Trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of torture and starvation.

- Unknown dungeon cell, June 1996 –

Draco wasn't sure if the cold wet stones underneath his cheek or the faint light of a floating torch outside his dungeon cell pulled him back to consciousness.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, a grunt leaving his lips. His head was pounding and he felt more than a little disoriented. All he'd known the past few days was darkness. Yet, the dim flickering light made him able to see the contours of the room around him. What caught his attention first was a wooden bowl in front of the exit to his cell.

Food.

Despite his desperate need for nourishment, Draco discovered he could not stand up, his muscles too weak and his brain too scrambled. He rubbed his eyes, still trying to adjust to the light, trying to find a way to get to that bowl.

Crawling on all fours it was, the uneven cobblestones cold and slippery beneath his palms. There was no need for dignity in this godforsaken place after all. The food was only a short distance away from him, yet it felt like he had to go the distance of the whole Hogwarts quidditch pitch. By the end of it, he was dragging himself forward by his elbows. Draco needed to catch his breath before he finally managed to sit upright again, his back sore as he put his weight against the cold metal bars.

No cutlery available to him, he slurped the tasteless grey porridge slowly. He knew that eating too quickly after being starved for food could potentially kill him. Though it was bland, he savoured every sip.

After he was done eating, he tentatively reached out to his side, his calloused fingertips attempting to gauge how badly he'd been hurt. Even though he'd known the Death Eaters torturing him, probably even better than they knew he did, he was surprised at how often they retorted to muggle ways to break him. Honestly, he was lucky to be alive after the beatings he'd suffered. After the magical torture, his Aunt was so keen on subjecting him to.

Draco tilted his head and eyed the metal contraption he was detained in, looking for a way out, as he mused about his predicament. Perhaps, he was not merely lucky. No. He should have been dead. The only reason he was still alive was the animagus magic inside of him, ensuring he'd survive. He had felt the tiny scales trailing his skin, slowly but surely knitting it back together. How long would it take for that magic to run out as well?

Slowly, he crawled back to the corner he'd originally woken up in. He leaned his head back down on the floor, letting its coolness soothe his pounding headache.

His thoughts started to drift.

How many days had passed since that night at the Ministry? Since he'd seen her face and felt her wonderful magic coursing through his veins?

Honestly?

He could no longer tell.

He'd been trapped and ruined in this dungeon for what seemed to be an eternity. The only thing keeping him sane had been his own mind. He had become quite proficient at regulating his magic levels, using just enough to reduce the pain inflicted on him, but not enough to be drained at the end of the day. He needed his mental strength after all, if he was to keep enforcing his shields and ensure the Death Eathers would never gain the knowledge he held.

What bothered him most, was that their patience might be running thin. No matter how long he had been there, the Dark Lord required answers. Answers they could not get out of him. Draco wondered how long it would take until they would give up. Until they would kill him.

The iron gate at the entrance of the dungeons creaked, alerting him someone was coming. Footsteps followed, along with the sound of an insane cackle belonging to his Aunt. Draco braced himself, his muscles tensing.

It was going to be a long night.

- Unknown dungeon cell, July 1996 –

It had been particularly quiet lately. Not that Draco minded. At least now, he could attempt to sleep. If only his thoughts would stop running rampant. In the past few days, he'd discovered two things.

Firstly, he was being held in Nott Manor. If he hadn't been conscious the last time his food had been delivered, he would not have seen the glazed-over look of one of his friends as they put the bowl down on the floor. Draco had attempted to reach out to Theo, but an Imperius Curse's sway was just too strong.

How Draco had wished he could reach Mione. Warn her about Theo's predicament. Tell her- He shook his head. Remembering his second discovery.

Mione was hurting.

He'd done his utmost best to keep her out. He knew what opening the bond would do to her. He was so weak that her magic would instantly try to replenish his. The life bond would require her to sustain him, and she would be starving right alongside him, just like he had been doing when she was on the run all those years ago when he was unable to feel or remember the bond's existence.

He vowed he would never have her go through that again.

The fact that he strengthened his walls to keep her out, to protect her, did not mean that she did not attempt to get in. Sometimes, he thought it was her voice screaming his name that woke him back up, lying in a pool of his own blood and sweat. He wasn't sure if it was his mind imagining it, or if it truly was her. Not until the force of her magic hit him so hard, that her nightmares became his.

Draco had never thought about what it would be like for her to get her memories back. Not until he could see himself standing in the Drawing Room again, Aunt Bellatrix hovering over her, torturing her…

She was having a nightmare again. He could feel it in his bones.

Perhaps… Just this once.

"Mione."

He closed the bond again as soon as he realised she was waking up. Closing his eyes, he ignored her pleas. If she got in, she would not just remember being tortured. She would feel it.

Draco turned around, ignoring her, and rubbed his shoulder. It had been dislocated a few hours prior, but someone had seemingly come in and whispered a quick episkey. It didn't completely heal him, but at least the pain was gone. For the most part.

A sigh left his lips as he closed his eyes.

Not much longer now. Soon, this would surely all be over. He just had to trust Harry and Daphne would be there for Mione when that day came.

Unless…

Unless his plan, his last ounce of scheming, could come to fruition. He was playing a dangerous game, gambling his life. But he could not give up. Not even if he would potentially forget her again.

