Chapter 1 - Day One
A cacophony of shouts and footsteps alert Draco from behind the Iron bars of his cell. He pulls himself from the damp stone floor, where he sells his soul to the gods. Shouting means change, and after many months of being surrounded by nothing but dim candlelight, dripping stone, and the passing of a metal tray, changes, despite how intimidating, excite him. The footsteps get closer, and Draco pulls his weathered body to stand before the iron bars. He listens for the familiar voices of the death eaters. Maybe they have forgiven his failures? Perhaps they have become desperate enough to free him, and he might return to action. He would make any promise, complete any task to see anything but these three stone walls and iron bars.
The chaos of masked men walk straight past his curious face, carrying a limp body he can't see clearly through the shadows. He hears the clunk of the lock of his neighbouring cell open, and any hope fades with the thump of the new body hitting the stone floor. He steps back from the bars as the realisation dawns on him. He isn't being freed; they have not come for him but found somebody else to lock away. The masked death eaters do not acknowledge his presence at the bars; they leave as quickly as they arrive. Offering no information on the war, no forgiveness, no freedom, nothing has changed. Draco runs his hands through his hair, maintaining a look of indifference until he hears the door to the dungeon close. His resolve breaks with the slam of the door, and Draco returns to the far-left corner of his cell, sinking along the wall till he meets the floor. He leans his head backwards against the cold stone, returning to his position of solitude that was briefly threatened by hope.
An indiscriminate amount of time passes, and there is no way to calculate how much has passed correctly, but Draco falls asleep at some point. The brief excitement of the day drains all of his energy. He did not think about the prisoner in the cell next to his, only the cloying weight of despair that hung in the air, constantly reminding him that he would never achieve a reprieve from this overwhelming sadness. Draco understands sadness more than most. He was born with it. His mother used to say that, as a child, he would cry until his lungs gave out, only to cry some more. There was nothing anyone could do for him; no soothing or whispered promises would relieve him of the sadness he grew to rely on. As he grew, the sadness would follow him like a veil of protection against the promise of peace. It's as if his soul knew that to feel anything else would shatter him. When he entered his teenage years, sadness was briefly confused by anger, lust, and greed. Draco grasped to any unfamiliar emotion that reminded him that he was still alive despite it all. Why should he not? He would tell himself. Indeed, any man would fall victim to insanity if he could only feel sadness. At Hogwarts, he was feared, and fear is a nauseatingly addictive emotion to wield. Draco was intelligent, and words were easy to throw around. A half-hearted insult and a smirk were enough to keep the sadness contained to only his limbs. Occasionally, the clouds of sorrow would briefly part, and something similar to sunshine would stream through. When warmth is unknown, it's easy to confuse the feeling of comforting rays for the lick of violent flames.
A small groan and scrape of leather against stone jostled Draco from his restless sleep. Not daring to scare the sounds away, he sat silently, tempering his breath for another sound of movement. No sound followed, but Draco was reminded of the prisoner in the cell next door. He wondered who it might be, had someone else failed as great as he did. This did not bring Draco the comfort he needed. Learning that another's failure did not mar his own was a hard lesson. At the mercy of the iron bars, Draco relied on success from the other death eaters; in the final battle, everyone would be expendable, including Draco. As angry as his Lord was, he would still need Draco to fight, which meant they needed to last long enough for a fight to occur. Draco didn't want to fight, to die fighting for a war he no longer agreed with, for a Lord he did not respect was not his goal. As it has always been, his goal was to protect his mother.
He was useless in this cell, something he had never felt before, but as long as he was briefly freed to fight, that did not matter. In the silence of his imprisonment, he planned how the fight might go. The chaos of fired spells would offer enough of a reprieve for him to grasp his mother's face, tell her he loved her and convince her to run. He would lie to the Dark Lord, telling him she was incinerated in battle. He would say she fought gallantly for him and took down as many as she could before being reduced to ash. It didn't matter if he was believed because she would be gone, safe somewhere in France. He would be killed for her failure, but at least he wouldn't be killed for his own. The fantasy always ended with him staring into his father's eyes, offering a look that suggested he was to blame for her death. He always hoped he would see terror and grief in return, and that would be enough to die in peace. He always knew he would die in this war, but to die for someone he loved was an honour to be afforded to him. Indeed, he would have been allowed such a purpose in his life. His recurring fantasy was interrupted by the return of foreign sounds. A violent cough suggested the prisoner was returning to consciousness. A startled gasp that implied they hadn't expected to end up in a cell. A stumble of feet on stone, followed by a collapse against iron bars.
