite? To be brief? To avoid giving as much information as he could get by with?

But before he could ponder the inconsistency, the confusion of that point, the Dark Lord had risen from his chair and began gliding right towards him.

The Dark Lord's voice slithered into his ears, sending a shiver down his spine that he had to ignore. "And what, Draco, did you do with this exquisite vial that Severus prepared for you?"

Draco dared not swallow or take a breath before speaking, though he wanted to. His own voice sounded cold, hollow, as it wept through the holes in his mask. "I've arranged for a Hogwarts professor to give the headmaster a bottle of mead that has been laced with the poison, My Lord."

Never before had Draco hated the sound of his own voice. Now he despised it. Nearly choked on it. The submissive tone he knew was expected. Fine, he could do that. The bow of his own head. Fine. He could manage that, too. But My Lord.

Fuck.

As the two words left his breath, his heart fell into his gut, all oxygen forced from his lungs.

How the fuck did he get here?

Voldemort seemed pleased by the information, grinned that sickly grin, and turned away. He approached Lucius now, his long black cloak trailing across the stained carpet. "And Draco, tell me, how did you manage to poison the drink? How did they miss it?"

"Madam Rosemerta, My Lord," He detested himself now wholeheartedly. He bowed his head in shame, though giving the appearance of loyalty and reverence that was expected of him. "She mixed the vial in with the mead and sent a sealed bottle through the Hogwarts gates. No one checks what comes from The Three Broomsticks, from Madam Rosmerta. They think she's trustworthy."

Some of the surrounding Death Eaters chuckled. Draco swallowed.

"Well done, Draco. That is very clever," purred Voldemort. He turned his attention to Lucius now. "You should be very proud of your son, Lucius. He hasn't completely failed yet. I must say he's surpassing… all of our expectations."

Bellatrix cackled from where she stood, several other Death Eaters following suit. Draco did all he could to remain stoic, unwavering.

"Ask him about his other task, My Lord," Bellatrix hollered, laughing some more.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Bella," Voldemort bit at her. He strode back to his throne and took his seat, demanding decorum once again. "Draco's managed more than I expected, but I'm not done asking questions. Tell me, Draco, how did you manage to convince the barmaid to… assist you… in your endeavour. I imagine she may have needed some coercion?"

"Yes, My Lord," Draco responded evenly. Coercion. "I used the Imperius Curse."

Voldemort smiled at him and Draco had to look away. "An Unforgivable, Draco?" Voldemort sounded pleased. "Why, I think we are all so very impressed by how far you've come. I believe, Lucius, you weren't able to manage one until well into your adult years, is that right?"

Draco saw his father's silver mask tilt downward, embarrassed. "Yes, My Lord." He kept his eyes on the floor, and had Draco not been so panicked, he might have wondered what his father had to say about the disgusting stains on the carpet.

"I'm thinking you've earned a reward, Draco. I am pleased with your dedication to the task, and, I admit, I don't think any of us expected you to get this far."

Draco gulped down the saliva that threatened to drown him and hoped to Salazar no one would notice.

"Bring her in," called Voldemort to someone in the next room.

And there she was.

His mother.

Thin and pale. Stiff, but still elegant. Beautiful as ever.

Draco's legs urged him to run right into her arms, tuck his head into her neck, to let her hold him like he was a little boy. He needed to hear her whisper into his ear that everything would be okay. He needed her to rub circles on his back, to brush her fingers through his hair.

She carried herself rigidly and with restraint. She approached him slowly. Slower than he wanted, but he didn't dare move. Because this wasn't a homecoming. This wasn't a reunion. This wasn't Christmas. This was a Summons. And here he stood, in Death Eater robes, mask and all. She stopped just short of him, and he could see in her eyes that she was wracked with worry for him. The glittering bracelet he'd bought her shined on her wrist and seemed terribly out of place in this dismal, dark room.

It was deathly quiet. Draco was terribly aware that everybody was watching him, staring at him, waiting for him to do something unbefitting of a Death Eater.

