Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

DESOLATION:

From the latin form -desolatio-, desolation is the act and result of desolating or to desolate.

This verb, then, refers to destroy or to provoke sadness and

anguish.

It can be said that desolation is when someone appears

destroyed or ruined.

There was a man looking out the window, even though Draco wasn’t able to take him in properly. He seemed to be someone he should know. Familiar, even. His breath was hitched and erratic while he looked outside.

It was snowing. 

There was no reason to feel endangered, but still, Draco got up rapidly from his bed and like a whip he grabbed his wand while his body scolded him for it. It felt comfortable in his hand, like it was his, but looking down at it he noticed — It wasn't. His hawthorn wand was nowhere near.

“Do you remember me?”

Draco looked up at the broken and raspy voice of the man. Unknown. He hadn't turned, but he too seemed alert and aware. Draco had no reason to believe this man would hurt him, but… everything was so confusing. He didn’t trust his own instincts.

“Who are you?” said Draco, holding his wand with more force than necessary.

For a few seconds nothing happened. The man’s hands were balled so forcefully into fists, that the veins marked like roots, surrounding his arms. Draco felt his insides turn cold as he watched the tension rise in the man instead of calming down. It had been just a question.

Then, the man turned.

It was Harry Potter.

Draco fought down a scream at the beginning of his throat, and his first reaction was to curse him. But Potter avoided it with a slight swift of his arm and he remained placed at his spot, analyzing him. His eyes looked— desolated. Draco couldn’t believe what he was seeing; a knot in his throat making it hard to breathe.

This was Harry Potter.

He was older. Various lines and wrinkles furrowed his face and his green eyes seemed completely dead. Draco felt like he was looking at a stranger; and at the same time, someone he’d seen every day of his life. Instinctively he tried to reach him, touch him… but he stopped and let his hand fall. What was he doing?

“I thought you died,” he murmured shakingly. “I — I thought you were dead. ”

Potter was looking cautiously at him, studying Draco’s words, all while he felt loss flood him. Overwhelm him. It was like every bone in his body just melted, letting him fall. His eyes were prickling, and there was something in his chest that threatened to break his heart in endless pieces. He couldn’t understand why. Draco understood nothing.

“What happened?” Draco whispered. The light emanating from the window was blending the edges of Potters’ body.

“Voldemort —”

“Don’t say his name!”

Draco turned, raising his wand and waiting with fear for the Death Eaters to storm the house for saying “Voldemort” instead of “You-know-who”. But nothing happened. Draco had no idea why. They should be dead by now, suffering unimaginable things at the hands of all those horrible people.

He looked back at Potter only to find he had moved from the window and was coming closer to Draco. Silent. Vigilant. Draco aimed his wand at him, causing Potter to stop and raise his hands. He didn’t look intimidated at all. 

“He killed you!” Draco spat. “I watched you die!”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Draco found himself shaking and with a need to scream — scream until his throat ran dry and his lungs could move no longer. But he didn’t do any of that. Instead he took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

“What happened?”

A pained expression clouded Potters’ face, and his mouth formed a deep line. Draco awaited his response with his heart in his neck.

“Everyone is dead.”

His pulse dropped. 

“What?”

“Everyone is dead. All of them were killed. At least most.”

Draco felt as if an axe dropped over his heart. He could do nothing to stop the tear that fell down his cheek, but he ignored it. He didn’t know who ‘everyone’ was. He had no idea why it should matter. 

Potters’ jaw was trembling, and for whatever reason, Draco was almost compelled to close the distance and hug him. Still, he remained in place without dropping his guard nor his wand.

“Why aren’t you?” he spat, and now he recognized bitterness and venom in his voice.

The words struck Potter and the pained expression returned.

“I needed to save you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Potter dropped his face and passed a hand through his messy hair. Exasperated. Sad.

“You don’t remember me.”

Draco didn’t answer because he had no idea what there was to remember. Potter was dead, he knew it. That was all he knew, and now they were standing face to face, talking nonsense and looking out the window of… where were they even? Was this England? Why was it snowing? Was it christmas?

When Draco returned to himself, he noticed Potter had come closer anew and the distance was about only four steps apart. Draco cursed him again but the light bounced off a protego he had not heard him conjure.

“Get the fuck away from me.”

Unbelievably, Potter obeyed him and stepped back. His expression was closed, and even though desolation was glowing in his eyes, that was all it took to betray the fact that something terrible had happened. Every bit of Potter was perfectly placed, his aspect impeccable. But Draco knew that only one word and it would all come tumbling down.

How—?

“Potter,” Draco dropped his armed hand. He hadn’t stopped shaking. “Potter, what happened?”

Potter let his shoulders drop and his jaw tensed. For a moment Draco thought he would not respond because he had no intention to. 

But then.

“Voldemort won.”

Draco felt his world fall.

“I — I don’t understand…”

“Voldemort won.”

“What…?”

Draco felt himself falling. He was falling. And falling. And falling.

“Voldemort won at the Battle of Hogwarts...”

Arms wrapped around him once his knees hit the floor and he allowed himself to be enveloped. Pain intoxicated him like a hurricane, taking everything in itself and leaving nothing behind. Nothing was left. Draco let out a sob that burned his throat.

And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up with a start, sitting up and sweating cold.

His heart was beating fast, his hands shivered, forming fists at the sheets that covered him. He breathed in deep and exhaled, passing saliva. His throat was closed and it was hard to concentrate. It was hard to think rationally. A part of him was still stuck in the dream.

That had been… unusual.

Draco shook his head, trying to calm down. That was improper even for him. He wasn't used to thinking of the past; or he risked ending up drowning in it.

How long had it been since he thought about him? He couldn't remember. Years, at least. There was no logical reason for him to have dreamt of his face. There wasn't. It had been a long time since he stopped lamenting and pitying himself for his death and the way he left the world: like a bad, stupid joke.

It shouldn't affect Draco right now. Why was his mouth dry? Why were the images of that last day playing on a loop in his head? It wasn't anything special. It wasn't worse than he had seen in the last few years.

Still — he had dreamt of Harry Potter.

And he knew it was.

Enough of that.

Reaching for his daily dose of Pepper-Up potion, Draco left behind any thought involving the war. It was no use grieving the past or 'what could’ve been.'

Getting up, he walked to the loo, taking with him his completely black ensemble with the brooch he was expected to wear above his chest every day. He glanced briefly towards the mirror in his room and examined his appearance. Dark bags were hanging under his eyes — ñeven though that wasn’t something new — and a wrinkle took space above his brows, accusing him of having slept the night with his brows furrowed. Draco sighed, touching the area without meeting his eyes in the reflection. Sometimes — he felt weird, and this was one of those days in which everything seemed... different from the rest. And even if, since long ago, the scrawny and fearful looking kid from the war perished from existence, that day… that day he didn’t want to find a total stranger meeting him as a reflection in the mirror.

“Biddy,” he called the elf calmly, speaking to the air. 

The creature materialized in seconds, shaking. Draco didn’t meet her face. “Is there someone in the Manor today?”

He heard her whimper and could almost see her tangling her ugly, battered robes with nervousness. That could only mean that, yes, without a doubt, Father and he weren’t the only ones in the manor.

“Yes, Master Malfoy sir,” she said almost sobbing, “Mr. Greyback is arriving this morning, sir. Biddy is letting him in, sir, since you is telling Biddy to never restrict him access. Biddy is hoping to do the right thing sir, or — ”

Draco sneered, turning towards the elf. She closed her mouth, cutting her phrase short, and brought her face down immediately, knowing better than to look at him and annoy him further.

Greyback. He hated the fucking twat, and for some reason, Greyback practically lived in the manor, as if Draco would give him more than the time ; bothering him just because he thought he could do as he pleased. 

Turning back towards the loo, Draco snapped his fingers at the clothes now on the bed, gesturing for Biddy to take them. What could Greyback possibly want now?

“Did he state why he was here?” he asked, watching how the elf prepared the tub without direct orders. Well trained — but too young.

“No sir. He is saying he is liking to spend the day here sir.” Draco sneered again, letting out a despective huff. The elf hurried to say, “Biddy is being sorry. Biddy is a bad house elf. A bad elf for the Malfoy heir. Biddy is—”

“Shut up. Once you’re done, tell Father I’ll meet him for breakfast.”

Biddy nodded again with a sound that promised fear more than anything and continued with her labour. Draco didn’t try to create any more conversation. He’d told her — enough times already — that it was alright to grant Greyback access whenever he desired. Draco had learned, after finding his third dismembered house-elf, that it was best to not go against him or make things difficult. At the end of the day, it wasn’t as if he could deny the Manor to be the headquarters of the Nobilium, and neither did it appease him to buy house-elves every fucking week.

With Biddy gone, leaving him alone to take a bath, Draco let the water dissipate the strange tension gathered at his shoulders. He needed to relax as much as possible. That day, he was supposed to close a deal with a potion ingredient supplier from Spain, and he didn’t have the luxury of being distracted. This was another step closer to his mother. One step closer to controlling the pieces at his will and granting her freedom . The freedom which they’d been seeking for. For eight years. 

Since the war was over.

Draco stepped out of the bath, clothing carefully. The tailored black suit clung to his shoulders and he placed the brooch that corresponded him — right above his chest — as a member of the Nobilium: a golden jewel in the form of a tear. The center was of Ruby, crimson as blood, and the thin border shined in gold. It measured as much as the pad of his thumb, and, in contrast with his dark suit, anyone who saw it would know who he was and what he belonged to. That was the purpose of it, and it worked.

Almost one year after the war was over, the Dark Lord separated his Death Eaters and his servers by different ranks to grant them honours. The complete group was of those who’d taken the Mark; but then they were divided. Even above the Death Eaters, came the Electis : a group of loyal servants to the Lord who took care of more technical and confidential aspects. And above them, almost at the top of the pyramid, came the members of the Nobilium: the highest class and the elite of the elite of the government of the Dark Lord. They had privileges simple civilians dreamed of. They were the law itself.

Draco was part of them, having almost dragged himself in there more than deserving the place. But he demonstrated with the pass of time that he’d gained it singlehandedly.

It had to be that way.

Draco applied a hair-combing charm and sighed, preparing mentally to face Greyback and speak with his father. Neither option sounded pleasing.

Draco left his room in the east wing and went down to the dining hall. The table was served, and, surprisingly, it was empty. The seat his father usually took was empty and there was no silverware spread for him to use. Furrowing his brows, he took a seat. Another elf who Draco didn’t know the name of materialized at his side — with the same customs as the others, without looking at him — and finished placing what was missing. The elf was about to disapparate to the kitchens, probably to serve, when Draco spoke.

“Where is Father?” he asked, taking a piece of toast without addressing him directly.

The creature answered looking at his feet.

“Master Lucius is leaving early morning today. To Azkaban, sir.”

Draco stopped his movements for a second when he heard, but he regained himself quickly. It wasn’t strange for his father to visit his mother, he was the only one of the two to have unlimited permitted visits, only — it wasn’t so... abrupt. Could something have happened? No. He would’ve been told. Draco was part of the Nobilium. They had to, or they would suffer the consequences. 

Draco started serving himself thinking it most likely he’d had one of those peculiar urges in which he needed to see Narcissa and nothing would stop him. After all, Lucius hadn’t gone back to being his old self once she’d been locked up for treason, but it didn’t worry him, because the latter fact wouldn’t last for long, Draco knew it. He’d spent the last eight years climbing ranks, striving and picking up enough pieces necessary, doing even the unthinkable for his mother. It was all for his mother. So he could take her out of there and escape.

It was a promise.

“Good,” responded Draco after a moment, taking a sip of his coffee. “Leave.”

The elf disappeared with a crack.

He had at least an hour to arrive at the Ministry. Maybe he would make an appearance at his chair in the Wizengamot. He understood that a new law would be voted on that day— or was it tomorrow? — although he didn’t exactly know what for. He didn’t exactly care. He had a place assured in that world. A spot forged with blood and effort. 

Literally.

Halfway through a piece of toast, with his mind still somewhere else and trying to push the memory of what he’d seen when he woke up, the doors to the hall opened wide, and in came that fucker, dirty werewolf with his disgusting smile.

“I see it is no use how many years you spend among educated people, Greyback,” said Draco instinctively when he saw him, by sheer force of habit. “Savage habits won’t ever leave you.”

The penetrating eyes of the werewolf locked with his own, and Draco wondered vaguely when that look stopped causing him goosebumps. Greyback was a part of his nightmares when he was seventeen, and at that moment, the only thing he saw was a sadist and stupid beast that had nothing to do with his own life. The corners of Draco’s mouth lifted up ironically when he saw a glimpse of rage ghost his face.

“Don’t provoke me, Malfoy.”

Draco put on his best-bored face and finally took the toast in his mouth while examining him. He was wearing dark clothes, but not the black robes that the rest of the Nobilium or Death Eaters in general used, his complexion wouldn’t allow him to. Draco glanced at his sides, looking at how, a few steps behind him, there was a chained boy with his gaze locked to the floor, waiting for the man. Draco raised a brow, taking note of the fact this boy was new and had blond shiny hair. The last one had dark.

Bollocks, how long had it been? Less than two weeks? And he already had another mudblood boy under his power. He supposed the last one had been devoured —like the rest— and not bitten, since the only reason they’d fall into Greybacks’ hands was that they had no magical ability; it was stupid to convert them. Draco understood the beast had the power to possess them, after all, it was his prize for his role during the war. But that was too much. At this pace, they wouldn’t have any mudblood slaves for the rest of the population within a year.

Draco redirected his gaze, opting to not look at the boy more than he had to.

“Has anyone ever told you your threats aren’t that effective?” Draco said finally raising an unimpressed brow. “Us adults don’t allow ourselves to be impressed as easily by your pathetic little show like kids.”

At that, the servant shrunk himself even further, without lifting his gaze; but Draco paid no mind. Greyback let out an amused laugh going one step closer to him.

“I remember they were effective enough on you not many years ago, little Malfoy.”

He finished the sentence with a smile and Draco felt a surge of rage begin to unravel inside him again. He knew very well what Greyback meant, knew perfectly the exact type of torture Greyback put him through. The fact that Draco relegated any memory concerning — that, didn’t mean they weren’t still there. But he wasn’t that scared nineteen-year-old any longer, and Merlin it pissed him off whenever that wanker called him ‘little Malfoy’. Draco hadn’t spent the last few years demonstrating that he was anything but a kid, just to be treated like so.

“What do you want?” he spat, disgusted. And the disgust must've been very palpable, both in his voice and on his face, because Greyback's eyes took on a gleam — a malicious gleam, that hadn't been there before.

“Ah, you don't like it when I call you that?”he asked mockingly. Draco didn't move his blank expression. The man paused slightly as he licked his lips. “Do you prefer 'Astaroth'?”

The memory of the first time he'd been baptised like that was seared into his mind. Draco squeezed the rim of the mug, and Greyback noticed that detail, his ugly grin widening.

“I've heard people like to call you that. Don't you?" he laughed. It wasn't a sound that was meant to be pretty and Draco knew it. However, it no longer provoked the same reaction as it did when he was sixteen, like the Servi boy, who grew smaller instead, proving his point. “The Dark Lord loves it.”

Draco set his jaw, leaning his arms on the chair and waiting for the git to say something else so he could go for the jugular. He'd learned long enough ago that he should wait and not get upset at the slightest provocation. The one who gets angry, loses.

“What is it, Astaroth?” Greyback provoked him again. Draco didn't answer.

Greyback took a step towards him, and Draco quickly brought a hand to his leg, just above where his wand was. He knew that it was clear to Greyback that it didn't benefit him to challenge Draco in his own house, but you never really knew.

The werewolf turned to the boy, and pulled on one of his chains causing the boy to stumble and nearly fall face first to the ground. Draco continued to pay no attention to him.

“Would you like to show this mudblood why they call you that?” He asked, taking one of the Servi's arms. “I think we could both have a lot of fun, Astar — ”

Draco, in less than two seconds, was on his feet, wielding his wand and pointing it at the man.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

His eyes were blazing and his throat was tight with anger. Draco disliked being called that, being reminded of Eric's last words and that fucking day. Greyback was the only one who noticed how much it affected him so he used it against him whenever he could; usually Draco ignored it.

But at that moment he'd run out of tolerance. It hadn't been a good morning.

“Get out before I lose the little patience I have left," Draco spat at him.

Greyback stood still, holding his gaze. There was no trace of fear in his expression, but Draco knew precaution when he saw it. And there, Greyback stood expectant, knowing that any slightest movement would cause Draco to explode, and he, and everyone knew that wasn't a pretty thing to witness.

However, the man licked his lips, defiantly.

“Do you think I'm sca— ”

“You haven't seen me angry," Draco snapped. “You know the things I've done when I've been completely calm, you want to stick around to find out what I look like when I really mean to hurt? I'm fine with that.”