Draco's curiosity told him that if he stood and walked towards the bars, he could lean his head into the neighbouring cell and see who he now shared space with. However, his fear told him that to do so would be giving up his position before he fully understood the threat he faced. Draco's anxiety said to him that it was his mother in the cell, and she would face the same fate as he now did, a death without peace. He shook the thoughts from his head and resigned to doing nothing more than listen. Draco was intelligent; collecting information was better than assuming it. He heard the prisoner move away from the bars, followed by the sound of a cot creaking under the weight of a body. The sadness that was once his own now found partnership in the silenced sobs that broke out on the other side of the stone wall. It was reassuring to know that he wasn't the only person who cried the first night they found themselves imprisoned. He stilled when he realised the sobs sounded feminine, not that he knew how a man would cry, but their cries did not sound like his own. They were high-pitched and breathy, broken only by a panicked lung full of air. The anxious thought of his mother being only a stretched arm away returned, and in a moment of dread, he bolted to the other side of the cell, hoping to distance himself from the deafening cries. The sound of his movement silenced the crying prisoner. He had now alerted her to his presence and cursed himself internally at his lack of control. He held his breath, waiting for his mother's voice to cry out to him. She knew he was here; even if she had not seen him when she was transported to the dungeon, she would have remembered and called for him. Silence followed, and the anticipation was causing Draco to shake uncontrollably. He debated speaking first in case his mother had forgotten during the struggle and needed reminding that she wasn't alone, but cowardes won, and the words never left his throat.
Draco stood against the left wall of his cell, the sound of dripping water counting the seconds of silence he endured. They were both too scared to make another noise. Maybe she thought he was just a creature that made a home in the dungeon, nothing more than an animal needing food. If he stood silent enough for long enough, she might pass the noise off as an auditory hallucination brought on by fear. He didn't know why it was so important to him that he kept his presence unknown, but in the low light, his instincts were all that remained. His muscles hurt from tensing, and his knuckles were white from the fists he was holding. He would have to give in at some point. Eventually, a guard would return with a tray of food, or he would need to open the small wooden door next to him to use the bathroom. It became an unspoken competition of who would break the silence first, and he was determined not to lose.
Several drips of water could be heard before she made the first move. Draco listened to the sounds of the metal cot relaxing, now free of its weight—the sounds of boots on wet stone walking towards the iron bars. Draco could see a slight shadow on the wall beyond the bars, her figure making itself known. She appeared smaller than his mother, which relieved him; he could see no outline of robes blurring her body. From this information, he deduced she was most likely a muggle in muggle clothing, probably another example the Dark Lord hopes to use to scare his men. Regrettably, Draco would offer her no comfort, no words of advice or support, as she would eventually be killed. As lonely as he was, he could not bear to make another friendship that ended in death. Draco sighed as the fear expelled from his body; his muscles relaxed as there was no threat to face. He knew he would ignore the girl until they took her away in a few days. He would not mourn her death or remember this moment; he had bigger things to deal with, and what was another muggle death to him after he had seen so many? Now his muscles were loose enough to move, he walked to his cot, pushed against the back of the cell and sat facing the wall outside the bars. He took a deep breath, ran his hands down his face, and then returned to look at the unmoving shadow. He hoped for his benefit she knew better than to call out to him. She would have questions, and he would provide no answers.
As he continued to stare at her small shadow, his mind wandered. He wondered who she was and where she came from. Had she been walking home from work, only to be snatched by masked men into a dark ally and then apparated away to a strange manor, dragged down stone steps only to end up on a stone floor, confused and possibly hurt? Would anyone be looking for her? Did she have parents waiting on her arrival, who would now be pacing around the living room when she didn't make it home in time? Did she understand what kind of danger she was in? Did she know she would be another nameless body in a pointless war? Did any of it matter in the end? He wondered if she had dreams about her future that he was not allowed to have. Did she believe she would get married one day and start a family, or did she want success however that looked in the muggle world? He wanted to ask her her name and if she understood what it meant to only live with sadness in your bones. He wanted to ask her if she knew what it took to be gentle when all you have known is violence. He wanted to ask her if she had known unconditional love and what it felt like. Alas, he asked her nothing because she would not understand. Would he ever be understood? He laughed silently at the absurdity of the situation he found himself in. Here he was, imprisoned in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, looking at the silhouette of a muggle girl, wondering what it meant to be anything but Draco Lucius Malfoy. As if he would ever learn, as if he would die being anything else. If his punishment for failing to kill Dumbledore was to go insane, then the Dark Lord has succeeded.
The shadow moves slightly, regaining Draco's attention. A change is felt in the air, and Draco knows she will speak to him, and he must stay silent. He grips the base of his cot, preparing for the sound of her voice. Hoping he can maintain enough composure not to ask the questions he so desperately wants answers to.