But this was his mother. She reached out her hand as if offering a handshake, and he took it without thinking. He held her hand outstretched for a moment; the light pressure between them was heavy. It was heavy because it contained everything. Everything. Everything unspoken.

Draco squeezed her hand, and, feeling emboldened, removed the mask from his face. "Mother," he greeted, voice low and steady.

"My Dragon," she smiled.

He was careful not to look anywhere but at her. But he didn't need to worry anymore. Seeing her here, touching her hand, feeling the strength of her gaze, Draco knew he would be okay. Whatever he had to face, he could handle. Whatever he had to do, he could manage.

They stood there like that for several moments, chests rising and falling softly with each matching breath.

Her eyes, so much like his own, were filled with hope. Hope, and love.

Bellatrix made a retching sound that stole the moment. "Can we get on with it now?" she whined like a bored child.

Narcissa gave Draco one last encouraging smile before moving to stand beside him. He whisked his mask back on quickly, feeling lighter than he had before.

"Bella's right, Draco," Voldemort stated. "Report on your progress with the vanishing cabinet now, if you would. And let's hope you've done enough to please me. I'd hate for your dear mother to see you fall from favour so soon after earning it."

The pit was back in his stomach.

"I've made steady progress on the cabinet, My Lord, but considering how utterly broken it was, it still has a ways to go."

"Have you managed to send anything through?"

"Not yet, My Lord." Draco's chin rested on his chest, a bit of shame actually managing to penetrate his heart. He had hoped to be farther along, true–

"Then what have you been doing all this time, Draco? Studying for your NEWTs? Drinking in The Three Broomsticks? Chasing witches?"

A buzz of stifled laughter echoed through the room.

Draco started to spiral. "Of course not, sir, never, sir– My Lord," he corrected.

Snape intervened, thank goodness. "My Lord, at school, Draco is truly devoting so much of his time to the task. I can vouch, My Lord, for Draco's… dedication."

The glaring look that stole Voldemort's face was deathly, and Draco was grateful that he hadn't been the recipient of such murderous eyes. "Severus, I had no idea you were so well acquainted with Draco and his efforts." Voldemort bit each word, as he took slow and deliberate steps toward the professor. "By all means then, why don't you tell us how the boy has made progress?"

If Snape was intimidated by the look, he didn't let it show. "My Lord," Snape bowed slightly. "Draco has fully applied himself to the task at hand, but surely, he cannot forsake his commitment to his studies entirely. It wouldn't do for him to draw attention to himself nor rouse any sort of… susp–

"Crucio!"

Strangled screams fell with anguish from Snape's throat, a sound so sudden and startling, that Draco couldn't help but blanche. Snape's long body writhed on the floor, more grunts and moans pouring from him as each muscle in his body spasmed and twitched.

Draco felt his mother's body stiffen beside him. He heard her sharp intake of breath. He imagined her manicured hand reaching up to rest on her chest in shock, but Draco didn't dare move. He couldn't watch Snape's writhing form anymore, either. He took a deep breath, letting air fill his lungs, and steadied himself, looking straight ahead.

Voldemort's torture only lasted but a few seconds, but it was enough. A warning. A reminder. A threat.

We are his servants. All of us are at the mercy of His wand.

Snape, breathing heavily and struggling to stifle his groans, pulled himself up slowly.

Snape choked getting the words out. "Forgive me, My Lord. Forgive me. It is not my task to recount, My Lord. I understand."

The blood in Draco's veins ran cold. Snape, the ever- intimidating Dark Arts professor, was cowering, bumbling before a slimy, snake of a man. But before Draco could spend a breath pitying the professor, he came to understand that Snape had been covering for him. Protecting him.

Or, trying to, at least.

"Thank you, My Lord," lamented Snape. His head hung so low that his black hair fell, covering his face.

Draco turned his eyes down to the ground for the briefest of moments, all he figured he could get away with without being noticed.

The concept of thanking your torturer for the "lesson" they taught you was not news to Draco, but it was the first time he'd witnessed the degrading tradition. A wave of pity for Severus swept through Draco, only intensifying the gratitude he felt for his professor for attempting to cover for him.