It wasn't an idle threat.

Greyback knew it.

Draco didn't lower his wand, but Greyback did relax his arms, slowly letting go of the boy's chain who looked like he was about to vomit. Neither looked away from the other and, honestly, Draco was waiting for him to say something, any little thing. That day, the urge to curse someone was getting stronger and stronger, and what better than Greyback?

“There's an audience at the Ministry tomorrow," the man said after a while. Draco raised an eyebrow, “and the entire Nobilium is required to attend. And the Electis.”

“So?”

“I'm informing you.”

Informing my bollocks. Greyback enjoyed pushing him to the edge to see if he could get him off his wits. He'd always been like that. He didn't have much else to do, it seemed.

“Good," Draco said, lowering his wand, but only slightly. “Now go away.”

Greyback's nostrils flared, and Draco could see his body tense. He knew Greyback couldn't hurt him, but someone would have to pay for the werewolf's temper.

“You're going to regret — ”

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” Draco cut him off, taking a seat again. “You know what I'm capable of. You know better than to provoke me.”

Greyback stayed in the same spot for a few long minutes, while Draco ignored him —or pretended to ignore him— finishing his breakfast. Knowing how he was like, Greyback would end up wandering around his house just to prove to him that he could, and Draco would have to put up with it. But at least they would no longer continue this absurd fight. He had neither the patience nor the time.

Finally, Greyback turned and stormed out of the room, pulling the mudblood with him as he slammed the door. Draco didn't even blink, his mind on the deal that he had that very same day, forgetting the discussion.

It was a perfect opportunity to form commercial ties with Spain, and from there, they could begin to make a definitive breakthrough in the magical community. It was a perfect opportunity for the Dark Lord to infiltrate a major government in Europe. And Draco would get it for him. Once they had the biggest supplier of potion ingredients in that country tied by the hands, Spain could do nothing but surrender at their feet. 

And because it was so important, it was one step closer to his mother. If not the final one.

She was the reason he'd done everything he'd done. The prospect of rescuing her, of getting her to safety, totally overshadowed the cruelty of his actions. Draco was willing to get her out of there, he'd promised her, and he was going to keep his promise.

Draco finished his breakfast, watching as the elves cleared away his things. He just had to get his black robe to leave. He needed to be in the Ministry in about ten minutes.

The house elf who had served him breakfast hurried to open the dining room door so he could leave. Draco's head was already elsewhere, ready to do what he had in mind. He shifted his shoulders, trying to diffuse the tension, as he went over the speech he would make to get the vendor to agree to his deal, and —

The creature next to him let out a small cry.

He tried to hide it instantly so he wouldn't anger Draco, but Draco had already heard it, causing him to look up at it in irritation and seeing that the elf had his eyes fixed on the floor outside the dining room and — of course. 

He should have known better. Greyback wouldn't just leave .

At his feet, Biddy lay limp and lifeless. Her stomach was half-eaten and her face was missing her eyes, along with half of her cheek. Her intestines were strewn around her and the floor was covered in blood. Draco could almost see Greyback in the corner grinning devilishly at the scene. 

Sighing, Draco shifted his body with the sole of his foot, causing the head, which remained attached by nothing more than a thin sliver of flesh to the creature's neck, to roll and fall a few steps away as he took a step backwards. 

He would be disgusted, if that image were not a recurring one in his life.

Well, at least the little elf had lasted two months. That was a record.

“Clean it," he commanded into the air, applying a wiping spell to his own foot and turning away without looking back. “You are allowed to bury her with the rest in the courtyard.”

•••

Draco arrived at the Ministry just in time. Two minutes after his arrival, the ingredient supplier was in a special room for the Nobilium, seated. He wore an extravagant moustache and possessed a serious face. Draco was aware that he had to play his cards right, that he had to cajole him and use his arguments so that tomorrow, Spain would be economically dependent on England.

Then they could do whatever they wanted.

It was dull, to say the least, and overly easy. Draco closed the deal in less than two hours and said goodbye with his gallant posture, knowing that the little man was delighted to think he'd made a million-dollar deal for nothing.

Well, he thought so.

Draco tried to leave as quickly as possible then. After the dream he'd had in the morning, it was for the best, even though he'd thought otherwise. He had never really liked going to the Ministry, it brought back memories of that day. Especially when he saw the statue standing right in the middle of the reception area. The Dark Lord with his foot on top of Potter's face and the boy's body limp, surrendered.

As quiet as he'd ever seen him in his life.

Draco could still hear people clamouring for his death. He could still see the boy's chest heaving and his breathing slowing as he bled out at the Dark Lord's feet. Draco could still hear his laughter, and the beating of his own heart, as the small part of Draco, the part that was still deluded and innocent, thought Potter could still be saved. That someone would come over and save him, like always.

But that never happened.

Shaking his head, he went to one of the chimneys to use the floo net; that was the only way to get into the Ministry after the war.

Then, just as he was about to grab a handful of dust, someone almost pushed him out of the way.

Draco spun around, about to scream at the git's carelessness, only to discover that it was Theodore Nott standing in front of him, who wore the same irritated expression of Draco. When he realised that it was Draco who had bumped into him, his expression relaxed.

“Hey," he said, nodding his head.

Draco nodded back, glancing at him. He was dishevelled, as if he had been running to get to the Ministry. He wore the navy blue robe that corresponded to the Electis, along with the blood drop brooch; but unlike his, Theo's did not have the same vibrant red colour in the centre, his was completely golden and a few centimetres smaller. Less conspicuous, though distinguishable at the same. It didn't mean much to Draco anyway, Theo might be an Electis and Draco a Nobilium, but the brunette would always behave at the same social status as him. Always.

“Anything interesting to look at?” Theo asked, raising an eyebrow.

Draco gave him a small smile, which, if they weren't in public, could mean so much more.

“It's weird to see you in such a hurry. That's all," he replied, in that polite but friendly tone he reserved only for certain people. “You'd think there wouldn't be much going on at the Muggle-born Registration Commission.”

“Yeah, well. People think wrong," he shrugged, taking a step back. “By the way, have you heard that tomorrow...?”

“There's a meeting at the Wizengamot about a new law? Yes.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds as he completed his sentence, communicating without words. Theo had always been someone he considered his equal — his only friend, if he had to put it that way. Yes, there was Goyle and Pansy, but the former was dumber than a door and the latter had grown up to be nothing more than his irritable fiancée instead of the best friend he had at Hogwarts. At least Theo was someone interesting to have a conversation with and could be a very good lover too.

“Well," Theo finally said, holding out his hand for him to take, "I guess I'll see you later, or tomorrow.”

Draco licked his lips focusing on his light green eyes, and gave a half smile.

“Okay.” He squeezed it, holding the contact between their skins for a few seconds longer than necessary as Theo gave him a squeeze back, getting the message. “Tomorrow, then.”

Draco nodded once more, and left, feeling like his day had gotten a little better. That was the way things were with Theo, and he believed that was why he liked him so much. No questions, no complications, no extra words. Simple, quick and effective. He hadn't even once made a single argument about the immorality of the situation they were fucking in. And no, Draco didn't mean that they were two men, after all, that was normal in the magical world (despite the fact that the Dark Lord had nearly banned it, if it wasn't for the outraged reactions he got from purebloods). He meant that Draco was in front of everyone's eyes, in love and "about" to get married to Pansy Parkinson, even though they had been engaged for four years, of course. That was supposed to tell people something. It said something to Theo.

Draco arrived at the Manor, finding Greyback's Servi standing at the side of the fireplace, head down, hands outstretched. He was shivering, as if he'd been ordered hours ago to remain that way until Draco arrived. The chains were heavy, and the boy was weak and small. Greyback had surely ordered him to wait and serve him. Draco had no idea if that was a peace offering or a way to piss him off. It was well known to all that Malfoy Manor didn't take Servi mudbloods at their disposal.

Draco grimaced in disgust, taking a step away from him.

“Trevor," he called into the air, knowing that his house-elf would be there in a matter of seconds. “Take my coat.”

“Yes, Master Malfoy.”

Draco felt him grab it in his arms, taking another step back.

“Is father here yet?”

A second of silence passed before the elf answered.

“No, Master Malfoy.”

“Any news of him?”

“No, Master Malfoy.”

That didn't sound good to him.

“You may go.”

Draco hadn't taken his eyes off the boy at any point, not even when the elf snapped his fingers. There was something sickening about the way he looked like himself when he was younger, ten years old, if he had to be exact. Thin, small, with that fine shiny blond hair and pale skin. Something inside him told him it couldn't be a coincidence.

“Lower your arms," he ordered, not knowing if the boy was under orders to obey. The Servi didn't seem to acknowledge her presence. “I said: lower —"

A soft intake of breath cut through the air, causing Draco to snap his mouth shut and stare at him with wide eyes. 

Fuck.

Draco tilted his face slightly with a small feeling of unease in his chest, and took a step to the side, only to confirm what he already suspected.

The boy had fallen asleep in that position.

A strange feeling loosened in his stomach, but he dismissed it quickly, and the voice that sometimes appeared in his brain died away before he could speak; he knew better than to challenge it. Draco adjusted his robes and picked up a cane from beside the fireplace, touching the boy with it. Once, twice, three times, until the boy jumped and jerked his head up, revealing his clear blue eyes. 

The infant had a constellation of bruises on his cheek, a cut on his eyebrow, and marked fingers on his neck, which gave away things Draco didn't want to think about. 

Fortunately he didn't have to look at it for long; the boy was once again crouching down and making himself small as he began to shake, but this time in earnest. Draco sighed, feeling a hint of irritation with him.

“Lower your arms," he repeated his command, and the Servi obeyed immediately. His entire posture indicated fear. Draco wondered briefly if he looked like that, years ago. “Did Greyback order you to wait here for me?”

The boy swallowed before nodding.

“The Master told me to take your coat as soon as I got here, and — and... and... and to listen to you about what, um, whatever you wanted. I'm... I'm... I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Don't — don't do anything to me," he finished, growing increasingly nervous that he'd failed in his task.

Draco sighed again.

Greyback had had a lot of Servi since that law had been in place —even though that was never the purpose of creating it— and each of his slaves was different from the other. There were some who were stupid, some who were too smart for their own good, and some who were rebels. Who probably... probably would've gone to Gryffindor, if things were different. Who disobeyed and sent everything and everyone to hell. Those — those Draco could deal with, after all, Greyback wouldn't put up with them for long.

But that sort of character, docile and with a sense of survival? That was another story. It made him think that, in their childish mind, the children believed that there was something people could do for them. That if they were good enough they would be rescued, or Greyback would take pity on them and let them live.

He, better than anyone, knew that the world didn't work like that.

He was about to order him to get lost or something, when Trevor returned, making the Servi shudder again. Draco gritted his teeth, fighting against himself not to make some annoyed comment, and turned to the elf, who had an alarmed look on his face. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Master Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy," he said, bowing quickly. “There's someone trapped in the barriers. Mr. Greyback is already there. In the west wing.”

Draco frowned, momentarily forgetting the boy and instinctively walking towards the doorway in confusion. It was beyond strange that there was someone at the barriers. Far more so to think that they had fallen in there because they were snooping around the Manor.

No one was stupid enough to go near the Manor.

“Take the Servi to..." Draco interrupted, not quite sure what to say. “Take him to the kitchens and keep him there. “

“Any more directions?”

He didn't answer immediately.

“Just..." he said, as another elf opened the door for him. “Give him a comfortable seat.”

Draco walked out into the courtyard, watching the few remaining peacocks shy away from him. Or from any human being, really. An impossible chill greeted him, making him realise immediately that not only was there a person at the barriers, but also that the Dementors were getting closer than usual, as always. During a good month, Draco had to conjure a Patronus only three times. That week, he was already on his fourth.

Sighing, and still walking, he concentrated on the most powerful memories he had. They weren't the happiest, but they were useful, he'd learned that the hard way. Besides, making a Patronus was a necessary skill he had to acquire after the war. If it wasn't for it, Malfoy Manor would be crawling with Dementors, as his father was no longer capable of producing one.

“ Expecto Patronum ," he said, pointing into the air.

His familiar fox shot out from the tip of his wand and headed towards the cold, which was in the opposite direction. Draco almost strided the last few steps to the edge, watching as Greyback circled a woman, sprawled in the air in an exceedingly awkward position. Even from that distance, Draco could see the glint and maniacal grin in the werewolf's eyes.

“Well, well, what have we here," he said when he saw Draco going up to them. “97' Generation Student Council?”

Draco frowned, finally arriving. What did Greyback mean? Was there anyone he knew? Draco focused his gaze on the woman and—

“Hannah Abbott," he muttered, surprised.

She looked terrified.

“You can't do anything to me," she blurted out, though her voice wavered. “I have a right to a trial at the Ministry, I have — " 

“No, you don't," Draco said. squinting his eyes and causing her to slam her mouth shut.

What was she doing there?

Hannah gulped, as Greyback let out a chuckle. Draco examined her. He hadn't seen her face in years, but he knew Abbott was working in Azkaban, condemned to guard duty after she regretted fighting for the wrong side. Until then, she hadn't been in trouble. She and the half-bloods without influence were one kind, and they mingled only with each other. He didn't understand what the hell Hannah could want now.

“I think we should take her inside," Greyback said, looking around. “And the Servi?”

“Trevor will do it," Draco replied, ignoring his question. 

The elf reached him in seconds.

“No, no, you can't —”

“Decree number two of the Nobilium of the Wizarding World," Greyback cut her off with a grin, "There is a right for one or more members of the Nobilium to interrogate an accused subject, by such methods as they see appropriate, always there is reasonable cause to do so. This," Greyback quoted the law by which they were governed, "seems to me to be more than reasonable cause. You're in Nobilium headquarters, and we want to know why.”

Hannah remained silent at that, but her eyes filled with tears. Draco looked partially down, detailing how her hands were missing two fingers in total, a consequence of previous torture (had it been him?, probably) and understood, that Abbott knew what was coming. Draco raised an eyebrow then, averting his gaze and turning to Greyback to look at him with disdain, noting that he looked... Agitated. Excited, perhaps. Torture for Greyback was like giving a dog a bone. Draco could bet the idiot had learned only the sections of the Nobilium he used frequently, and this was one of them.

“Trevor," Draco said to the elf waiting for directions, "take this woman to the manor dungeons.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And don't bother to be careful," Greyback added maliciously.

“Yes, Sir.”

Trevor advanced towards Hannah, and without warning, grabbed her and Apparated inside. The last thing Draco heard before she dissolved into thin air was the sob that cut through her throat as she was pulled so abruptly out of the magical barriers.

“This gonna be fun," Greyback muttered to himself.

Draco turned away and made no reply, setting off towards the manor.

The dungeons were like any other. Cold, small and musty smelling, not even the Malfoy luxury would change that fact. Hannah was semi-conscious when they entered, bound like a star to the chains on the wall and immobilised. Draco sighed, grimacing, he didn't like this part, but he knew it was necessary. There was something about the whole business of her sniffing around the manor that he didn't like in the slightest.

“ Rennervate !” Greyback shouted, as if he enjoyed it.

Hannah, who had been on the verge of fainting, jerked her head up with a shock of energy, looking him in the eye. Her blonde hair was dull and lifeless, and her face had lost the Hufflepuff friendliness that had characterised her in her Hogwarts years. They had never exchanged many words, except when Draco was having fun at her and her friends' expense, but she could see the clear difference between the Hannah she used to be and the Hannah she was at the moment.

Draco took a seat across from her, crossing his arms. Greyback approached, sniffing the woman's neck in a disgusting way.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Draco said in a bored tone. “You can tell me what you're doing here and I'll leave you in Ministry custody, unharmed. Or... you can resist.”

Hannah's eyes focused on him, and there Draco saw a lot of emotions he'd thought forgotten in that world. Bravery. Fierceness. Determination. They were the eyes of someone who hadn't given up, and wouldn't give up. It had been so many years since he'd seen that look in anyone. He looked away, uncomfortable.

If you look into their eyes, you'll start to think they're a human being.

Draco wondered if Hannah was an idiot, or if she didn't understand that there was nothing left to fight for. That it didn't matter if she resisted or not, no one won. Not him, not her, not Greyback. Only the Dark Lord. 

Only him.

“Right. Let's start with the basics. Trevor," Draco called to the Elf, who stood in the corner of the room. “Bring me the Veritaserum.”

He felt the creature walk to the shelves to his left, and Draco reached out, waiting for him to place the vial there. When he felt it, he immediately levitated it towards Greyback, who took it and without a second thought, forced her to drink it in one gulp, causing Hannah to retch.

“What were you doing here?” he asked immediately, almost desperately, before regaining his composure.

The woman pressed her lips together tightly, her face turning completely red, refusing to answer.

“The bitch won't talk," Greyback sneered, pulling her hair. “I think you should give her an incentive.”