"Hello"
A word was spoken so softly that it could almost be missed if not for the dungeon's deadly silence. Draco freezes. He knows that voice. He had heard it virtually every day for nearly six years and wished never to listen to it again. Maybe he has truly lost his mind. Perhaps the voice spoken was not the one he thought he heard. He wills her to talk again, only to confirm he misheard it the first time.
"I know someone is in the cell next to me. I heard you move."
He did not mishear. That is undoubtedly her voice.
"We can't stay here. It's too dangerous they are going to kill us."
He knows.
"Maybe we can try to figure something out together. They took my wand, and I suppose they probably took yours as well, but that doesn't mean we can't find a way out."
This cannot be happening to him. She cannot be talking to him. She cannot know she is down here with him.
"You're probably terrified, and I am as well. I promise I won't hurt you. My name is Hermione Granger. I'm friends with Harry Potter. I can help you. We can't stay here."
If only she understood the irony of her words. She cannot help him; he is beyond help, and even if he asked, once she knew who she was talking to, she would no longer want to help.
"Please speak to me. I can't do this alone."
The pleading nature of her voice causes him to tighten his grip on the cot. He will have no choice but to reply if she speaks, only to stop her from speaking again. Surviving down here for as long as he has was not easy. Surviving down here with Hermione Granger is going to be impossible.
Hermonie huffs in frustration, knowing she won't get a reply from the stranger in the cell next to hers. The only shadow on the wall is her own, meaning the person is hiding somewhere in the cell. She's confident she isn't alone down here. She heard their movements across the floor and the cot creak as they put their weight on it. The only thing she can't figure out is why they aren't speaking to her. What if they can't talk? She wouldn't put it above death eaters to cut out a person's tongue.
"If you can't talk. Knock on the wall."
Draco smirks at that request. Of course, she would believe a person isn't speaking to her only because they are physically unable to. He makes no move to knock. He knows she is offering him a solution so he never has to talk to her, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being right.
Hermonie waits for the sound of a knock to prove her theory correct but isn't met with confirmation. This does nothing to soothe her steadily growing annoyance at the stranger in the cell. They could be deaf? She thinks this isn't correct because she noted their lack of sound once she made herself known. They can hear her and are actively trying to hide from her. What could be so important to hide that they would destroy their only hope of escape? What if the stranger isn't the only person in the dungeon with her? Maybe their silence is a warning, and she should stop speaking if she doesn't want to invite a worse danger. The possibility of unknowns begins to overwhelm her; she feels the walls of her cell start to close in, and her breathing becomes unsteady. She sinks to kneel on the wet stone, trying to catch her breath. She is trapped, and nobody is coming to save her. She told Harry and Ron to go on without her. She knew once the snatchers had caught her that, they would need to finish the hunt without her. This is it. This is how she dies, in a cell in Malfoy Manor with a stranger who will not speak and a danger she hasn't met. She wants to scream, but she doesn't have enough air to make a sound. Her eyes won't open despite the sound of boots on stone moving closer to their shared wall. She doesn't care about the stranger anyone. She's not embarrassed by the panic they can hear. It doesn't matter what they think of her when she is going to die soon.
"Dammit, Granger, breathe."
That voice. She knows that voice.
Her breathing slows, and her chest becomes heavy with air. Her eyes open and dart to the new shadow on the wall. A tall man, much taller than she remembers. A large but slender frame is presented on the wall before her: no discerning feature but his voice. Suddenly, her need for conversation dies. She didn't know who she had been speaking to, but now she wished she hadn't learnt. She understood his need to hide because to hide is to ignore what is happening. She is imprisoned in Malfoy Manor with Draco Malfoy.
He doesn't know why he spoke. He heard her hurried breaths. He watched her shadow fall to its knees, felt the panic take over her body, and acted without thought. Maybe she would calm down if she knew he wasn't something to fear—unless he was. Her breathing sounds better, but she might not have recognised his voice. If she knew it was him, maybe she would have panicked more. He stands silently behind the bars, close to their shared wall on his right. He stands far away enough that if she decides to try to look into his cell, he can run to the bathroom without being caught. To be heard is one thing, but to be seen is another.
He doesn't know his appearance and isn't given a mirror in his prison cell. He's clean, the guards allow him to shower once daily, and although he has lost a little weight, he is fed enough not to look frail. He has had ample free time to develop a workout routine in his cell, but the loose black slacks and black shirt do nothing to make him look less like a prisoner. His hair has grown longer than he would like and hangs loosely around his ears and forehead despite how much he attempts to push it back. For a prisoner of Malfoy Manor, he is treated relatively well, thanks to his mother, he assumes. Even so, to be seen as anything but the polished aristocrat he is, is a vulnerability he cannot allow.