Voldemort paced around the circle of Death Eaters twice, allowing Snape to pick himself up.

Snape stood tall once again, appearing to be back to his confident and steady self. Draco admired his resiliency as his Head of House, his saviour, began to speak again. "I thought that my perspective of a Hogwarts professor could have been valuable, seeing as it would rouse alarming suspicion should Draco, an ordinarily diligent student, were to begin neglecting his studies."

Voldemort's sneer grew smaller until it was gone. "That may be so, Severus, but effort means very little when progress is vital. I believe it was clear what I was asking for. Was it not?" Voldemort's wand twitched in his hands with the rhetorical question, the most subtle of threats. "Can you, Severus, provide an update on young Draco's progress? Or, will you let the Malfoy boy speak for himself?"

Draco's heartbeat was thudding against his chest. Several pairs of eyes from others turned to look at him, once again, and he felt their weight pull on his shoulders. But the red eyes of their slimy leader hadn't turned back onto him yet, though that would come soon enough, he could be sure. Voldemort was still focused on Snape, challenging him.

"I worry, My Lord, that the word of young Draco, if he reported now, would lack the necessary details you seek. I don't believe he has been properly trained on how to report, My Lord. Is that correct, Lucius?" Draco watched as Snape's head turned away from Voldemort's as he spoke the last sentence. Snape's dark eyes were like knives piercing into his father's, so condescendingly that Draco could practically feel the stare himself.

Lucius scoffed and looked away from Snape, refusing to participate in such finger-pointing. Draco might have previously seen this as a demonstration of superiority, or of haughtiness, but he could now see his father's scoff for what it was– What everyone saw it was: A deflection, an admission of guilt, hidden shame.

With his hand raised in Lucius' direction as if to say, 'You see what I mean?' Snape pressed on. "You see, My Lord, the boy is unprepared to report on his most important task, and at no fault of his own. He needs to be trained, My Lord, as you have trained us all, to include the right details, omit the ones that are best kept hidden… Legilimency, My Lord."

"Perhaps you're right, Severus," responded Voldemort coldly. "We should teach him now, shouldn't we?" Voldemort's eyes danced around the room, connecting with all of the other members in turn. Each of their expressions were knowing and smug, as if humoured.

Bellatrix looked downright giddy.

"Allow me, My Lord," begged Lucius, stepping forward. "I should have taught him before– prepared him–"

A glare from Voldemort's piercing red eyes silenced Draco's father quicker than lightning. "Yes, Lucius, you should have," emphasised Voldemort with a bite.

Draco watched his father cower, returning to his place on the edge of the circle.

"Perhaps I should teach him myself," purred Voldemort, to Draco's great fear. Voldemort was gliding toward him again. The vision was terrifying. "After all, he proved to be so impressive with Unforgivables, he could become more usefulafter all."

Draco did his best to remain calm. He fearfully began shifting occlumency walls in his brain but knew it was useless. This was useless. He internally cursed his father and his father's weakness. He cursed his own foolishness. He cursed this bloody house and the bloody rug that felt hard beneath his feet, and he cursed his luck in life.

He was going to die today. In this hour. Maybe even this minute.

"Allow me, My Lord," begged the voice of his saviour. "He can be my charge. I can train him." Snape stood tall now, taking two steps forward to present himself confidently, proudly.

Voldemort's gaze turned to Snape, and his feet followed, giving Draco the space to breathe again. He felt his mother's form relax, too, and wished she would leave. He wished she wasn't here for this. He wished–

"Fine, Severus, fine. Draco will be your charge." As Voldemort took his seat upon his throne, Snape moved to the centre of the circle. Most Death Eaters were silent, but Bellatrix was grumbling under her breath.

Snape raised his wand, aiming directly at Draco's eyes.

He was going to die now.

Draco closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them, meeting Snape's gaze with determination. With clarity. With acceptance.

"Legilimens."

Snape made quick work of the lousy attempt at occlumency walls Draco had made. He pushed past the disconnected, meaningless scenes of classes Draco attempted to throw his way. Snape was brilliant at legilimency and occlumency. It was common knowledge. So why was Draco even trying?