“Did someone send you?” Draco asked, ignoring him again.

He got no answer.

“Are you looking for something?”

Nothing.

Draco sighed, uncrossing his arms and shifting in his chair.

“Perhaps we should give her an incentive," Greyback suggested, taking one of her wrists and bending it into an unnatural position. The woman stifled a tight-lipped sob.

Draco ignored it.

“All right," Draco said, seeing if he got anything in the face of his threatening tone. Nothing yet, “if that's what you want... Go ahead. Let's try something gentle," Draco raised his wand, aiming it at her belly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her close her eyelids, preparing. “ Crucio. ”

Hannah's body twitched, and she wrinkled her forehead, resisting. Draco was surprised, if he was honest. Most people couldn't withstand one round of a Crucio. Or two. Not three. But she was, she was impressively enduring the pain. She'd peed a little, and she'd screamed, but she never begged for it to stop. Draco supposed that being a casualty of war had its advantages.

“ Tergeo, ” He said as he finished the fourth round of Crucios , pointing at the puddle on the floor. Greyback continued to press his nose to the woman's available skin as she sobbed and sniffled. “Not bad, Abbott. Let's see if you can resist this one, though I doubt it.” He pointed at her again, and she visibly shivered with anticipation, surely knowing what she was up against. “ Veritatis dolorem.”

The shriek Hannah let out was only comparable to the ugliest sounds Draco had ever heard, and he knew better than anyone that it would only get worse with every second she resisted answering the questions. That she felt millions of thorns embed themselves in her internal organs and make her bleed out bit by bit as they tore her apart.

“What are you doing here?”

Hannah didn't answer, she continued to scream.

“What are you doing here?” Greyback repeated, this time taking a finger and biting down hard on it.

Nothing.

The screams were getting more and more deafening and Draco could only think that she shouldn't hold on for another five seconds. That she would break.

But that didn't happen.

Fifteen seconds later, and Hannah was still screaming.

Draco lowered his wand, breaking the curse, shocked. That wasn't normal. He'd never seen resistance like that…  

Then he thought better of it.

Hannah was trained.

“Who taught you to endure it?” He demanded fiercely, rising from his place to walk towards her. “Who taught you? Tell me, or I swear I'm going to let Greyback tear you alive, you traitorous little shit.”

“I'm going to do it anyway," the werewolf grinned as he threatened to leave her without another finger.

She gasped, shivering. Draco raised his wand, ready to put her through every possible pain he could imagine. There was something dangerous going on here, something he really didn't want to think about. He had to find out what, though.

“No wonder," Hannah said after a few seconds, her voice trailing off. Draco had the curse on the tip of his tongue. “I would expect nothing less from you, not after what you... what you've done to your mo... to your mother.”

Half his guards fell apart in a tenth of a second.

“What?”

Greyback slapped Hannah's face, so hard, it made her turn her head to the side and spit blood. Draco recoiled, his mind racing.

“How... how could you...?”

“Shut up," Greyback snarled fiercely, grabbing her by the hair. But she ignored him.

Draco felt like he was going to faint.

“To your own... mother... Draco Malfoy…”

The werewolf let out a shriek, and in a flash, he buried his claws into Hannah's right eye, gouging it out in one go. Draco watched as the tissue dangled and where once there were brown orbs staring at him, now there was nothing but emptiness. She screamed, and Greyback screamed, as he bit into her jaw and ripped off her ear, clawing at her belly in a way that nearly opened her stomach, and Draco could no longer hear, see, or simply think that they hadn't gotten the information they needed. 

His mother.

He watched as Greyback ripped the woman's arm off while she was still alive and conscious, begging at last to please kill her, but Draco wasn't able to process anything. His footsteps were leading him to the dungeon door and from there, to the hall — any fucking hall. Any fucking place that had a connection to Azkaban.

No, no, no.

Surely she didn't mean anything, did she? She'd probably just said it to get on his nerves.

Draco grabbed a handful of floo powder and threw it into the fire, calling out the name of the Azkaban office, but he couldn't hear himself anything, it all seemed to be happening outside of him, like in a movie. 

He felt then how he was not allowed to pass, being stuck in someone else's fireplace, even though a voice —probably himself— was shouting that if he was not allowed to pass he would set fire to the whole place, and he meant it. Completely.

Draco was finally met by a lady, who told him he wasn't allowed to be there, but Draco pushed her away and ran all the way down to the head office, to where the prisoners were. 

He was going to see Narcissa. He was going to make sure she was all right.

She had to be alright.

To your own mother, Draco Malfoy...

He felt the pounding in his ears, and his mind was unable to form a single rational thought.

No, no, no. Please. Please. Let her be alive. Let her be alright. She has to be alright. 

She's always alright.

Draco put a hand to his neck and began to tug at his shirt, feeling like it was suffocating him. A cold sweat was running down his back and at any moment he was going to vomit.

It's a mistake. It has to be a mistake.

He bumped into a bald little man as he arrived, whom he vaguely recognised as a slightly more senior half-blood in charge of the place. Draco put his hands on top of the shabby desk, totally frantic, and as the man was about to speak upon seeing him, Draco blurted out, “I want to see Narcissa Malfoy."

The man seemed quickly perturbed.

“I'm afraid I can't give you permission to —" 

“I don't give a shit. You're going to let me see her.”

The man left whatever he was doing on the desk and stepped back a little, watching Draco's posture, qho just felt was wasting his time. Valuable time.

She's going to be okay. She's going to be okay. She has to be okay.

“Mr. Malf- Astaroth, I'm not allowed to let you in—”

Draco pulled his wand from his trousers and brought it to the man's throat in a flash. The rest of the guards seemed to be alerted, and quickly surrounded them as the man raised his arms in an appeasing manner, now with fear etched on his features.

Draco put his hand to his chest, and lifted the fabric of his suit.

“Do you know what this is?” He hissed, showing his tear badge. “Do you have any idea what it means? They call me Astaroth because of this, you should know.”

It came out threatening, and that was the idea. Because it was a threat. The man swallowed, visibly frightened.

“You're going to let me in because if your fear is death," he whispered, gritting his teeth, "believe me, there are far worse things than that, and I can prove it to you.”

The man didn't react immediately, though he nodded awkwardly and frantically as he pulled out one of the keys. Draco could recognise the presence of Dementors roaming freely in the vicinity, but he paid them no mind. There was nothing in the world he could pay attention to at the moment. He had to see Narcissa, he had to...

Draco blinked, staring at the cold walls, realising one fact.

He wasn't being taken to the cells.

He wasn't being taken to the cells, with the other prisoners.

Draco's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, as he followed the man down corridors, filled with screaming people and guards watching them as he passed. Draco tightened his grip on his wand, convincing himself that this was a mistake. Or that maybe Narcissa had suffered an accident and was in the care wing.

Yes, that had to be it. That — that had to be it. That's what that twit Hannah meant, that filthy half-breed. Narcissa had just had an accident. Something she'd get over.

They reached the end of a corridor, after descending several steps, and the man put on his best apologetic expression before opening the cell and disappearing from there as quickly as he'd come.

Draco didn't dare go in.

He stood in the doorway for minutes at a time, staring at his shoes, reliving the last time he had seen his mother, the last time he had visited her. How she'd been quiet most of the time, talking nonsense thanks to Azkaban taking away some of her sanity. But she was fine . Draco asked her and she answered, with a smile, not to worry and that she was okay. That everything would be fine.

His mother kept her promises.

Draco took a deep breath, mentally berating himself. He couldn't be such a coward, he couldn't be afraid of seeing his mother ill. Because that was all she had. She was attacked by a disease.

Draco took a step into the place, and snapped his eyes open, not realising he'd closed them, and peered into the centre of the room, stumbling backwards instantly.

No.

Draco put a hand to his chest and began tugging at his clothes, trying to shake off that suffocation, that pressure that had settled there, and hopefully wake up from that delirium. It had to be delirium.

No.

Narcissa was lying on a stone bed, hands at her sides and looking completely serene.

She must be sleeping. She's taking a nap. That's what she looks like when she sleeps. That's what she looked like when she fell asleep next to me.

A high-pitched whistle immediately reached his ears and Draco moved forward, feeling his legs no longer responding, and finally dropped to his knees beside her, his throat closing up and his hands beginning to shiver.

No.

No, it had to be a lie.

That woman wasn't his mother, she wouldn't have died on his father's watch. Someone would come and tell him it was a sick joke, that his mother was alive and happy in another cell, waiting for him. Waiting for him to get her out of there. Waiting for him to go and see her. Waiting for him to tell her that he loves her one more time.

“Mum..." Draco called out, thinking she would answer him.

He grabbed her hair, and suddenly, he was holding her in his arms. She felt so weak and thin and fragile. Narcissa wasn't fragile. That woman wasn't his mother. It was impossible. Draco held her, desperately searching for a sign of life. A pulse, breathing. For her to open her eyes and look at him again with those blue eyes, cold and gentle at the same time. For a deluded moment, he thought she was hugging him back, that she was wrapping her delicate arms around him as she had as a child. Draco pulled her tight against him, feeling his surroundings shadowed and crumbling. How everything he'd hoped for in the past few years, everything he'd done —

For nothing.

“No. No," he whispered, cupping her face. “No. Wake up, Mother. Mum, please…”

He thought of the Narcissa who told him stories before bed, and rewarded him with cake every time she refused him something. He thought of the Narcissa who taught him to read and write and paint. He thought of the Narcissa who stayed by his side when he had nightmares. He thought of the Narcissa who did everything in her power to make him happy. He thought of the day he promised to get her out of there. He thought about how he didn't get to tell her that he loved her one last time.

Draco pressed her to his chest, and he broke down.

Desolation worked its way through his system.

His mother was dead.

That woman in his arms was his mother.

Dead. And he hadn't been able to save her. And why her? Why her and not him? Draco pushed Narcissa away, desperate to trade places with her, to find something that would give away that this person wasn't Narcissa, anything.

But he found only bruises, dried blood, battered skin, and a cadaverous thinness. She was still warm. If he'd been there sooner, if he'd seen her sooner, maybe he could have saved her, maybe he could have...

Saved her from what?

Draco was still looking at her, agonised, and he felt the tears gathering in his eyes as he stifled a throat-burning sob, stroking his mother's sparse blonde hair, fine and tangled. Narcissa had been alive, alive and well, as far as he knew. She had been fine. Her father had told him she was fine. She was alive. She was alive. But how — ?

How had she —

A million images flashed through his mind. A cold? An accident?

There was still a remedy. There was still something to do, wasn't there? Draco squeezed her once more, feeling her even lighter and…

His breath caught.

No .

Draco picked her up, pulling his ear close to his mother's chest. He remembered Grandfather Abraxas' funeral and how even after he was dead, Draco could still feel his magic. How he'd told Narcissa about it, and she had explained that magic didn't leave a body when it died, but when the wizard disintegrated, and...

No. No. No. No.

His senses clouded, and Draco's jaw clicked. Everything inside him was mixed with fuzzy, different feelings because — he couldn't feel her. He didn't feel her, and that meant only one thing.

That his mother was stripped of her magic.

And that wasn't possible, no one lost magic naturally, and apparently, that was what had happened, wasn't it? No, to make someone lose their magic required several people, it required a plan. It wasn't something that was accomplished lightly, and —

The realization hit him in the face.

Narcissa wasn't dead.

Draco shook with rage, gripping her tighter.

Narcissa had been killed.

Chapter Text

Draco arrived at the Manor, ready to do whatever it took to find out what the hell had just happened.

Greyback knew. Greyback had to know, didn't he? That's why he was acting the way he was. That's why he killed Hannah. And his father... Where the hell was he? What the fuck was going on. What the fuck was going on.

Draco pushed away the elf waiting for him outside the fireplace and continued on his way to the dungeon, frantic, only to find that Hannah's body was no longer there, and neither was the werewolf. There wasn't even a trace of that the woman had stepped foot in that cell, or of what had happened hours before. And he needed to find them. He needed—

He'd been told she was okay . He'd been told that her mother had first-class care, that she was protected, no matter how treacherous she'd been, because he was part of the Nobilium. She had told him so herself. And he had believed her. His mother hadn't been well, and Draco hadn't known it. He'd been averted from seeing her, averted from getting close.

And Greyback knew it.

Draco spun in place, hitting the sides of his head. He didn't understand a thing .

Why? Who—? How? What did he have to do with it? Why had Greyback acted like he was protecting a secret? Who was he trying to cover for...?

The Dark Lord.

The thought hit him so hard it made him stop.

The only people Greyback would have absolute loyalty to, were himself and the Dark Lord.

Draco felt like the blood left his body as he leaned against a wall.

Someone had given the order, because taking her magic away... taking her magic was a big deal. Someone had — someone was behind it all, and — and Hannah implied that Draco knew what they were doing to Narcissa. Why? No one but the Dark Lord had that much power. If it was someone else planning everything maybe… maybe Draco would’ve been able to do something, he would’ve noticed, maybe Narcissa would be alive, but he'd been averted from getting close. He had to resign himself, and damn it, they were gonna pay him for it.

They were all going to pay.

His mind was in chaos and his thoughts jumped from Greyback to Hannah, from Hannah to Lucius, from Lucius to the Dark Lord. Draco needed to find a culprit, to find out who had left his mother without magic. No fucking magic. And — nothing mattered anymore. He didn’t care about dying, about— anything . Because he hadn't managed to get her out of there. He needed to find a fucking culprit.

Because that hurt less than assuming the culprit was himself.

How can you keep breathing now that she's gone?

Draco walked back into the main hall, ready to go to Hogwarts or wherever the werewolf was right now. Draco wielded his wand, seething with rage. It wasn't possible. No. It wasn't possible that this was happening. No—

“Draco!”

A hand wrapped itself around his arm, holding him back from going any further, from moving forward. Draco turned, ready to Crucio the person in question, only to find Theo, who was holding him tightly and didn't seem willing to let him go.

“Let go of me," Draco hissed.

He yanked to get free and only managed to get Theo closer. Draco let out a yelp, crawling over him towards the fireplace and still struggling. He was about to shoot a curse against him, it was on the tip of his tongue. Draco felt that he had run out of patience.

“What the hell are you— Draco!”

“Let me go!” He shouted at him, trying to push him away and grab some floo powder.

“What are you going to gain?!”

“LET ME GO!”

Theo stepped back as Draco pushed him, but the grip on his arm didn't go away. He didn't seem willing to let go, and with every passing second Draco felt like he was capable of destroying everything in his path. The pain in his chest was becoming unbearable, and he wanted to find a culprit, something to soothe him, to calm that pang that felt like someone had ripped his heart out and smashed it to pieces on the floor.

“Draco— ”

“I have to go. I need to go," he said, frantically, "I'll kill him, I'll—”

“Who the fuck are you going to kill? Your fa—?”

“Voldemort," he spat.

A part of his brain managed to register the shock on Theo's features as he called him by his name. He even took another step back, eyes widening and squeezing him so hard that his fingers dug into his skin. Draco didn't care. All he could think about was that his mother was gone. He’d never hear her laugh again, never be able to hold her hand and let her brush his hair. It was all over and he needed to understand why.

Why had they done that.

“Are you listening to yourself?” Theo asked almost beside himself. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Draco looked at him with bloodshot eyes.

“Mother—”

“You're going to end up worse than Narcissa if you go along with this nonsense.”

While that burned as if a spear had been thrust into his side, Draco was petrified in place, his brain racing. He turned squarely to Theo, pointing his wand at him now.

He had never said anything had happened to Narcissa.

“What do you know about my mother?”

Theo brought his hands up, finally letting go of his arm, and sighed, dropping his shoulders. Draco examined his movements. At that moment, no one was innocent, everyone could’ve had something to do with what had happened, and Draco felt he could kill them all just to know. Even Theo.

“What do you know about my mother?” he repeated, now even more menacingly.

“Rodolphus," Theo replied, studying his reaction. Draco frowned without lowering his wand. “He asked me to come and check on you, because you'd just found out that... That Narcissa—”

“No," he cut him off, closing his eyes for a moment. “Don't say it.”

Draco relaxed, just a little. It was possible that Theo was lying, but why? Why? Why was all this happening?

“Rodolphus knew about Mother," he said reflexively.

Theo replied after a few seconds of silence.

“By this point, the entire magical world knows.”

Draco swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. The words Theo was saying made no sense to his ears and he didn't understand them, not truly. He had no idea what else to feel, no more than that rage that seemed to have taken over every corner of his person.

“Why?” 

Theo sighed again, lowering his hands. He glanced around the room and shied away from his gaze.

A heavy feeling settled in his stomach and the knot grew even worse.

“Draco…”

“Why?”

“I think it's best if you sit down…”

“Tell me why!”

Draco's shout didn't move a muscle in his face, as he stood completely still in place, staring at Theo with wild eyes. He didn't know what else to do, he didn't know what could be worse.