Once Draco hears that Hermione's breathing has returned to normal and sees her shadow begin to return to its feet, he retreats to the back right corner of his cell and leans against the wall. The only light in the room emanates from a forever-burning candle on a table in the left corner of his cell. From where he stands, his shadow is no longer present on the wall, and he can no longer see hers. Silence returns to the dungeon, and he can't help but wonder why he craved this so much when she talked. He wishes he could hear her thoughts. Her lack of reaction makes the anticipation of her response so much worse.
Hermonie finally finds her feet again, and after a moment to steady her breathing, she notices she can no longer see Draco's shadow on the wall. She looks to the left side of her cell, where the iron bars no longer belong to her but to him. She knows if she just leant her head through the bars and around the wall, she could confirm the source of the voice, but her confidence only extends so far. Instead, she walks back to her cot at the back of her cell and sits quietly. Fearing a break in the silence will make him speak again. She is not yet ready to accept the reality of the situation. When Harry told her that Malfoy hadn't returned to Hogwarts, she assumed he would live comfortably in the Manor, serving Voldemort. She hadn't expected him to be locked in his dungeon. How long had he been down here? What had he done that was so terrible even Voldemort deemed him deserving of locking up? Hermione finds she has more questions than answers and hates nothing more than unanswered questions. She knows she could ask, he might even answer, but to ask is to invite conversation, and she doesn't know if she is ready to converse with Malfoy.
For Draco, silence doesn't mean the same thing anymore. Previously, silence was expected; he was alone. He feared noise because noise meant stuff he couldn't see, people he didn't know, and power he didn't have. Now that she has spoken, he welcomes the noise. Noise means she shares her thoughts, soothing his anxieties and distracting his unravelling mind. Her lack of questions means she recognised his voice, but he doesn't understand why she hasn't asked. Unfortunately, he knows Hermonie, knows that every question needs an answer, and she will have many questions for him. He will invite her to ask them if he speaks, but he doesn't know if he is ready to answer. Draco has been alone for too long to know any better, so he says with a big sigh to steady his nerves.
"I can hear your brain from here, Granger. Ask your questions."
The timber of his voice startles her from her thoughts. Of course, he is not affected by her presence. He was probably expecting her. She doesn't know if she will be afforded another opportunity to ask, and she wants to know what she is dealing with. She quickly rattles off the questions in her mind and lands on the one she thinks is the most important.
"How long have you been here?" Her voice is softer than expected, as if speaking to a cornered bear.
He scoffs like he was expecting the question, and she has proven his thoughts about her correct.
"They didn't give me a calendar when they locked me up. I don't know." He snaps out.
She rolls her eyes at the answer. Even throughout all the chaos the world is experiencing, trust that Draco Malfoy is still the same arrogant prat.
"Okay, well, what was the last thing you remember before they locked you up?" she asks, no longer wanting to use a gentle tone with him.
He knows what she is really asking is what did you do to end up in a prison cell in your own house, and part of him wants to lie. To create a crime that isn't so pathetic. Maybe if he scares her enough, they can pretend they aren't housed beside each other. He tells the truth against his better judgment because he knows lying will get him nowhere.
"I failed to kill Dumbledore, and then I was swiftly removed from Hogwarts and placed in my new permanent bedroom." He says it in a cold tone, which implies it is common knowledge.
Hermonie gasps at that admission, quickly doing the calculations in her head.
"Malfoy, it's March 1998. Dumbledore died in June 1997. You have been here for nearly nine months." Her words are rushed as if she can't say them quickly enough.
Draco stands up straight in his cell. Nine months? That can't be correct. She must have made a mistake. How could he have been in a cell for nine months? It doesn't make any sense. Surely, people would have noticed when he didn't return for his last year at Hogwarts. He would have missed Christmas. His family and his friends did not come to visit him. Even if they couldn't have let him out, someone would have at least come to wish him a Merry Christmas.
Unless they were all dead? Has the war ended already? Did the final battle ensue, and did he miss it? No, that can't be correct. A guard still arrives daily to turn on the shower and offer him new clothes and meals. Unless the guard has been instructed to keep him alive, but the Manor remains empty. That also can't be correct because Hermonie was only brought in a moment ago. He wants to ask her what's happening outside the walls, but if she knows he isn't being told anything, she knows he is no longer a threat. He chooses to stay silent instead. He doesn't know if he can speak without fear infecting his voice.
A thought occurs to him that chills his blood: what if Hermione was placed in the cell next to his on purpose? This could be a test to see if he is still loyal to the Dark Lord. If he befriends her or tries to escape, then he will have failed, and his mother could be at risk. He fists his hands to control the anger coursing through his veins.
"Question time is over, Granger." His anger is palpable, and he does nothing to suggest it isn't directed at her.