A last-ditch effort to preserve his life, maybe?

After a moment, Draco gave up. Calling to the forefront of his mind all of his memories of the Room of Requirement with Hermione, studying in their refuge room with Hermione, and sitting in the library pouring over books and parchment with Hermione's figure just a few tables away.

He was fucked. Yes. Hermione was everywhere. Everywhere. What did he expect? He would die, yes. He wanted to vomit, but Snape was in control of his mind and wouldn't let him. Draco hoped, for her help, Hermione would be spared.

Snape pressed deeper into his mind. A montage of bright blue lights emanating from the cabinet. Draco and Hermione trying spell after spell to send a feather through the passage. Hermione brewing repairing potions, smirking at him over the Advanced Potions book because he'd almost messed it up in the final stage and she had bested him in his best subject.

Snape seemed more interested in the memory, focusing on Hermione's face, replaying it over once. Twice. A third time.

Draco tried again to shove a meaningless memory at Snape, but it was no use. Draco felt like he'd been physically slapped by the force of Snape's assault.

He was pouring over the blue light memories now with scrutiny, listening to the incantation over and over again. Draco saw Hermione's clothes change slightly in each scene, demonstrating the change in days. They'd done that spell every day for weeks with very little to show for it. Draco knew Snape would be feeling the reflection of his own desperation now, then the confusion and adrenaline he'd felt when the spell finally glowed nearly white.

Draco watched his memory, painfully, unfold in front of him again. Running down the seventh-floor corridor behind Hermione, her skirt bouncing as she ran. He felt the remnants of his panic when she'd turned up the stairs to the astronomy tower. He listened again, with bated breath, with hope and sadness, as Hermione told him he was like the stars. Her protector through the night, her unfailing confidant, comforting and soft and bright for her and her only. She told him that he shined, and he'd believed her.

That blazing way she'd looked at him just then.

Draco watched and felt again as he crashed his lips onto Hermione's. His heart fell in his chest, hot tears thankfully hidden behind his Death Eater mask, as he relived, in agony, the best moment in his short and miserable life.

His lips beneath his mask ached with the lost feeling of kissing Hermione. Snape was undoubtedly torturing him this way, making him play it all back, watching it, remembering.

He could practically feel the texture of her sweater in his hands as he'd bunched it up in his fist that night. He remembered the feel of her palm on his hip and the passionate touch of her fingers to his cheek.

Draco ached to reach up and feel the ghost of her fingers there again, but he couldn't.

When was Snape going to kill him? When would this be over? When would Snape move on, to bigger, more important vanishing cabinet memories? Draco hoped it would be soon. He'd break soon enough.

And as if Snape had heard him (oh right, Snape did hear that), he was remembering what they'd discovered that night: the window of fixability with the lunar cycle. And Draco could feel a wave of something - Snape's feeling of something - wash through him. Relief? Thoughtfulness? Contemplation?

Then, they were onto something else.

Snape's wand remained locked on him, their eyes still connected, and Draco wished he could see the professor's face behind his mask. He ached to know more about how Snape was reacting to the memories they were watching. His love of Hermione aside, had Draco achieved enough? Had he mended the cabinet enough to appease Voldemort for now?

Draco wouldn't find out. He wished Snape would give him a hint through their connection, but the professor was soaring through memory after memory again.

They watched Draco contemplate the vial. They watched Draco using the charmed coins to communicate with Rosmerta. They watched Draco sneak around the castle night after recent night, drinking firewhiskey behind his closed bed curtains until he passed out.

But Snape could feel that Draco's desperation was much less about the cabinet and the task, and so much more about the muggleborn Hermione Granger. Snape was back to scouring Draco's memories, searching for her.

Snape stopped on a memory Draco had altogether forgotten about. Hermione sat across from him at the large desk in their study room. A magical contract laid between them, a charmed quill darting across the page. The teenagers shook hands in agreement.