“Lucius is in custody.”

The last shred of reason Draco had in his being disappeared, replaced by a feeling of emptiness, a feeling of emptiness he couldn't remember ever feeling before. Not even when he thought he was having the worst years of his life.

He held onto the edge of the fireplace, ducking his head. He was capable enough to throw up everything he had eaten and his head was spinning. He was sure that the blood had now left his face, absolutely sure.

“No…”

Theo tried to reach for him, and Draco pulled away, as if the very thought of feeling human contact burned him.

“Witnesses say that…” He continued, taking a breath. “They say he lost his head and—"

“No," Draco interrupted, denying. His father's face came to his mind. His father. His mother. His family.. . “No! No!”

Draco reached up to his shirt and unbuttoned the top buttons, gasping for breath, and began clawing at his neck. His eyes stung and he really was going to throw up at any moment.

“Draco…”

“Father loves her," he said, remembering the hugs and cuddles they shared when no prying eyes were near. He denied again, "Father loves her! He— he..."

He was never the same after the war. He wasn't the same after Narcissa went to prison for lying about Potter. Lucius was like an empty shell.

His father had always been his role model; Lucius was a good paren,; a good husband. His father was waiting for his mother. He adored her. He conquered her, he had waited for her for years, and he would do it all his life. Draco had learned what love was because of them, he had believed that love existed because of them. No —

“It's impossible," he whispered, his voice trailing off.

A few seconds of silence passed.

“Are you sure about that?”

Draco swallowed, feeling himself start to shiver. He refused to accept it. It couldn't be that way.

“Someone else—”

Draco interrupted himself, remembering the image of his mother in that room. How small she had looked, how frail . Draco turned his head and threw up as much as he could onto his side, holding a hand to his stomach. He felt like he was going to pass out at any moment.

Theo pulled out his wand and pointed it at the mess without a word, applying a cleansing charm, and waited for Draco to pull himself together.

He knew he wouldn't be able to.

“She had no magic. She didn't— She didn't have magic, Theo," he blurted out, stumbling over his own words. “My father didn't—”

Taking someone's magic away was no joke and he couldn't have done it alone. There was no way Lucius—no, he couldn't. How?

How?

Renewed rage surged through his body like a wave, as Theo stared at him silently.

“It was him!” he exclaimed suddenly. The Dark Lord, that bastard son of a bitch was responsible for everything that had happened in his bloody life. Draco was out of his mind again, shouting at the floor. “Him, and Rodolphus, and all of them! It was them!”

Theo grabbed his arms, steadying him.

“Draco, calm down.”

Draco slapped him away.

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to fucking murder him."

The room was once again present all around him. He didn't know where to go, the Ministry? He needed explanations from Voldemort, they had to settle accounts.

“Draco!”

Draco turned, pointing his index finger at him, unwilling to listen to any bullshit about loyalties and the Dark Lord being the most powerful wizard. Draco was in no mood to be treated as a traitor. Theo could keep licking his feet if that's what he wanted.

“For years, for years I've been swallowing his... bullshit! ” he spat, feeling how his voice wavered and his jaw tensed. ”I've done everything! I've served!” He grabbed the same cane he'd used hours ago and threw it across the room. “I've served, to get her out of there! And that, that son of a BITCH HAS JUST TAKEN HER AWAY FROM ME!”

“Stop it— ”

“NO!” Draco was completely beside himself at that point. The face of his mother, of the woman who had cared for him and the one who he’d failed, was etched in his mind. “LICK HIS BOOTS YOURSELF IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT! I'm going to do everything within me to get him out of power! I've... swallowed it all! But I'm— I’m not— I’m going to murder him. I'm going to do anything— even if there's no way to overthrow his power, even if there's no way—”

“There is a way.”

Draco fell silent, feeling the urge to vomit again.

Theo was grabbing him by both sides of his face, and he didn't even know at what point that had happened. He looked intently at him, causing Draco to stare into his green eyes.

For a few moments, he could almost pretend they belonged to someone else.

“What?” he asked, taken by surprise.

Theo closed his eyes and sighed, lowering his hands to rest on Draco's forearms.

“Draco," he exhaled, eliminating the space between them. “Come here.”

Draco resisted at first, but was soon enveloped in an embrace. It was rough and awkward and it felt false to him because Draco wasn't used to being hugged. He knew it was a way to comfort him, to find some serenity, but Theo's scent and the build of his person only made the emptiness in his chest grow larger, because it reminded him that he would never feel his mother's arms again. Never again would he experience the kisses on his forehead and the soothing murmurs. Draco squeezed Theo's back, trying not to collapse.

His eyes stung and he blinked a couple of times, though no tears came out of them. He didn't shed a single drop. He just felt hopelessly empty, as if life had been drained from his body.

“I need you to calm down," Theo whispered.

Draco suppressed a sob.

“I can't. ”

He rested his forehead on his shoulder, trying to even out his breathing. Theo was partly right; if he was going to kill the Dark Lord, he had to think it through. Plan it well.

Draco felt his heart squeeze inside him as he recalled the conversation.

“Father didn't—" he started to say, but Theo interrupted him.

“I believe you.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut so hard he saw flashlights.

But he didn't believe himself.

At this point, Draco didn't know if he was trying to convince Theo or himself that Lucius was innocent, because nothing assured him that he hadn't been part of what happened. It just seemed so... unreal.

The whole thing seemed like a fucking nightmare.

“What way?” he asked, after a while.

Theo slowly pulled away, so he could look him in the face. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, as if he didn't know what to do, and had only just realised what he'd said. It reminded Draco partially of the Theo of Hogwarts, the one who blurted out random information and then regretted it because he knew Draco had a big mouth.

“Theo, what way," he repeated quietly.

He shook his head, not letting go or looking away.

“You're too upset, you should rest," he said.

Draco almost screamed in frustration, and instead, he focused his silver eyes on the other's and abruptly, mentally conjuring the Legilimency spell.

He’d never done that before. Draco always needed his wand to get into another person's mind, and it was definitely not the area he was best at, but he was so frustrated and desperate to understand, that it didn't take much of his effort. Theo had barriers: like a good pureblood he protected his secrets and his mind. But at that exact moment they were sharing vulnerability, and by the time the man had lifted the walls, Draco had already been able to get inside his head.

It wasn't long, no more than three seconds, but the images flashed before his eyes and he was able to make sense of them: Theo saving the mudbloods because of his work at the Muggle-born Registration Commission; going to warn them at the first sign of magic they presented. Theo fighting Death Eaters under a mask. Theo looking at a group of people, a blonde-haired girl, people he thought were fugitives or dead. Theo carrying information. Theo being part of the Order of the Phoenix as a spy.

Theo being a traitor.

“What the f...?”

Draco was pushed so hard that he fell backwards, his head slamming into the wall. Theo waved his wand in his direction and looked absolutely pissed off and desperate.

“Don't you ever do that again! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

The sound of his heart thundered in his ears as he put a hand to his mouth. It couldn't be that in less than twenty-four hours everything, everything , had changed. Everything he believed in and thought about the way the world was run.

He had no idea that the Order was still active, still a functioning organism.

“Are you a traitor?” he muttered, horrified.

Some part of his brain knew that, after what he himself had said, he’d no right to claim anything. That Draco could even congratulate him. But the other part, the one driven by force of habit, couldn't help but think that this wasn't recent. That this was something Theo had been at for years. Maybe ever since . Behind his back, behind everyone's back. And he'd fooled them, like they were nothing.

Draco clung to that. He clung to that thought to take his mind off the rest.

“I've been very patient and considerate with you," Theo said, "And I've lowered my defences to come here, but if you ever try anything like that again, I swear I'm not going to give a damn, Draco.”

“Are you one of them ? he asked, still in shock and ignoring what he'd just said.

Theo massaged his temples, shaking his head.

“I don't belong to any side," he mumbled, turning around and grabbing the back of his neck. “I go to the one that benefits me the most, and if the Dark Lord remains in power, he’ll destroy our world. That is not in my best interests.”

Draco felt those words as a betrayal, but a personal betrayal. He didn't know, didn't want to find it within himself what made him think that way, that Theo had done that behind his back. While he — while he...

“How could you change your loyalties?”

“My loyalties are with what I care about," Theo snapped, and locked his eyes on him again. “You of all people know that now.”

Draco swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and closed his eyes, counting to ten. He didn't know how the human body could withstand so much tension. He felt the magic swirl in his fingertips and threatened to make him explode.

“Take me to them," he blurted.

Theo laughed.

“Not even dead.”

“I can be useful to them.”

Theo clicked his tongue, reaching out for Draco to take his hand and pull him up. Draco did so, rising back to his feet as he massaged his forehead.

The order is active. My mother. Greyback. Hannah. The Dark Lord. My father.

“You're not thinking rationally," Theo replied simply. “This isn't just about revenge, it's about overthrowing an entire government. It's a war. It's more…”

When Draco saw the man raise his hand again, so he hastened to bring his own wand to Theo's neck, burying the tip in the skin. Theo raised his eyebrows, halting his movements.

“Don't you dare Obliviate me.”

They stared at each other for a full minute.

Theo didn't seem affected. He was one of the few people who wasn't intimidated by Draco. He supposed they'd both seen worse.

“I want to fight," he insisted, with a tinge of desperation.

“We both know you're not good at fighting.”

“Theo—”

“I can't, all right? You don't trust them, and they won't trust you. Not after what you've done.”

Not after what you've done.

The things I've done.

Draco didn't let any strange thoughts creep into his head and shook it, not letting his guard down. Theo was capable of Obliviating him then.

“Draco—”

“I'll find a way," he cut him off, before he could continue. He wouldn't be able to convince him. “Hannah was part of them, wasn't she? That's why she was here. They have to understand, they—”

“They understand.” It was Theo's turn to interrupt. “And you've spent the last eight years helping to eliminate the ones that are left, do you really think it's as easy as going and demanding they let you be a spy? It doesn't work like that. Nothing assures them that you're no longer the Dark Lord's pet, or that you have sufficient reason to change sides.”

Draco's eyes caught his full of rage, and he tightened his grip on his wand, his jaw tensing as he loaded his words with meaning.

“They killed my mother.”

Theo closed his eyes, taking a step back. Draco felt those words echoing in his ears. He had said it. He'd said it out loud.

No, no, no.

“Don't take me with your Potter-believing cult," he finally said venomously, ignoring their mental debate. “But don't think for one fucking second that I'm going to sit idly by and do nothing.”

Theo didn't even look annoyed or uncomfortable with the position he'd been left in anymore. He just looked... resigned. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away, to a familiar picture hanging on the opposite wall that the Draco knew all too well.

“Draco, Narcissa…”

“No. We're not doing this.” He shook his head immediately, circling around Theo, intending to leave the room and find a way to start moving, to act. “We're not going to talk about her.”

Theo grabbed his hand, twisting him around and preventing him from leaving. Draco simply stood still in his place, waiting for him to speak.

He sighed.

“I should Obliviate you.”

Draco snorted, trying to pull his hand away. He didn't succeed.

“I want to join them.”

“So you say now.”

“If you thought I'd tell, you'd have hexed me by now. If you thought I didn't mean it, you'd have Obliviated me by now, and you wouldn't be saying anything that would warn me.”

Theo watched him for a few seconds. A long, suffocating few seconds. Draco tried to turn his mind off, or he would go completely mad. If he thought about Narcissa, if he thought about Lucius, he was sure he would lose his mind.

And he couldn't afford that luxury. Not when he had to make sure his mother's death wasn’t in vain.

Finally, Theo ran a hand down his torso and gently guided him out of the room.

“Come on, you need to sleep.”

Draco shaked his head.

“I need to go see father, I need to…”

“You need to sleep first.”

Draco let himself do it, because he didn't have the energy to argue.

•••

Draco woke up in the middle of the night, without Theo by his side and with a horrible headache. He didn't remember dreaming, it was almost impossible that he had, after taking a potion for it, but he felt the image of his mother looping in his brain anyway.

Draco rolled over in bed, staring at the ceiling and sighing heavily. He had no idea what time it would be, or where Theo was; what was going on out there. He felt like his soul had left his body and there was nothing left but a shell. An empty shell that could only hold a single emotion.

Anger.

Draco had never felt like this before. He'd never felt that kind of anger, that cold, calculating anger that made your stomach boil and made you want to raze everything in your path. He was always an intense person, always. His anger and outbursts were instantaneous, without meditation. Was he told something that annoyed him? He would strike back immediately like a good snake. Did something happen that made him miserable? He would do whatever he could to change it.

Action, reaction.

But that... that simmering hatred that didn't go away, that didn't move him and didn't force him to act as if his life depended on it… It was something Draco had never felt before.

The only thing his mind was able to process was the thirst for revenge and the desire to rip the head off of anyone who was involved in all of this. Draco wanted to feel something more. Draco wanted to be able to go and face his father. He wanted to be able to cry like his mother deserved to be cried.

But not a single tear had left his eyes.

Maybe deep down he knew he couldn't allow himself to cry, he couldn't. Once he started, he wasn't sure he would ever stop. Anger was a comfortable and pleasant feeling. Not guilt. Not the sadness. Not the thought that he’d never hear her speak again.

Enough.

Draco turned, reaching for another dose of non-dreaming potion as he sighed.

The Order.

The thought struck him, as he lowered his arm.

After the war had ended, not much was heard from Potter's allies and the opposing side. It was presumed that most had left the country to go into hiding, before they declared the magical quarantine they were still in. Like Blaise, for example, who left for France. Or like the half-giant idiot, who was lost track of. Sure, they had to deal with a few attacks from the Rebels from time to time, but they were quickly and effectively contained. Yes, there was the Weasley girl's Patronus stag that crossed the magical world at the least expected times, or the sightings of the "Resistance", or the thousand Potters, which turned out to be a lie. But Draco never thought... he never imagined that it was something that still existed, and was active. And that Theo was part of it.

How many?

How many people who talked to him every day were part of the Order? How many people wanted to see the Dark Lord out of power? Does he even know?

Of course he knows , a voice in his head replied. He always knows.

Then why is he so calm?

Who told you he was calm? It replied again, What about the raids? The bounties for every member they find alive? The quarantine they've been in for seven years tells you nothing? Why is he so desperate to quell every rebellion with public executions?

Draco ran a hand over his face, dizzy again. He'd never thought it possible; perhaps a childish part of him still associated the Order with Gryffindor attacks: out in the open and full of dramatics on both sides. Open rebellion. It wasn't like that. This was something much more... between the lines. There were infiltrators, there was a building of political ranks from the bottom to the top. Not as warriors, but as strategists.

And he— he didn't know.

He had spent all those years believing that he had to conform, that he had to work with what he had and assume the new rules of the game. He had acted that way because— because he didn't know...

Draco took a single sip of the potion and lay back down before his mind overwhelmed him, as he heard someone approaching in the distance. Probably Theo or some elf.

He was going to go to the Ministry tomorrow, he was going to see those bastards' faces. He hoped they dared to deny that they had done anything to his mother. That they dared to give him their condolences, the fucking imbeciles.

The door opened, and someone lay down next to him again, silently. Draco opened his eyes to find Theo looking back at him.

“Are you feeling better?” he whispered.

A part of Draco wondered where he’d gone, why he wasn't by his side, but sleep was getting the better of him. And besides, though he would never admit it out loud, he trusted him. He'd known him since Theo was less than five years old, and Draco had been by his side when his parents had died. They had stood by each other through so many things that Draco couldn't even list them.

“No," he replied, closing his eyes.

They were silent for a few minutes, or hours, he didn't know; he only knew that as he was slipping back into unconsciousness, he heard him whisper, “I will speak to them…”

•••

Draco showed up the next day in his more formal Nobilium attire and the mask they used to wear, years ago, as it was an official Wizengamot meeting.

It was clear that no one expected to see him there, from the curious looks he received when he entered the foyer. Perhaps they were expecting him to go to the Ministry to see Lucius, to demand to speak to him, but Draco hadn’t planned on doing any of that. He could almost feel everyone's shock when they saw him take his seat in the courtroom and remove his mask, wearing his usual cold and distant expression.

He could tell that there were some who didn't want him there, who perhaps thought Draco had lost his mind. But no, Draco had never thought more clearly. Draco had never seen through people more than he did at that moment. How long had he spent trying to be like them? To be a part of them? To be what he was supposed to be and what Lucius had raised him to be, to achieve what he wanted? Now he looked at them and could only see filthy, pathetic little rats. And he knew, he was sure that more than one of them knew exactly what had happened to Narcissa.

Minister Rookwood began the session on behalf of the Dark Lord without anyone speaking to Draco. The only one who sent him worried glances from time to time was Theo on the other side of the room, but Draco paid no attention to him. All his senses were focused on those watching him as if they were looking at a puzzle or a bomb that needed to be defused.