- Unknown dungeon cell, July 1996 –

Draco frowned, wiping the sweat off his brow and checking his temperature with the back of his hand while huddled in one of the corners of his cell. He must have caught some sort of infection in the past few days. It had been a while since they had come to interrogate him as well. Perhaps, they had just decided to let nature do its work and leave him here to die.

He spoke too soon.

Two voices came closer, and he clamped his eyes shut. One of the two individuals did not seem to be wearing shoes, their naked feet slapping loudly against the cold wet floor.

Another prisoner?

It was then he heard the snake-like voice of Voldemort.

Draco had to control every nerve in his body not to twitch when he recognised that hissing voice. Was this it? Did they finally have enough? Or were they going to attempt one last time to get through to him?

Voldemort and his companion were quiet for a while, their presence as they watched him making Draco's skin crawl. They must have believed him to be asleep. Or, maybe he looked so sickly that they did not assume he was conscious. Or alive.

"Your son has an uncanny strength within him, Lucius," the Dark Lord hissed suddenly. Draco must have been imagining the hint of curiosity in his voice.

The blond nearly jumped out of his skin, now vividly imagining those red eyes raking over his broken body, his Father standing passively by as his only child was being tortured to death. Yet, the young wizard succeeded in forcing himself to lay utterly still.

"He would be a fine soldier if he would stop resisting and join us. His power could be unimaginable. Nothing like my own, of course, but still… He would be the prime example of the magical power proper breeding can lead to," Voldemort continued.

"I agree, My Lord," Lucius replied. "We have both seen the power he wielded at the Ministry."

Draco almost decided to stop listening to the conversation. He'd seen his father's hunger when he heard the prophecy. Probably all of the Dark Lord's followers knew its contents by now. It was still possible for Draco to fall into darkness. But he refused to. He'd defied time itself to ensure a different outcome to this war. And he would not be giving up now. If he needed to spend his days and nights either being interrogated and tortured or feigning unconsciousness, then so be it. He would rather die than give them the information they wanted. This time, the Light would get a chance to survive. To thrive. To win.

The sound of the entrance to the dungeons opening again brought him back to the present. He must truly have been sick if he had managed to doze off.

His father's voice echoed around the tiny cell. "You can stop pretending now, Draco."

Draco wanted to scoff at his father. Come with some witty reply. But when he tried to open his mouth and answer him, no sound came out. After all, he had not used his voice for what must have been weeks. Except for screaming his throat raw while being tortured.

"Ah. How the mighty have fallen, Lord Malfoy," Lucius grinned, mocking him.

All Draco could do was stare blankly at his father, not giving him the satisfaction of a response.

Lucius stomped his cane onto the floor once, conjuring a bowl of water. Hovering it over to the younger wizard, he said: "It is not poison, Draco. I thought we could have this last conversation as civil wizards. You are, after all, still my son."

He was dying anyway. Even if his father tried to poison him, it would just speed up the process. Draco reached out, his side still hurting despite it being days since his last torture session, and greedily drank the cool liquid provided to him.

"Your son?" the blond croaked out in between drinking.

Lucius frowned, looking irritated. "Yes. Once upon a time, you were my son. My heir. You held so much potential, only to throw it all away. And for what? A silly little mudblood and a boy fated to die." His words were harsh and exasperated.

Draco did not answer, instead choosing to let his father finish his ranting.

"You could still be my son. Share your and your friends' scheming with us, Draco. Give us the location of Potter Manor. Do that, and you will be free, you will be-" Lucius shook his head again as if realising that he would indeed never be free. "If only, you had never met them," he said with a wistful voice. "We would be conquerors, you and I."

Wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand, Draco couldn't help but laugh. "Conquerors? You preach pureblood superiority while following a half-blood pretending to be a pureblood. A half-blood ten times stronger than you. You would not conquer anything. No." Draco shook his head, letting his arms rest on his knees, his head leaning against the bars behind him. "You will not get what you need from me. Unless you would suddenly have the power to remove the last five years of my life, I will not aid you. I will not become a Death Eater like you."

Draco did not need to look at Lucius to know he'd come to the same conclusion he had a few weeks ago. For once, his father was right. If he had never met Harry and Hermione at the beginning of his first year, he would have been a pawn to the Dark Lord. That was, after all, exactly what he had been the first time around.

A few minutes passed. Lucius finally chuckled. "Oh, Draco. What a wonderful idea. If you will not give us the information we require, then at least, you will be able to serve the Dark Lord with the power you hold."

The door to the cell opened, and Draco looked up at his father stalking closer, ever the predator now that he'd seen his prize. He lifted his cane, aiming it straight at his son's head.

This was it. Draco's failsafe. The reason why he had been strengthening his mental walls for weeks. He had been building more of them, protecting everything that was inside. Even putting all of his memories of this timeline, this life, in an old oak closet, hidden within that damned Drawing Room. He had shackled it, locked it. Used fire and animagus magic to seal its contents within. To keep anyone attempting to get a glimpse at his memories out. Even himself.

All he had to do now, was hope he'd worded it perfectly. That his father would utter the spell.

Lucius' voice was emotionless and clear. "Obliviate."

AN: I know this chapter took a while, but I am for once I am like 2-3 chapters ahead believe it or not. I finally found the time/inspiration to write again, so I am hopeful to be able to finish this story before Summer (I would have said before Easter, but let's not let me get ahead of myself).

Also, I started a discord, you can find the link here if you'd like to come and say hi :) /3W9Sj9xp