Draco could feel Snape contemplate this but didn't care. Had he known back then what he knew now, Draco would have signed that contract a million times over. If Draco was going to die today, which again, he assumed would be any minute now, he would die knowing that the only pact he ever truly cared to honour, was the one he'd made with her.

His dark mark be damned.

They watched their walks around the castle. They watched hours spent in their study room, Hermione's head in his lap, two teenagers asleep over their work, golden brown curls cascading over a conjured green blanket. They watched the couple sit together on a bench by the lake, feeling Draco's incredible pride at making her laugh a full-bodied laugh after she had been crying.

They watched more and more. Skimming over every kiss, every touch, every smirk, every smile.

Replaying these memories felt like happy torture to Draco. He revelled in each and every ghosted embrace, every brief time their lips met each other.

Draco thought that, maybe, if he was about to die, then this was the most generous thing Snape could have done for him in his end. Snape was allowing him to savour his final moments, and for the remaining minutes of his life, Draco would consider himself thankful for the kindness.

But suddenly, Draco felt a mixed wave of emotions that weren't his own. They were Snape's surely, but they didn't make sense. Undeniable sorrow, followed by fury, and then pride, and finally… could that be… rage?

"Merlin, who knew Gryffindor's princess was so violent?" mocked Draco.

Hermione scoffed. "I am not violent!"

Draco laughed boisterously. "Merlin, you can't be serious! My shoulder, Ron's eye, and my nose all strongly disagree with that statement."

"I simply have a low threshold for tolerating stupidity."

They watched as Draco revealed his Dark Mark to Hermione, watched her break down, and watched her leave him. Snape watched Draco beat Zabini in their dormitory and watched Draco's desperate attempt outside of Slughorn's party. They watched everything.

They watched Dumbledore's words; the headmaster's eyes had been bright. "Sometimes we must sacrifice a piece or two in order to win the game," he'd stated. "Do the wrong thing to achieve the right end."

Snape's rage had taken over, Draco feeling the remains of it drift away as Snape's presence finally lifted from his mind.

Their eyes remained locked on each other. Draco's breath held in his chest. Time ticked by ever so slowly. No one in the room was breathing.

"Draco's made great strides, My Lord," started Snape, his black eyes not leaving Draco's. Promising. "He's mended the physical structure of the cabinet with exceptional attention to detail. Utilising advanced furniture repair spells and even an obscure household wood repair potion I'll have to research. It's…" Snape paused, his voice strengthening as he turned to face the Dark Lord fully now, leaving Draco at a loss for words.

"It's in perfect shape, My Lord, physically, which has proven to be a significant problem. As for the passage between Draco's cabinet and the one in Borgin and Burke's, there is still some… progress that will be necessary. Draco has discovered an important detail, though. The cabinet has some sort of astronomical ties on it, which prevent the cabinet from being useful until the moon is waning. And, with that, Draco has been rather limited in how much progress he can make.

"But you should know, My Lord–" Snape continued.

Here it comes, Draco thought. The damning evidence. The end of his rope. The nail in his coffin. As good as Snape's killing curse.

"– Draco has demonstrated competency in some impressive magic to achieve his end. Protean charms, for example, to communicate with Madam Rosemerta from The Three Broomsticks. An advanced diagnostic charm that I know to only be taught in auror training. And the–" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "analysis through which the lunar cycle element was determined was… brilliant and… surprising… but only because Draco has never impressed me so much in all the time I have known him."

Draco was frozen, his silver eyes wide, boring into the back of Snape's greasy hair as if his life depended on it. Because, well, it did.

Draco stood in disbelief, in confusion, in relief.

Severus Snape was not mentioning Hermione.

Draco could breathe again. He nearly gulped for oxygen now. He had been drowning. But he wasn't now. He would be fine. Snape had protected him. Snape had lied for him. Snape–

Nagini, the snake, left its nest beside the throne and wove its way around the train of Snape's robes.

Draco's breath caught in his lungs at the sight of Voldemort's monstrous familiar. He fought the urge to relax his shoulders as he waited for Voldemort's reply.

Voldemort's tone was even, as always. "Thank you, Severus, for that thorough report, yet your unsolicited praise of the boy is wholeheartedly unwanted."