It was two hours in which nothing very important was discussed, nothing that he cared about at least: the prohibition of marriage or homosexual union unless they could find a way to leave descendants, due to the current low population and birth rate in the magical world. And, secondly, Hogwarts order. Up until then, when a serious offence occurred, such as a mudblood being caught mixing with a pure-blood, or an insolent half-blood breaking a rule, a committee was called to decide what to do with them.

At first, all mudbloods were killed. But as the years went by, not only Draco, but quite a few people began to notice that there were very few people left in the magical world, and fewer and fewer were being born. If the Dark Lord wanted to expand his domain, they couldn't do without anyone with the gift of magic, —even though in the public eye, mudbloods stole it—. So Draco years ago, under that motive, had taken the resolution to separate the mudbloods into two categories through a test, an examination of their magical core:

If their power was above average, they were allowed to go to Hogwarts though separated from the rest of the wizards; and if not, if their magic was weak, they became slaves to society. Servi children.

Regarding the infants who were allowed to attend Hogwarts, if the mudblood committed a misdemeanour at school, the solution usually was that they would no longer be part of the select group of their kind who could aspire going to Hogwarts, and thus become just another Servi: a slave to the purebloods. The other option was to be punished with a sanction: a tongue out, a finger, maybe even two. These were usually lengthy sessions and most of the time the boys only got away with one eye, because they couldn't help but have real, trained wizards at their disposal.

But Dolores Umbridge, headmistress and supreme inquisitor of Hogwarts said that she could set up her own panel and so stop calling meetings, to get everything done faster, like it used to be done before the Ministry had power over the school's decisions. Draco wasn't sure if that would be for the better and to speed up the process, but there wasn't much to be done, they had all voted in favour. The only condition given was that if excessively serious measures were to be taken, the previous discussion panel had to be consulted anyway.

Draco voted and then joined the rest for a chat. They were not all members of the Electis or the Nobilium; or simply Death Eaters, but they were all loyal servants of the Dark Lord. Or so it was believed. He had thought so of Theo and he knew what was going on there.

A lot of people came up to him to offer their condolences and to advise him that it was best if he went home. Others asked him if he'd read the article in the Prophet, and a few if he was there to see Lucius; they even offered to do whatever they could to help Draco settle the score without being accused of anything. Draco had to run away from them all and avoid the thought that his father was in a Ministry cell, metres away from him. He couldn't go. He obviously wanted to know what the hell had happened, but if... if he'd had anything to do with it — Draco wasn't sure he could bear to have him admit his guilt.

And if he had nothing to do with it, someone else would make sure Lucius wouldn't be able to deny it.

Draco turned away from the people, leaning against the wall at the side of the room. The very thought of talking to his father was making him want to curl up and cry. He couldn't. His feet just wouldn't respond. And no matter what he did, the result would always be the same: Lucius would end up in Azkaban in a few days.

The Malfoy’s, a family of renown.

Draco bit his tongue bitterly as he examined the faces of everyone present. Some were watching him when they thought he wasn't looking or paying attention. Draco tilted his head, noticing that a few paces away, Augustus Rookwood (the Minister) was chatting close to Corban Yaxley, as if they were good friends. Perhaps they were. Draco focused his attention on catching the fragments of their conversation.

“...You can't leave... information... leaks out," Yaxley said, grimacing.

“Yeah, yeah, I don't know how to deal with crimes…”

Yaxley chuckled under his breath at the end of that sentence, and Draco frowned, instantly hatching a plan as he slowly approached the group where Theo was standing, a few paces away from those two.

Rookwood leaned towards Yaxley, and Draco saw the closeness the two shared. Something inside him twisted in disgust at the image.

“... I... every night... I go out... I go back along the northern limit…”

Draco bit one cheek, as Rookwood's eyebrows rose and his eyes took on a gleam that hadn't been there before. He rolled his eyes internally. He’d never seen them both smile before and he’d hoped it would stay that way for the rest of his life. Apparently, he wasn't so lucky.

“Draco.” Theo's voice called out to him as he reached his side, snapping him out of his reverie. Draco turned to find him studying his features. “Do you want me to walk you to...?”

“No," he cut him off, guessing his thoughts. His friend fell silent, raising an eyebrow. “I'm leaving now.”

“But —”

“I'm leaving. I was coming to say goodbye to you. I'll see you later.”

Draco made his way to the chimney stacks, working out the plan in his mind as he listed the slowest possible ways to assassinate everyone who might be involved. Everyone.

A hand grabbed him just as he was leaving.

“Draco," Theo said, not waiting for Draco to turn around. “This was stupid, look at you, you look like you haven't slept in weeks. You need to rest. You need to think things through.”

“Don't tell me what to do," he spat back as he lost himself in the flames.

Draco went out the chimney, finding his house completely empty for the first time in days, except for the house elves. He dropped his robe into the waiting creature's arms and moved forward, suddenly feeling his surroundings threaten to devour him alive. Any other time, he would go to his father, try to talk to him, the little he could. Try to convince him that Narcissa was fine and they'd all see her together soon, to get him to fucking react. Draco had deluded himself into thinking that everything was going to get better. That it was worth seeing her every four months, because one day he would rescue her.

Draco clutched his temples, going to his lab to get something to drink. Something, anything to ease his mind, so he could continue to chart a course forward.

Every time he looked back and saw the Dark Lord assuring him that Narcissa was all right, the more he realised that he had been a fool.

Draco could never forgive them, but most of all, he could never forgive himself.

How could he believe him? His mother... she didn't have magic. That was something that took preparation to achieve, rituals, dark magic, Draco knew it better than anyone. His father couldn't have done it alone. And Draco — he let her be on her own. Did she think Draco had abandoned her? Did she think he didn't care what happened to her anymore?

Draco locked himself in his lab with strict orders to be left alone; not that there were many people who would bother him anyway.

Until that moment, he hadn't realised how desperately lonely he was.

He'd rather not think about Crabbe, dead for almost eight years. Goyle was hardly ever there, coming and going from his father's business. Pansy... Pansy appeared whenever she wanted. Blaise wrote to him only occasionally, testing the waters and looking for allies or enemies in England. And Theo... Theo only came when Draco needed him, but he didn't swim against the tide either.

It didn't matter. He didn't have time for that now. He'd come up with something, he had a plan that would help him get revenge, that was the important thing.

Draco sat down, beginning to gather the things he would need for what he wanted to do: an invisibility cloak, a wand he kept hidden from the rest, and a potion, just in case. He mentally reviewed the spells he would cast and was about to leave, when the door to his lab opened wide and a short-haired woman entered, unbidden, followed by an elf tugging at his ears.

“Miss Pansy! Miss Pansy!”

He covered the implements with the invisibility cloak in two seconds and turned around with a deadly expression. Did she have to show up when no one was calling her?

“Hello, Draco.”

Draco examined Pansy’s appearance. She always dressed fancy, in dark robes and pompous hats, but that day she looked a little more shabby. Her eyes were red, her make-up was a little smudged and her eyes were troubled; she looked as if she had cried and had come there without premeditation. Draco folded his arms, ignoring the elf who whined in the back expecting to be punished.

“Leave us," he commanded, taking pity on him, and the instant crack let him know that he’d been obeyed.

The woman then advanced to stand at the front of the table, taking the ring Draco had given her years ago between her fingers and holding it to her chest as she watched him.

“How are you?" she asked, in an extremely cloying tone, the one she used when they were children. Draco's eyes narrowed.

“What do you want?” 

Pansy raised a hand to try to touch him. Draco pulled away immediately.

“I want to know how you are…”

For a moment, Draco considered telling her everything. To let off what he felt with her as they had in their youth, but the years had created a rift between them that was growing deeper and deeper. He didn't know what it was, he didn't know why, only that Pansy no longer inspired him the same trust or sense of belonging that she once had. Maybe it was because they had both been through very different things, in the end.

Pansy still lived in a fantasy world and believed that the Dark Lord's regime was the best thing that had ever happened to humanity.

“I'm not going to kill myself," he replied, slurring his words. “There, now you can go.”

But she didn't, instead, she closed the distance again, rounding the table to face him, sighing once more.

Draco knew that conversation wasn't going to do any good.

“Draco," she said slowly, as if to prepare him, "Draco, I'm here for..."

She interrupted herself, and something told him that he wasn't going to stand to listen to her. Draco closed his eyes, clinging to the table until his knuckles turned white.

“Draco," Pansy repeated, taking a deep breath. “They'll bring... they'll bring... they've already determined. They'll bring... they've already determined the cause of death —”

No.

“Shut up," he gasped, looking away.

Pansy was silent for a few seconds, only to ignore him again.

“They'll bring her back in a few hours.”

“Shut up!”

The shout was loud enough to stop her from trying to touch him again. Pansy dropped her hand.

Can you leave me alone? 

Just leave me the fuck alone.

“They couldn't get in contact you," she explained, quietly, "that's why I'm here.”

That made him frown, thinking a penny clearer. After all, nothing assured him that Pansy knew nothing, that she was innocent. In his eyes, no one was, not at that moment.

Fuck, what was he thinking. 

Pansy wasn't even capable of planning an outfit. He needed to sleep.

“Draco…” she murmured, moving closer again. “Draco…”

“Don't touch me.”

He knew she was dying to give him a hug, to lend him a comfort that Draco didn't want. Draco didn't want hugs. He didn't want nice words. He wanted to be left fucking alone.

“Talk to me," she practically begged.

“Pansy. Leave me alone, please.”

She didn't move, reluctant to listen to him, as always. If Pansy didn't get what she wanted, she wasn't happy. But this wasn't a fucking game, and Draco felt like he was going to explode at any moment.

“Please," he repeated.

He looked up to see her pursing her lips, debating whether or not to leave. Draco stiffened, and she took a step back, but not far enough.

Pansy ran a hand over her face, smudging her ever-perfect make-up even more.

“Let me recieve her," she said suddenly, her voice cracking at the end. The blonde snapped his jaw. “Let me — let me plan her ceremony.”

Draco didn't want to talk about that.

“No.”

She looked surprised, taking another step away.

“No?” she asked. Then she added even more hesitantly, "Are you going to do it?

“No," he answered sharply, rising to the shelf where he kept his vials so he could take a soothing potion, his back to her. “They'll just bury her in the family crypt. Tonight.”

Draco took one that had a clear yellow liquid in it, pouring it into a glass of water, his movements jerky and heavy.

“What are you talking about?” She asked behind his back, almost in a whisper.

Draco dropped the glass he was holding to his mouth, feeling the anger swirl inside him again. He knew what was coming.

“What you heard, Pansy. There's not going to be — “

“How can you say that?” she interrupted him, horrified.

Draco closed his eyes, before turning and facing her squarely. Pansy stood where he had left her, wearing the expression she wore whenever she was about to start a fight. Her mouth half-open and her eyes even more slanted.

“She’s your mother ," she repeated, emphasising the last words.

Draco clinged to his glass.

“And for the same reason —”

“She doesn't deserve that. Do you feel anything in there? Cissy deserves… she deserves a ceremony. She deserves a farewell .”

Draco set the glass down on the table with a thud, only to point it at her, beginning to lose his temper completely.

“Don't you dare say that to me!” he exclaimed, shushing her. “Don't you dare tell me what my mother did or did not deserve.”

“I'll tell you, because you don't seem to remember," Pansy replied, almost disgusted. ”Narcissa deserves to be mourned. She deserves to be respected for her death.”

He felt something snap inside him.

“Get out.”

Pansy didn't move.

“Draco," she insisted, her eyes filling with tears, "she deserves a funeral.”

Every muscle in his body tensed.

“Pansy. Get. Out..”

“She deserves for all of us to be able to say goodbye. She deserves that you can see her one last —”

“GET OUT!”

Draco threw all the empty vials off the shelf onto the floor and slammed the table once more, pulling out his wand and pointing it at her. How... How dare she? Pansy had no right to tell him those things.

As if he didn't know. As if it wasn't clear to him that Narcissa deserved that and more. As if he didn't know that his mother deserved to be alive. She deserved to be there with him.

Pansy's expression changed to one of fear, and she stepped back, closing her mouth. Since they were children, Draco had never raised his wand to her, not even joking. But now, his whole pose betrayed menace.

And Draco wasn't known for making idle threats; not anymore.

“You — you…” she began to say, her mouth opening and closing, "you wouldn’t.”

“Who says I wouldn't?”

Pansy was silent for a second.

“You wouldn't.”

Draco let out a laugh, cold and mocking from the back of his throat.

“No?” He said, raising an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Pansy clutched her gloved hand tighter against her chest, and stared at him for a few seconds longer. Draco didn't know what her face looked like when he was angry, but he'd been told: all his skin turned irredeemably red and his gesture became mean, his lips downturned in a sneer. It didn't matter. Whatever she’d seen there, it was enough to leave the place without another word.

Draco sighed deeply, then kicked a chair, feeling a perverse satisfaction as he watched it shatter in the distance.

So he didn't stop there.

He began kicking and breaking everything he could find near him, with the conversation endlessly replaying in his mind. His skin began to redden more from the effort, and the pieces of wood that broke off made small wounds in his skin. He didn't care.

They'll bring her back in a few hours.

She deserves a ceremony.

A farewell.

Draco stifled the burning in his throat and turned a shelf over, which clattered to the floor in a mixture of glass and a dull thud. He didn't give a shite at that moment that he'd dropped some potion in the making for the Dark Lord. He didn't give a shit about anything.

Draco steadied himself again, breathing shakily and shallowly. The only table he hadn't touched was the one he'd left the things he'd be using later and he was tempted to smash it to pieces as well.

Focus , said a voice, sounding very much like one he had heard repeatedly in his childhood.

Draco grabbed the artefacts roughly, starting to put them together. He didn't want to take another look around the room.

“Trevor," he called, not looking to see if the elf appeared or not. “Leave everything as it was.”

Draco was still shaking from what had just happened, as he tried to come to his senses and distract himself. He forgot Pansy. He forgot his mother. He forgot his father and the rest of the bastards, and better, he thought about the plan: clearly, it couldn't be that night, he was too shaken. But another day.

He would do it another day.

And that moment came almost four days later.

Narcissa was taken in without Draco seeing her again, and she was buried in the early hours of the morning, despite Pansy and Theo's voice in his brain telling him that he would regret that decision one day. He silenced them, not intending to think about it any more than necessary.

Draco spent the last four days going in and out of the house, trying to get back into a routine. He didn't know who he was trying to prove something to: most of the time, there was no one at the Manor. On ordinary days, before everything happened, every now and then a member of the Nobilium (mostly Greyback) would drop by to dispose of his library, or to consult with him. But since the incident, no one had made any attempt to approach him. Out of respect, they would say.

Draco thought differently.

So that Friday he waited for Yaxley.

He patrolled and kept an eye on the entire northern boundary between the magical and Muggle worlds, waiting for him to appear. When Yaxley spoke that day at the Wizengamot, he mentioned night, so Draco was there as soon as dusk came, waiting and praying to himself that Rookwood wouldn't show up. He had his invisibility cloak on and his spare wand in his pocket. He’d never retrieved the one Potter stole from him, he supposed what was left of the Order kept it, so he had to get another one in addition to the wand he used during the war, the one he later hid from prying eyes and which he held in his hands at the moment.

On his hands was also the cloth sprayed with the sleeping potion in case of resistance, and the vial as well, in case he wanted to pour it over Yaxley.

It was the perfect plan.

The thing was... men like Yaxley... they thought they knew everything. They'd ended up victorious in a war and always ended up winning, getting away with it. They really thought they were invincible and that no one would dare attack them.

Well, they were wrong.

So when Draco cursed him with the paralysing spell as soon as he saw him appear on the unguarded side of the boundary, and then sprayed him with the potion in case he woke up, Yaxley didn't see it coming. He didn't see it coming that Draco grabbed him, covered them with the cloak, and before anyone could catch them, Apparated them both to the outskirts of Wiltshire. He didn't see Draco drag him down the stone path to the entrance of someone else's manor. Yaxley didn't see the man waiting for him, standing just inside the marble steps, looking into the distance for the person the protections had warned him was there. He did not see him coming when Draco removed his cloak and threw his motionless body at Theo's feet.

“I have brought an offering," he snapped.

His friend's mask of indifference was in place, but Draco could immediately see his eyes sparkle like he was... impressed.

Draco smiled, and he knew it wasn't a pretty smile. Theo raised an eyebrow, and the last thing he could say, before everything went black was:

“Now you can take me to the Order.”

•••

Draco opened his eyes with difficulty, feeling as if a truck had run over him. His whole body was bound and pinned, and he was stuck to something rigid, to a... a wall. He blinked a couple of times, waking up from — 

Waking up?

Why was he waking up?

The last thing he remembered was... was Yaxley's kidnapping. It was going to Nott Manor and presenting the man's body to his friend so the Order would know how serious he was about his plan to join them.

He remembered seeing Theo's shock, and though his brain screamed at him that it was unusual, or untrue, Draco knew better. Feeling shocked by what he'd just done was... normal. After all, there had been Death Eater kidnappings before, yes, but they were always minor charges. The Nobilium and Electis were an extremely sheltered sector of people. If it hadn't been for Yaxley's carefree life, cheating on his wife with the minister, he would have been impossible to kidnap.

In those eight years there was only one death out of combat against the Rebels (who Draco now knew were actually the Order), and that was Theo's father. And right after that, Theo took the Mark and his place within the Dark Lord's inner circle.

Theo, the only person after the war to take the Mark and become a Death Eater.

At least that he knew of.

Rumours swirled, of course, both his parents dead overnight and him suddenly ascending were a very big coincidence, but Draco never asked. He had never, until that moment, even wondered how dangerous Theo was. What had made him so valuable in the eyes of the Dark Lord and for being a spy for the Order.

Until he had stunned him and led him there without Draco noticing.

Draco opened his eyes fully, finally coming into focus on what was around him. It was a dark room made of stone, brick, he couldn't tell exactly. The style seemed ancient, and the place underground. A dungeon, his mind supplied. Draco didn't feel particularly surprised, it was the logical thing to do, wasn't it?

Then, he averted his gaze to the front, and what he saw took his breath away completely.

A few feet away, a group of five people stood, staring at him. Draco suppressed a shudder. All but Theo, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, were wearing masks. Masks that resembled the face of a bird. They were dark, dark enough to be lost in the night; and all the eyes behind the holes seemed to be staring at him with contempt. All except one, the tallest woman. Her left eye seemed to be covered by a cloth, as if it was no longer there.

The rest wore clothes even darker than his, and the only arms in the air were white ones, covered in freckles and scars that couldn't belong to more than a Weasley. And if he guessed right, the girl next to him, with short but still fluffy hair, could be none other than the mudblood.

That is, in front of him, were Potter's friends. The ones who hadn't been seen in a long, long time. Draco hadn't seen them in eight years.

But that wasn't what was making his blood boil.

It wasn't what was making his heart leap like mad in his chest, or his magic flutter inside him. It wasn't that that had him gaping and completely transfixed, feeling for the first time a pair of tears swirl in his eyes.

No.

Because he was sensing something, he was feeling it, and even his senses weren't smart enough to fool him like that. A shiver ran down his spine and he felt a bucket of cold water being poured over him.

He’d always been able to feel him. The air seemed to thicken and the room vibrated around him, because of how powerful he was. In sixth year, when the fucking git was spying on him in the train, Draco was able to know exactly where he was under that ridiculous invisible cloak of him because of his magic. In seventh year, with his face disfigured in the Manor, Draco knew who he was, because of his magic. He thought he'd never be able to fucking feel it again. Because it was impossible.

It was impossible.

Wasn't it?

Heart pounding, his first words to all those people came out almost as a whisper.

“Potter.”

The air seemed to cut and grow heavier, and everyone began to look at each other, unsure of what to do. But Draco's eyes had focused on one of the corners, seemingly empty to the rest of the world, but not to him. The magical, magnetic force was there, the signature that felt like wood and fire was unmistakable.

He let out a shaky sigh.

“I can feel you. Is that you?” he said, throat tight, speaking directly in that direction. “You're either here, or I've completely lost my mind.”

He felt Granger and Weasley exchange a glance, as the man to one side of the woman in the centre opened his mouth, surely to reassure him, or deny what he’d said.

Despite the fact that the rest of the people seemed determined to make him believe that the latter option was the real one, Draco did not take his eyes off that corner; and soon, it was no longer just any corner.

From one moment to the other, it became disastrous black hair, biting green eyes, but less passionate, less intense than the ones he had in his memories. A beard, tense shoulders, dark circles under his eyes, and a man Draco didn't recognise.

That he didn't recognise at all.

The breath caught in his throat, as he felt the blood turn to fire, and the familiar rage rose like a spike, on a scale. Draco clenched his jaw, burying his grey eyes in those green ones, which always crept into his thoughts if only subconsciously.

It couldn't be. It. Couldn’t. Be.

It was— the fucking git was dead . He'd watched him die . For years, he'd believed that hope had faded when he'd taken his last breath. Years of blaming himself for not having done anything. His mum was in prison thanks to Potter . And all Draco could think about was what a selfish, self-centred, coward he was, hiding there while the rest of the world... while the rest of it—

While he did what he did.

Draco gritted his teeth, refusing to believe what was in front of his eyes. He felt on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Because Harry Potter was bloody alive.

“After all these years, Malfoy," he said, in a husky voice that didn't seem to be part of his persona.

Potter put the cloak aside, handing it to Granger and walking over to him. Draco jerked in his chains, feeling a giant urge to spit on the bastard, because it couldn't be possible. So long...

Potter smiled, a bitter, disdainful smile that wasn't like him; because Potter was good and altruistic and bloody honourable. He stood right in front of Draco, inches from his face, and spoke to his back.

“Give him the veritaserum.”

Chapter Text

I don't know if it's necessary to clarify it, but anyway I tell you that the interludes are small glimpses of the past, in order to understand the course of the story, and to explain certain things so that they are clearer<3

I hope you're liking it :)

•••

When the Order left the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco didn't know what was happening.

The only thing he remembered from that day was the screams; the screams, the fire, Crabbe's death, and the fact that Harry Potter went to die in the Forbidden Forest and then, (oh, surprise), survived the Dark Lord's Avada Kedavra.

Draco also remembered the despair of not being able to find his parents to get out of there. He didn't recognise any of the bodies piled at his feet, but he did see the emblems, the colour of the Houses. Children, teenagers. All dead. He remembered hearing in the distance someone shouting that one of his classmates, one of the great fighters on the other side, had died, and a massive call from Minerva McGonagall to abandon the fight. He remembered the giant idiot running away as he screamed, and the sobs. The near absolute advantage the Death Eaters had. The surrender of the side of good. He remembered it because it was so… unusual. Gryffindors don't give up fights, they resist them to the end.

At twenty-five, he still didn't know what it was that had made them retreat.

Draco could still see Narcissa clearly in his memory, who had been transfixed by the sight of the Order fleeing. He remembered recording the woman's features, and treasuring them in a precious place in his mind. He'd his mother's face etched in his head, how her expression then changed to a determined one, and how she suddenly brought her hand to her wand and pointed it at herself, speaking words Draco could not make out.

And he remembered it so well, because that day was the last day he saw her at liberty.

After that, the Dark Lord claimed victory, even if there was still danger out there, even if Potter was still alive. In the eyes of all, the Chosen One's side had surrendered and now there was nothing left but darkness and destruction.

And then it all became a blur in his head.

He knew that his mother was in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor for three months after the battle ended, thanks to betraying them, lying and saying that Potter was dead in the Forest; he remembered it only because he thought many times with rage and shame that they were prisoners in their own home again, that they would never stop being prisoners.

He knew there was torture (of course there was torture) by the rest of the Death Eaters at his failure and weakness. He knew that his father didn't talk much anymore. He knew that his former classmates were imprisoned in his house, people he saw in the corridors and classrooms of Hogwarts every day. He could still hear the screams of Lavender Brown chained to a table as they amused themselves with her, taking turns 'breaking' her in two. He could still hear Dean Thomas begging to be killed, tied on all fours as they forced Draco to watch what they were doing to him.

His thoughts at the time were only of pleading, that please Potter and his side would find a way, a way for it all to end. At least in that world they would be despised, but not used cruelly. Draco just wanted it all to end and for "good" to triumph for once and for all.

But that never happened.

Three months after the Battle, the Dark Lord was able to catch Potter trying to cross the magical quarantine to France. He kept him for a whole day in a cage in the Ministry lobby, displaying him to the people, showing them what weakness looked like, and humiliating the hero everyone thought he was. And when no one could take it anymore, he tortured him enough so that when he struck the final blow, Potter wouldn't be able to defend himself.

And Draco had watched.

He remembered praying inwardly that someone would show up to save him, anything. That magical help would come. But he also knew what a massacre the Battle of Hogwarts had been for that side. And all the people they killed afterwards... he'd be shocked if there were any of them left in the country. The Death Eaters had every advantage, every chance of winning, and yet that irrational little part of his brain thought that as always, Potter would be lucky enough to evade death once again.

There was a rescue attempt, but it was neutralised almost on the spot, killing the people with an Avada Kedavra as soon as they appeared. Or perhaps Draco had imagined it all. It didn't matter, because all his attention was on the boy at the Dark Lord's feet. All his senses responded to him.

The entirety of the Death Eaters surrounded him, and most of them, even his father, were clamouring for the boy's life. The only one who was scared to death was Draco. The only one who was silent and praying to himself that something would happen and save him, was himself.

Please.

Let him live.

Let him get up.

Let him beat him.

He remembered how his green eyes focused on him, and how Draco watched their whole story pass in some corner of his mind. The day they met; every bloody moment when Potter got to over him; when Draco sought Potter out to annoy him; when he resented being overshadowed by him. The tournament, the matches, sixth year. All of it.

And Draco finally realised that not only he didn't want Potter to die because he was the only hope they had left.

But because it was inconceivable to imagine a world without him .

Potter had always been there, even if it was in the background. Always. Draco railed against him, Draco came to think that the boy's very existence was nothing more than to make his life miserable. But at the end of the day, they were all gone. Crabbe was dead, everything had changed, and Potter... Potter was a constant in his life.

He remembered wishing him dead countless times. And — why? Why had he done that? They were children. They were two children playing at being adults and carrying wars on their backs that weren't theirs to fight.

What a waste of time.

Now it was all over. And why the fuck did it feel so... wrong? Like a part of his life was being taken away from him? Draco had insulted him so many times, humiliated him, all the while being humiliated back. But he never wanted to... he never thought—

It didn't matter anymore, not as the Dark Lord advanced within a few feet of the boy's cage.

Please.

Let him live.

Let him rise.

Let him defeat him.

Let him save me.

Draco held his breath. The Lord raised his wand.

And then the green light flashed across the Ministry.

Everything fell into a stupefying and dangerous silence, and the boy's motionless body lay in its place. As if he had never existed. Curious, the way a person's life was erased so abruptly, with no one able to do anything about it.

Draco stifled a scream, feeling the last ray of sunlight fade, and he died, as himself did.

The hero.

What a piece of shit.

Voldemort wasn't so stupid that time. He checked every vital sign of the boy himself, as well as crucioing him to death, and if that wasn't enough, he cut off his head with a Diffindo and then raised it up, for all the world to look at and cheer victory.

And Draco watched. Draco watched forlornly, as his stomach knotted and he wanted to retch back what little food he'd eaten in months. His body filled with horror and a cold sweat broke out on his back, as he continued to stare at Potter's grotesque bloody head, feeling like he lost something. Something — he never really had, because Potter wasn't his friend, he couldn't even be considered an enemy by that point. Potter was nothing to him, more than his shadow —or was he the shadow?—and yet....

His mind was racing, trying to find somewhere in his brain a way to survive in this world. In a world where the Dark Lord could do and undo as he pleased. He was a boy at the time, not many months ago he had just turned eighteen; but from that day on, Draco had to learn to be a man.

Maybe that was when it all went to hell.

Or so he thought.

Eight years later, those fierce green eyes were staring at him with the same fixity and determination as the first day he had seen him.

But this time there was no more fear, or despair. Draco felt incapable of feeling it. Now there was nothing left but confusion and a search through his memories to understand what the hell was going on and how the hell Harry Potter was alive .

•••

When the Order forced his withdrawal from the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry didn't know what was happening.

He died in the Forbidden Forest accepting his fate, and then he came back — He came back to win, didn't he? That's how things worked. That's how the ideal world worked. He would come back to life, win the final battle, give victory to his people, grow up, become an Auror, get married, raise a family and be happy.

That's what everyone expected.

But things didn't happen that way.

Harry was taken to the Hogwarts courtyard after his "death"; he listened to Voldemort's speech in Hagrid's arms, heard Neville being tortured, and waited, heart pounding against his ribcage, for the moment when he should act. He felt what was going on around him, the desperate people, his friends still weeping for him.

And, just as he prepared to move and show that he was still alive, the giants, centaurs and other creatures came into the fray, drawing a momentary sigh of relief from him. Now it was time.

But then, it was also at that instant that Neville pulled out the sharp, gleaming Gryffindor sword from the Sorting Hat, and before Harry could shout at him to stop, that it would do no good, the boy was unhesitatingly stabbing Bellatrix Lestrange through the stomach.

And from there everything was chaos.

And things started to happen too fast.

With Bellatrix's death, a commotion broke out and Harry took the opportunity to put on his cloak and walk away, so that he could fight again. He turned to where Hagrid had held him in his arms to finish Voldemort off once and for all, when he saw Voldemort, enraged by the death of his most loyal servant, point his wand at Neville.

And murdered him in cold blood.

As the boy's corpse fell to the ground with a thud, Harry watched in horror, with the screams in the background, that his sacrifice in the Forbidden Forest had not worked and that the blood protection he had tried to spread through the people of Hogwarts, at least the people he cared about, was useless.

No one was safe.

The ground shook, as centaurs and giants entered the battle, but none of that mattered anymore. The sense of victory that had accompanied Harry was slowly dying.

“HARRY!” He heard Hagrid shout, louder than all the noise. “HARRY — WHERE'S HARRY?”

Harry felt like vomiting, a feeling of numbness and coldness that he'd never experienced before filled him, like everything was going to hell. He was cursing at the Death Eaters he came across, who didn't see it coming, but they were losing, they were being slaughtered. A blind rage came over him and Harry took off his cloak to fight, to keep fighting and finish off the bastard; to let him see that he hadn't won yet.

And then Ron and Hermione arrived.

Harry looked at them for a few seconds, during which the world seemed to freeze around him. He was so happy to see them. To see them alive and well. His friends went through a million emotions at finding him: surprise, happiness, relief, and again worry.

Then Ron spoke and the spell was broken.

“Are you aliv —?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but was quickly cut off.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, interrupting any conversation they might have on the matter, grabbing his arm as she and Ron dragged him away. “Later! I'm glad you're alive and all, but it's not there!”

Harry's mind wouldn't rest, forming unconnected thoughts as it all came together in chaos around him. People were running, Death Eaters were attacking, Voldemort was searching for his body.

Harry abruptly broke away from his friends' grip and looked at them both wild-eyed.

“What?”

Ron looked at what was happening in the world around them as well, and Harry could see the exact moment when his friend spotted Neville in the middle of the place. Without turning around, he could describe the image. The boy lying on the pavement with his head cocked to one side, his eyes empty and lifeless; the ones that had once been so kind and willing. Harry wanted to murder someone, but he was too tired.

“It's nowhere to be found!" Hermione continued, oblivious to his mental debate, "It's not in the castle! Nagini's not here!"

Something horribly heavy settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Of course it is!” Harry said, feeling like he was going to vomit as he remembered the Shrieking Shack. “It killed...!”

The last time he'd seen her, Nagini had ripped Snape's throat out, in the Shrieking Shack. But then... then… Harry closed his eyes for a second. Nagini hadn't been with Voldemort afterwards. Nagini hadn't been with him in the Forbidden Forest. Nagini left his side. Nagini — Nagini wasn't there. Harry didn't remember seeing it.

He opened his eyes, feeling his hopes getting smaller and smaller.

“Shit…”

Hermione and Ron began to drag him away from the fight, at the same time attacking the Death Eaters that were trying to get close to them. Harry wanted to fight too, wanted to take out his anger, but that empty feeling was expanding as he remembered, as he tried to convince himself that Nagini was there. That she had to be there.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to feel it. He'd rarely done that before, he'd never wanted anything to do with Voldemort and his stupid connection, much less with seeing the world through the snake again. But at that moment, it would be useful, at that moment —

Harry, however, could see nothing. Where once there had been at least a little discomfort at the thought of Voldemort, now there was only his own panic at the realisation that Nagini was gone. Voldemort had hidden her perhaps at the fucking end of the world.

“Shite!” He shouted, scratching his throat. “I've never tried it  — but... I think... I think... I lost — I lost the connection. When I died.”

Hermione turned to look at him with concern and intrigue, while Ron mimicked her, not really knowing what he was talking about. Of course, Harry hadn't told them yet: oh, great! He was a Horcrux . And honestly, he didn't want to talk about it now.

Harry grimaced at them and they both turned in time, leading him to the Great Dining Hall where people were still fighting. That topic could wait.

His death. He had died. He was at the station with Dumbledore.

Harry couldn't give up like that, he couldn't. There had to be something that could be done. Voldemort had to die even when Nagini was alive, didn't he? It was just a Horcrux.

Just one.

Desperately, he whirled around, waving his wand at the enemies. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ron and Hermione shouting something to McGonagall, which sounded like a warning, but Harry couldn't pay attention to them. He couldn't.