"I understand, My Lord," bowed Snape. "I apologise for my misstep."

"As you say, Severus," came Voldemort's voice again, "the passage remains unusable?" He asked.

"Yes, My Lord," responded Snape, back to bowing his head, chastised.

"Nothing has been sent through? Nothing at all?" Voldemort pressed.

"No, My Lord. Nothing has been sent through the passage yet. But the waning cycle of the moon is not for nine days–

"A punishment, then, Severus, would be fitting."

"Yes, My Lord," responded Snape after a pause, monotoned this time.

But when Snape started turning around, raising his wand toward Draco for the second time that night, his mother wailed through the silence. "No, Severus, please!"

Draco closed his eyes and tried to escape his thoughts. Tried, but failed, to separate from his heart breaking. He'd need his strength for what was to come.

Bellatrix shouted over her sister, begging, "Allow, me, My Lord, please let me torture him! You know how much I enjoy serving you, My Lord, please, allow me."

Draco couldn't control his cringe, the fear that raked his whole body at the idea of his aunt's wand.

Macnair was shouting for a turn now, too. His mother was still whimpering, screaming her protests over the din.

Snape's wand was still pointing at him. The black-haired wizard's arm was straight and strong, his back rigid, eyes piercing and unwavering.

Had Draco not been so completely aware that a room full of people who were arguing over who would be torturing him, he might have worried about how much he could trust Snape. For some unknown reason, Snape hadn't told Voldemort about Hermione. He hadn't told Voldemort that Draco had gone to Dumbledore. What did he mean by this? Did he wish to exploit Draco moving forward? Did he really and truly want to protect him? Was Snape's secret-keeping part of the Unbreakable Vow he'd made those months ago? Draco couldn't be sure. Not that he had time to think about that right now.

No, Draco was already trembling where he stood. Auntie Bella was so kindly on her knees begging– literally begging– to be the one to torture her beloved nephew. How charming.

"Silence," Voldemort shouted over the noise. "That is enough!"

The argument stopped immediately, but Draco heard his mother crying softly beside him, trying, but failing, to pull herself together. As he sat on his throne, Draco assessed that Voldemort looked a bit bored and annoyed. He looked thoughtfully around the room, eyes narrowed, then seemed to perk up.

Draco swallowed hard.

"Lucius?"

Draco watched his father bow his head stepping forward. "Yes, My Lord?"

"Is Draco not your responsibility?"

"He is, My Lord."

"Then his failings are your failings?"

Lucius hesitated but responded dutifully. "Yes, My Lord."

"Then, Lucius, you should be the one to reprimand the boy. It is the job of a father to remind their children what is expected of them, is it not? He is your son, after all. Is this not what fathers are for?"

To Draco's disgust, his father merely bowed his head in resignation and agreed. "Absolutely, My Lord. I take full responsibility for Draco's failings."

Draco could not believe his ears. He could not believe his eyes. If any last drop of respect for his father remained, it was surely lost now. He hated him. Narcissa was begging her husband to stop, to spare the boy, to protect their family.

Draco watched his father respond with a bitter, "Silencio," and a wave of his wand in his wife's direction.

Her wretched sobs were inaudible now, but she had crumpled onto the bloodstained rug, tears streaming down her face.

When Draco looked up to meet his father's grey eyes, he felt a fleeting moment of pity for the man, before everything went black.

"Cruicio!"

A/N: Let's all take a nice long bubble bath, have a bite of chocolate, and call someone we love for a chat, shall we? Draco will be fine, and we will be, too. It's all for the plot!

If you want to chat/yell at me or see the graphics I've made for certain chapters, check me out on Tumblr: OxfordElise Facebook: Oxford Elise Discord: OxfordElise

Questions: What do you think about Snape?! What was your favorite line from this?

Next chapter: Draco deals with the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse and Hermione realizes something that could change everything.

Disclaimer: All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling.

Thanks to my beta readers the_shitshow_must_go_on and Cleo26.

Many thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story, OxfordElise