Then Voldemort saw him.

He sensed him shouting, commanding orders to his followers, but he didn't have time for that, he had to find Nagini. That was the first thing, that was — Voldemort and his assassination attempt was gonna have to wait, because there was no use fighting him if he was practically invincible.

Harry threw up a protective shield that served for himself and Ron along with Hermione, so that she could Apparate them to another corner of Hogwarts. Together, they began their search.

Harry started to run. As he made his way through the corridors of the school it became increasingly clear that his attempt at protection hadn't worked. The Death Eaters had a huge lead, tearing apart his classmates, his friends, children . Michael Corner had just fallen and was tearing his own skin around his face. Parvati Patil was being tossed back and forth, slamming her body against every wall, slowly dying as she bled out and punctured her internal organs while the Death Eaters laughed. Green bolts of light came and went, and Harry could do nothing. He tried, but people were being killed in droves and he could do absolutely nothing .

What did you come back for?

He could almost feel Voldemort behind him, trying to find him, but Harry was focused on his mission. They went around every fucking corner of the bloody castle, every nook, cranny, room, or dark spot where the fucking snake might be. But it wasn't.

It wasn't. Nagini was nowhere to be found.

It was a second; a second of distraction, in which Harry allowed himself to feel defeat and frustration enter every pore of his body, as Voldemort materialised beside him downstairs from the Headmaster's office, and grabbed him by the arms, Apparating them both into the Great Dining Hall as Hermione and Ron's horrified faces were the last thing Harry saw, before he was swept away by the darkness and that feeling of vertigo.

Harry didn't know why he couldn't quite remember the moments that followed that one. It should be the opposite, shouldn't it? But it wasn't.

Years later, everyone would comment on how impressive it was, how powerful it looked, and he couldn't remember it. He only knew that as soon as he touched solid ground, he saw that the battle was not yet over, and he broke away from Voldemort. He fought, he dodged, everything was focused between Voldemort and him. Harry wanted to kill him, wanted to end his reign of terror, but deep down, he knew it was impossible.

And there came the retreat.

People were dying, no matter what he did, there were dead bodies everywhere and a smell of fear filling his nostrils. If Nagini wasn't in the castle, there was no point in staying there.

Or so he told himself every night when he went to sleep.

There was nothing that could be done, was there? Nothing anymore. Notthing —

McGonagall began to call for desertion, while he in turn pleaded for them to keep fighting, not to give up. He begged. But by that point, no one was paying attention to him because people were terrified, Apparating away as fast as possible.

Harry watched as Voldemort was furious that his idea of winning by hook or by crook was fading; and without a second thought, when he raised his wand to stop them from fleeing, Harry channelled all the rage he felt and conjured a Protego : so powerful, it spread halfway across the Great Hall, covering the fleeing people and himself.

That he could do something like that might have had something to do with wands after all. He didn't know. At that moment, all he could think was that he didn't want anymore. That he needed people to stop dying.

That they would please stop dying.

Just before he felt he could no longer hold on and would collapse, someone grabbed him from behind, and two seconds later, he was being dragged away again. Away. Far away from the smell of blood and defeat.

They came to an open field, with more Order people and people who were fighting at Hogwarts. If he'd been in his right senses, Harry would have asked how they got there, and paid more attention. But he couldn't. It was so desolate that he just wanted to leave and for it to be over.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed people moving, desperate. Something about "tracking spells" reached his ears as they touched him and asked him questions that his ears didn't pick up. Harry wanted to vomit; he wished he had never come back.

Someone grabbed him by the hips, and another hand came to rest on his arm, just as he looked up and saw Ginny; beautiful despite the dirt and blood that covered her, looking at him with those eyes that said there would never be anything but admiration for him on her part.

“I thought you were dead," she said, looking infinitely relieved, as she picked him up and pulled him into a hug. Harry let himself be carried away for a few seconds by the familiarity and comfort. “How did you do that?” she asked when they broke apart, the shock palpable in her voice.

Harry stopped listening to the deafening beeping in his ear as Hermione and Ron joined the discussion, eager to ask so many questions about what happened, about his death, about everything. Like the rest of the world.

“What?” Harry replied, blinking a couple of times.

“Connecting your magics like that," Ginny insisted.

Harry scratched his neck, exhaustion beginning to take its toll. He just wanted to lie down on the floor and curl into a ball, to stop thinking for a couple of hours.

Hermione intervened, concerned. “You said you lost the connection.”

Harry stared at her, unfocused, and closed his eyes trying to concentrate. Trying to understand. Proving a point. Or not. He didn't know.

“Open up," he murmured.

He opened his eyelids again, to find his three friends staring at him in varying degrees of bewilderment. Harry sighed, not wanting to do that now.

“Can I still...?” he asked, looking away.

Ron was the one to answer.

“Yeah.”

Well, awesome. He could still speak Parseltongue. What the hell did that mean? Was there still some kind of bond? Would Voldemort be able to find him then?

None of it made the slightest bit of sense.

We should have won.

“The part about Vold —”

“Don't say it!” Ron jumped up, covering his mouth, and Harry cursed, remembering that the taboo spell was still in effect. The one that pointed in the direction of whoever said the word 'Voldemort'.

As long as he was alive, he couldn't say that name again without risking them being found.

Ron trailed off, as Harry sighed. “The part of Tom that was inside me has died," he said, correcting his mistake and feeling more and more absent. “Maybe — maybe…”

It was one of those things that couldn't be explained.

Or maybe it could.

He didn't know.

Hermione stifled a gasp and the boy realised that he still hadn't told them that. He hadn't told them about his parents, about Voldemort, about the station. They didn't know about the fact that he'd harboured a part of Tom for almost seventeen years. And he didn't want to. Harry just wanted to disappear, to go back to the place that was white and shiny and bloody quiet.

A sudden dizzy spell swept over him, making him aware again of the sobs and screams of the group of people accompanying them. The wounded. The dead. Harry put a hand to his stomach, beginning to shake.

“I think what's going on it's that they've underestimated you a lot," McGonagall interjected from behind them, her voice cold and sharp. The boys turned to look at her: nothing in her expression betrayed that the catastrophe of the century had just happened. “And this is all down to your own skill. Now, hold hands and we'll be out of here in a few seconds.”

They obeyed, for lack of anything to do, and different groups of people began to form, with someone from the Order in each group. Kingsley disappeared with seven, a few metres beyond them, and McGonagall took her place in her own group, which was basically just her friends. Luna took Ron's hand, and Seamus took Luna's, all with pale skin and joy having left their bodies completely.

“Speaking Parseltongue was a skill acquired by... him," Hermione muttered in his direction as she bit her lip in thought. “But perhaps it has stayed within your person as a part of you.”

He knew his friend needed to focus on something else, to try and solve puzzles as a form of mental healing. A way to keep from losing her mind. Right now, he couldn't play along.

Harry looked straight ahead, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don't care.”

And it was true, he couldn't make himself care about how or why what had happened had happened. Not the Parseltongue thing, not the super Protego thing. Surely it happened because he was the Master of the Elder Wand and... something had happened between loyalties. But he couldn't find the strength to bring it up and explain it to the rest either. Harry didn't want to think. He didn't want to continue this shitty day.

The last thing he saw when he looked down and McGonagall appeared to them, was his hand gripping Hermione's tightly: a hawthorn wand, with a core of unicorn hair, was clutched between the two palms. A wand that responded to him as his own.

The wand that would have defeated Voldemort.

By the time Harry opened his eyes again, having instinctively closed them from the tug of the Apparition, they were in a tunnel. It was made of stone, and seemed old, distant, lit only by a few torches on the walls. She heard Hermione ask where they were, and McGonagall's terse reply: under the Forbidden Forest.

A few feet up, there were Death Eaters.

And Harry had never felt more useless.

Was that what he'd come back for? He could... he could be with his parents right now. He could be with Sirius and Professor Lupin. He could be resting at last. But no. He was back fighting a war he couldn't win.

Why? What was the point?

Harry rubbed his eyes as one of them began to ache and throb, taking off his glasses and instinctively fixing them with a spell. He hadn't noticed that they were so broken.

The rest of the people arrived slowly as Harry and the others waited as calmly as could be expected in the situation. No one had spoken to him at least, but he could see the impatience radiating from them, as well as the sadness. Ginny gathered with her family, all in a circle, and it was only then that Harry realised that they hadn't even had adequate time to mourn Fred's death.

That they hadn't been able to take his body.

Dead. How many more? How many others couldn't you save?

A clatter brought him suddenly out of his thoughts, seeing a group of people in the distance trying to hold and neutralise a woman. They were all shouting, and brandishing their wands, while she was only uttering intelligible screams and struggling. For a moment, Harry thought that the Death Eaters had found them, and that they must fight again, because Bellatrix was there, surely calling for more blood.

Then he remembered bitterly that Bellatrix was dead, and that Neville was dead, and that it couldn't possibly be so.

He ran to the end of the tunnel, not caring if the rest of the people were following him or not, drawing his wand as he stood in front of the group.

“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed in confusion, making himself heard above the noise of the crowd.

They all looked at him at once, raising their hands as they released Andromeda Tonks, who, as soon as she saw him, closed the distance between them and clutched at the lapels of his robes, breathing heavily. The woman was completely out of herself; her hair was in disarray and everything about her aura was desperate. Harry felt uneasy just looking at her. She didn't look normal.

“I have to go back," she whispered shakily by his ear.

Harry looked at the others. They were a group of four people, Ministry people , supplied his mind, looking at him as if he'd the slightest idea what they were supposed to do now.

“We had to drag her here," they explained, to a mute question. “She was reluctant to get to safety. Wouldn't stop screaming.”

Harry nodded, trying to ignore the woman in front of him who looked on the verge of collapse.

“It's all right," he replied, returning his gaze to Andromeda. “You can go to the rest of us, I'll talk to her.”

They looked at each other, hesitantly, though they quickly moved away, leaving them both at the end of the corridor. Andromeda was trembling, and her eyes, in addition to reflecting madness, were now tinged with fear.

“What is it?" Harry asked, feeling that pressure in his chest again. “Where's Teddy?”

Andromeda blinked once.

“Dead.”

Something snapped inside Harry.

“All. All dead.”

He closed his eyes, letting the names sink in. He knew about Remus, saw his corpse after all. And he'd inferred about Tonks, after the talk they'd had with the professor in the Forbidden Forest with the Resurrection Stone. Remus had merely told him that he was at peace now, that they were all at peace now. But no — Teddy —

He wasn't yet a year old.

He deserved to live. He deserved to live in a world where Voldemort didn't win and his parents were alive.

And it's all your fault.

“Back," Andromeda said, interrupting his thoughts. Harry focused his vision on her, who seemed more and more frantic. “Kill — I have to go back.”

And then the woman let go of Harry, trying to flee in the opposite direction. The boy drew his wand, aiming it at her and stunning her as subtly as possible in two seconds. It was instinct, but he knew he'd done the right thing. Andromeda was insane in that moment, she was beyond "insane". Her whole family had died and she'd been left alone. She wanted revenge.

Sighing, and with a non-verbal spell, he levitated her body and carried her back to the group. It may not have been the best way, but he needed to get her back to normal, so he could get them all to safety. Then he would speak to Andromeda, try to talk some sense into her. And if not him, someone else.

But Harry didn't know that this would be one of the last times he would hear her talk that much.

Shortly after he rejoined the people waiting to move on to the shelter, the group was completed, and they started walking, crestfallen, down the tunnel, which in turn connected to others. They walked and walked, until McGonagall volunteered to take the lead and Kingsley decided to take a break near the end of the ranks, perching himself at Harry's side. As he arrived, he intercalated his gaze between the woman above their heads, and the boy.

For a few minutes, neither said anything.

“How...?” Harry asked suddenly, trying to clear up the doubt that had been nagging at the back of his mind ever since he'd seen Andromeda. Kingsley turned to him, raising his eyebrows, "How did she get here? Was she in the battle?”

Kingsley nodded once, clearing his throat. “Yes. I suppose they tortured Ted to find the Tonks' house. He wasn't dead like we thought. I don't know.” He grimaced a little, adding sadly, "I imagine they found his house when Nymphadora was leaving for the battle; that's why she never came. To stay at home and watch everyone risk their lives would be unbecoming of her.”

“Why...?” asked Harry, ignoring the last comment because it was too unfathomable, “Why would they want to know the location of Andromeda's house? What could V — Tom want to do with her?"

“Names of people who belonged to the Order were leaked while you were on... your mission. And they thought we were hiding you in our homes. They never managed to break into any, of course, except the Weasleys' after Bill and Fleur's wedding," he explained, half absently, as if drawing his own conclusions. “Ted was the guardian of the Tonks' house, though Andromeda had asked him not to, he insisted because the Muggleborn Registry was already looking for him and he didn't want to put her in danger. If Andromeda was the Keeper, you-know-who would've been looking for her when he found out, like we supposed he would. After all, we always thought there was a spy in the Order, didn't we?” Harry felt the feeling of emptiness get bigger and bigger. “Someone must've recognised Ted in some camp, and they took him away to extract information about your whereabouts and tortured him until he gave up the location. Andromeda probably managed to escape when they got to her house, shortly before it became known that you were at Hogwarts. She arrived at the castle just about the time it was all over.”

For some reason, Harry felt that being beaten and kicked would've been gentler than knowing all that, than having to process and understand in his head that Tonks and Teddy had died because they were looking for him. That Ted had been tortured so they could find him.

His throat closed, and his eyes began to water, as without even realizing it, he stood still and motionless, with people passing around him and Kingsley mumbling that he would take care of Andromeda from then on. The walls began to get smaller, and this couldn't be it. Things couldn't end like this. They couldn't. So many deaths in vain. So many deaths without purpose.

And because of him.

Because Voldemort had chosen him.

Harry felt a hand grab him and prevent him from slumping to the floor. He recognised Ron's body, tall and strong, supporting him so that his knees wouldn't give way.

“I have to get back," Harry said, taking a deep breath.

He looked up, to find his friend staring at him with an expression of deep pity.

When had Ron ever looked at him like that before?

“I have to kill him," he insisted.

“Harry, you can't.” He sighed. “As long as Nagini lives, the only one who's going to die is you.”

Fuck .

Fuck!

Harry felt every muscle in his body tighten and he let out a whimper, a whimper that then turned into a scream, fighting with all his might not to collapse. Not to fall. Because all wasn't lost, all couldn't be lost, he refused to accept that.

Ron pulled him tighter against his body, forcing him forward, while Harry looked around. Every person had that downcast look on their face, disappointment stamped on their features. Harry's heart sank, noticing that Hagrid wasn't there. That many, many people he'd laughed with, shared with, and seen every bloody day for six years straight were gone.

And there would be forever.

They passed Molly, who was clinging to Arthur, murmuring words to him, the latter silently weeping.

George didn't even seem to be present.

“Fred, Fred is missing," the woman said, over and over again. “My son is missing... Arthur, Fred is missing — Fred is missing. Go fetch Fred. My Fred is missing…”

They walked away, still listening to her babbling, and Harry just wanted to fall unconscious. For someone to wake him up from this bloody nightmare.

Because he knew they were all dead because of him.

As his eyes closed, he vowed to himself that he would take revenge on Voldemort, that he would do anything in his power to kill him. To cut him into little pieces. To make him pay for every life he took.

He was going to murder the fucker.

Over the years, that promise was the only thing that kept him going sometimes. Knowing that Voldemort — that he was out there, alive, and he had to hide.

Because Harry tried to say that his public execution was a fucking farce, but no one believed him. That the unknown boy who had been given polyjuice potion and had died in his place at the Ministry, was nothing more than another piece in the chess game Voldemort had.

People who tried to announce that they survived were killed.

Harry was sure that Tom won that round, absolutely sure. Keeping him dead in the eyes of the world was a way of subduing people, while they both searched for Nagini in the shadows. Because as far as they knew, eventually, Nagini also disappeared from the sight of Voldemort himself. He didn't hide it during the Battle. Nagini disappeared. And no one knew how.

More people joined the Order afterwards, trying to overthrow the rule of fear; and they died, and died, and died, and some still awaited death.

Yet, despite the danger, the number of people who'd joined willing to, if not kill Voldemort, then pull his entire rule down by the roots, meant that victory might become possible. Perhaps.

But Harry knew the truth.

Victory could be possible, yes.

As long as they knew where the hell Nagini was.

Almost eight years later, perhaps the answer had just come to him, in the form of Narcissa Malfoy's son.

Chapter Text

Harry had no idea what to expect when, that night, Theodore Nott requested an emergency meeting.

As they left the central base to meet him, and Apparated near the exit of the other end of the Forbidden Forest—the base they used for the first few months after the Battle—Harry managed to pick up different snippets of conversation, guesses. What could Nott possibly want, if it could have anything to do with Narcissa. Harry would have liked to continue theorising about the unexpected meeting, but his brain had half-disconnected when in the middle of a sentence, Draco Malfoy's name came up.

Malfoy.

After all this time.

It had to be a trap, it had to be. There was no way Malfoy was there out of the goodness of his heart. And what did he want? Had he found something? According to them, the Order was being extremely careful about investigating the Manor, him, and Narcissa.

And Hannah hadn't come back with any news after she'd said she'd try to find out about the Manor's wards so she could get in. Nothing had been heard from her. Had Malfoy discovered her? That must be it.

Harry—with his head a mess—didn't know what to expect when he entered the room and saw him slowly wake up, disoriented. Harry didn't know what to expect when Theo told them that Malfoy would be more than willing to talk, that he was there because he wanted to help. Harry didn't know what to expect when he assured them that "Draco" had nothing to do with Narcissa's imprisonment and that he would prove it. He really had no idea what to expect.

But definitely not that.

In front of him stood a tall, imposing man, dressed in dark robes and with that disgusting red drop badge pinned to his chest. Thin, broad-shouldered, and with pronounced features. There was no trace of the teenager Harry had known. His sharp face hardened, and the scar across his face was further highlighted by the angular frame. Until that moment, Harry didn't know that the Malfoy he remembered, the face he remembered, fit neatly into the classification of 'pretty boy', with his hollowed cheeks and porcelain skin at fifteen.

That man was different. He was a totally different person.

But that wasn't what amazed him.

Harry was under his invisibility cloak, and Malfoy had woken up, taking note of every person in the room. Harry didn't see a hint of fear pass through his expression, absolutely nothing. The Draco Malfoy he'd known would be shitting his trousers by that point; but he supposed they'd both been through worse.

Anyway, Harry hoped to see him have some reaction, something. Focus on his captors and Theo. Instead, his face changed to one of intense shock and his eyes widened in an exaggerated, almost frantic manner. All from one second to the next.

And then.

“Potter.”

His voice had come out almost as a whisper, though Harry heard it anyway. The surname was said without the venom he'd grown accustomed to, years ago, as if he were spitting out something unworthy; however, Harry felt as if the floor opened up beneath his feet and he fell into a void, vast and dark. His heart raced, the familiar adrenaline rush he experienced every time he approached danger came rushing to him. Harry brought a hand to the scar on his neck and let out a sigh, without removing his cloak. It was the first time someone from his past had discovered the truth in a long, long time.

Malfoy's face then contorted into a grimace of disbelief and... anger.

Obviously. When has it ever been different between you?

The point of Harry being in hiding at the moment was just to see how much Malfoy knew about his death, or Voldemort's big secrets, and the reaction he was having... gave away that maybe Theo was telling the truth about it not being much. Just maybe.

“I can feel you. Is that you?” Malfoy spat, slurring his words as if the whole situation seemed boring to him. “You're either here, or I've completely lost my mind.”

And his eyes looked straight at him.

That... that was what would make Harry replay the conversation in his mind afterwards, nights and nights in a row.

You can tell a lot about a person by their eyes.

Harry wasn't aware of how much attention he'd paid to Malfoy's gaze when they were both children until that second, but if he tried to remember it, of course he did. They were clear, sparkling, bright. A very specific colour: not blue, not brown. But grey; and an extremely light grey. Even when he was spending the worst years of his life, in the Mansion, when they faced each other— his eyes didn't lose their essence, didn't lose the glow that characterised them.

And in that moment, they seemed to.

Malfoy's gaze looked empty, unfocused and lost; as if he wasn't really looking at anyone, as if he'd been kissed by a dementor. And his eyes... his eyes had lost their sparkle. They were like two lifeless bowls that were just there— but not really.

Harry didn't know what to feel. Malfoy looked like a totally different person to the boy who cried with Moaning Myrtle. More lethal, less pious. He could even compare him to Lucius, but that wouldn't be fair, because Lucius had never looked like that . Cruel, inhuman, and with a determination that seemed to say he had nothing left to lose.

Harry felt... he felt a bit of excitement, if he was completely honest, because Malfoy being there couldn't be a coincidence. And he was curious, too. What had happened? War changed people, of course, he'd learned that first hand. But that... that coldness was something he'd never seen before. Yes, Theo was serious and reserved, but Malfoy—

Malfoy looked as if he could bring the world down with the power of his thought alone.

And it intrigued him to know how the laughable attempt at a Death Eater that Draco Malfoy had been when he was sixteen, had turned into this.

Then, Harry decided to remove his cloak, and that emptiness in Malfoy's gaze changed slightly. His eyes went from not showing a single emotion, to slowly becoming tinged with anger, just looking at him, just seeing that he was alive after all.

He felt his companions let out breaths of varying levels of astonishment; they hadn't expected Harry to take off his cloak. Even he didn't know why he had done it, but it seemed... fitting, to greet him like that and rub it in Malfoy's face that he was still alive. One of the people who had benefited most from Voldemort's victory. If you discount the fact that Narcissa had remained in Azkaban since the Battle, Malfoy was someone who ended up being quite influential thanks to his services in the war.

Harry took a step towards him, raising an eyebrow.

“After all those years, Malfoy," he said, his tone neutral.

And when he saw all his features tighten, Harry smiled, broadly and bitterly. After all, some old habits just didn't go away.

Harry knew Theo had brought Veritaserum, knew he needed and wanted to prove himself and prove his little friend in the process. They would never trust Malfoy just like that, that was a fact.

And if, after all, something went wrong or they wanted to trick them—they were at a disadvantage. Murdering them wouldn't be that difficult. Two fewer Death Eaters for the world was no great loss.

“Give him the Veritaserum," he ordered, crossing his arms.

He heard Theo walk towards Hermione, who, as always, began to examine the potion to see if it was real.

Malfoy's eyes never left his, anyway. And Harry mimicked him.

He looked at him, as his friend reached to him and left the potion in his outstretched hand, saying without speaking that she preferred Harry to give him the potion. He looked at him, as he took the last few steps that separated him from Malfoy and raised an eyebrow in his direction. His gaze never wavered, as Harry gripped his chin tightly, holding it between his fingers and forcing his mouth open. And Malfoy obeyed almost meekly, looking straight into his eyes as he drank and accepted the Veritaserum.

At that distance, skin to skin, and almost sharing breath, Malfoy looked even less like the one Harry had in his memory.

“What's your name?” he asked, stepping back, feeling the heat of their touch dissipate.

Malfoy, who'd already ingested the potion, looked even more subdued: it was the result of the Veritaserum. It left every gesture and emotion out of the one that consumed it, so their reactions wouldn't influence the judgement of the people waiting for answers.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry folded his arms, beginning to stroke his beard.

“Age?” he asked again.

The answer came immediately.

“Twenty-five years old.”

And so began the round of questions to calibrate the potion and relax the subject. Although, judging by the tense lines in his body, a couple of trivial questions weren't going to change the fact that Malfoy's survival instinct was screaming at him to be alert.

Hermione had also taken her place beside him, asking the necessary questions, but Malfoy seemed to be answering him and only him. Once she had finished speaking, Harry turned to the men again, saying bluntly, “Where's Nagini?”

Hermione took his arm. “Harry…”

However, Malfoy and the potion didn't have time to make judgments or try to figure out why he was questioning something like that, only tell the truth.

“I don't know," he said, his voice cold.

And since they had brought it up, Hermione took the opportunity to interject.

“Does the Chief Death Eater have it with him, and do you know if he's hiding it?” she asked cautiously.

Harry cocked his head to look at her, knowing that his friend was just asking that question just in case. As far as they knew, no one had seen Nagini after the Battle. No one. And Malfoy, who was one of the closest to Voldemort, had just confirmed it.

Though that might not mean anything; after all, and from Theo's words, Malfoy didn't seem to know that Narcissa was, apparently, the key to the whole enigma either.

“They said it died in the Battle," he replied, the words coming out before he could stop them. Surely he recognised the nickname used for Voldemort during the early part of the war. “What happened to it was never known.”

“Do you think it's dead?” Harry decided to ask.

Malfoy pursed his lips for a moment, then narrowed his eyes, as if part of him, the part that was conscious and capable of fighting the Veritaserum, was drawing inferences.

“I thought so," he said slowly. His gaze was still fixed on Harry. “Until now.”

“You don't seem to have given it much thought.”

“What are you doing here?” McGonagall spoke from her place. Harry could almost see her raise an eyebrow.

For the first time, Malfoy's grey eyes flicked to Nott, leaning against the doorway.

“Theo brought me.”

“Why?” Kingsley asked, sounding more curious than Harry knew he intended.

“Because I asked him to. I kidnapped Yaxley as an offering to prove that I am serious.”

That was what the other group was taking care of, then, at the main base. Harry frowned, looking at Malfoy as if he wanted to read his thoughts, though he knew he couldn't. If they were there, it meant that Malfoy was the most urgent and dangerous thing to deal with at the moment. Other people could deal with Yaxley, other people could interrogate him, or at least get as much information out of him as possible, for the time being.

Other people could control a veteran Death Eater close to Voldemort.

Apparently, not just anyone could take it upon themselves to verify that Malfoy was sincere about his intentions. Theo had to be the one to warn them—Kingsley and McGonagall—and that was why nearly all the Order's ringleaders were gathered there, dealing with him as if he were... dangerous.

What had he done to earn such a reputation?

Harry had an idea.

“What are your reasons for wanting to talk to us?” Hermione asked, displeasure palpable in her voice.

At that moment, the answer took only a second longer to come.

“I want to join you.”

Harry tried not to make an expression, Malfoy didn't deserve it; and it was a little obvious that that was what he wanted as he stood obediently in front of them and offered Yaxley, a Nobilium, as a truce. But still his eyebrows went up, and a tension came over him.

Never in a million years would he have suspected—or wanted—Draco Malfoy to join his own side.

“Why?” Harry questioned.

His words were simple, but determined. “Revenge.”

Harry averted his eyes to Theo for a moment at that. They hadn't had time to discuss Malfoy's motives for being there, for bringing Yaxley. But Harry was already forming an idea as to why.

“Who do you want revenge on?”

“Vold—”

A wave of gasps rippled through the room, hoping that the taboo curse on Voldemort's name that still reigned in the Wizarding World would not alert the Death Eaters to where they were, even as Kingsley had waved his wand to silence him before he continued speaking.

That base was not hidden with a Fidelius, it was impossible, because of the terrain it covered and its location underground, (even when the base was just as protected and blocked with other charms) so one mention of his name, because in less than a minute the Death Eaters would find them. Them and the refugees. At the main base they didn't say "Voldemort" either, though they knew it was impossible for the taboo curse to get through a Fidelius. But Harry and the rest of the Order had stopped calling him by name anyway, because they could get close enough around the base if someone did. Instead, they called him "Chief Death Eater", or "Tom". Plain and simple.

He didn't deserve more.

And the fact that Malfoy, one of the man's crawling pets, was there, trying to say his name with all his letters, spoke volumes about the anger he was feeling.

“Of Greyback," Malfoy continued, oblivious, at least on the surface, to the stupefaction of his audience. “Of everyone who had anything to do with my mother's death.”

Ah. There it was.

Harry uncrossed his arms and fixed absolutely all his attention on him. The Veritaserum would make him tell nothing but the truth, after all, but it had just confirmed one of his suspicions: Draco Malfoy really had no idea what they were doing with his mother in Azkaban.

Hannah had told them that he obviously had to know, that it was impossible that the Death Eaters had kept it a secret from him for so long, that it was impossible that at some point Narcissa hadn't asked for his help. But Harry knew what the Malfoy mother was capable of for her son, and if she thought that keeping it from him that she was being tortured—if Narcissa thought that keeping it from Malfoy, that Voldemort needed something from her, would save him, Harry had no doubt that the woman had given up eight years of suffering in exchange for the life of her only son.

However, there were still things that didn't make sense.

“You don't know what happened to your mother?” Harry asked carefully.

For the first time since Malfoy had taken the potion, he was noticeably resisting the sentence that wanted to leave his mouth. His muscles contracted around his lips and he swallowed dryly, before returning to the blank mask of seconds before.

“She's dead.”

“Why?”

The man's voice cracked, imperceptible to the rest, but not to him. Whatever emotion he was feeling at the moment must have been strong enough to break through the indifference the Veritaserum brought.

“Because they took away her magic.”

Harry turned briefly to Kingsley, who nodded with a short, tense shake of his head. They had no idea about that, Hannah hadn't managed to inform them of it in the little note she'd sent during the afternoon. They only knew she was dead. Harry looked down at Malfoy's body, pinned against the wall and wrapped in his long, dark robes, and thought.

He couldn't imagine what— why they would do something like this, the magic thing, he meant. It was clear to him that Voldemort was a son of a bitch, and that he took pleasure in torturing people, especially those who betrayed him. But Hermione and McGonagall had explained the Magic Extraction rituals to him at some point in his training over the past few years: that they were created in the time of the bonfires to avoid killing Muggle-borns who wanted to snitch on them, and thus only expel them from their world. He knew it was no joke, that it was something that required years of preparation.

Voldemort would not go to such trouble unless it served a purpose.

“Who?” he decided to ask at last.

“I don't know," Malfoy replied, closing up again. “They suspect Lucius, but I don't believe that.”

Lucius.

He's not calling his father by name. That means that, deep down, he wants to distance himself from the appellation 'dad'.

But why does he say he doesn't believe in his guilt?

Is he trying to deceive us?

Or himself?

“What are your reasons for not believing it?” Hermione interjected at his silence.

“Removing magic is a dangerous thing to do, and it takes seven people to close the circle of the ritual. The most effective one at least," Malfoy explained automatically. Harry remembered his study at the words. Yes. That was true of most rituals. “Lucius couldn't have done that, not alone at least, and there was no such detail in my mother's death certificate about her death. It said she was killed by an Avada Kedavra. So whoever did it doesn't want me to know — or the rest of the world, to know why.”

Harry considered his words, the gears in his brain starting to grind. So, Narcissa died because she was left without magic, surely her body was too weak to take it; it made sense. And as far as they knew, according to the news that had been brought to them from the outside, Lucius was the culprit. Harry had known from the start that something didn't add up about the whole thing, but he believed that the man had murdered Narcissa to prevent Voldemort from finding what he wanted to find.

Now, what motive did the Death Eaters, the Nobilium , had for doing all this, going along with all this trouble? He'd no idea. Maybe they wanted to — They wanted to find a way to— to —

He didn't know.

The Death Eaters had spent the last eight years trying to pry some kind of information out of Narcissa. Vital information. Hannah knew little, but Malfoy's mother was under special guard the entire time she was in Azkaban, and the traces of conversation Hannah was hearing showed that the Death Eaters needed to find out what Narcissa knew. Harry assumed then that Voldemort himself had no idea where Nagini was, because Narcissa Malfoy apparently had a vital secret hidden in her head that they needed to find out, and what could be more vital to Voldemort than the whereabouts of his snake, of the last Horcrux?

Narcissa probably knew where the hell Nagini was hiding, and they were trying to find out.

On top of everything else, Tom still seemed desperate to get rid of what was left of the Order. If he was sure that he would win that war, or that he already had, he would not try so hard to deny that Harry was still alive. On the contrary, he would encourage people to seek him out and hand him over to him. So, whatever secret Narcissa was keeping, it had to do with her precious snake; or at least that's what Harry was convinced of.

And in eight years, the Death Eaters had found out nothing . Narcissa's Occlumency shields were good, but enough to withstand that much torture?

He didn't know.

Without magic, would that change?

“You had nothing to do with it?” Hermione said after a while, probably coming to the same conclusion as him, if the look he gave her under his mask was anything to go by.

“No," said Malfoy acidly, "I thought my mother was okay.”

There it was again, that tremor in his voice at the end of the sentence. It was... unsettling, to say the least. Harry could almost compare him to a human being.

“And what do you want to do by joining us? How do you want revenge?” he found himself questioning impulsively. Malfoy's eyes burned into his.

“By overthrowing the Dark Lord.”

“How?”

The atmosphere in the room had changed behind his back, he could feel it, but Harry didn't care.

“He trusts me," Malfoy explained, "I create potions and spells for him. I'm in charge of advising him when he asks me to. I can use that to my advantage. I can use my position and information to my advantage.”

Then Ron, who hadn't uttered a word since they left the main barracks, spoke up.

“Information?” he said wryly, stepping forward to stand beside Harry. “You didn't know your own mother was dying.”

Malfoy didn't respond to that, he wasn't being questioned about anything, so he didn't have to. But again, the emotion was able to break through the Veritaserum and emerge. He glared at Ron with such intensity, Harry thought for a moment that he might be able to kill him just like that.

“Why does the Chief Death Eater trust you?” he interjected, when he saw his friend open his mouth again. Malfoy's attention returned to him.

“Because I'm part of the Nobilium.”

“Does that mean he trusts all of you? I don't think so.”

Malfoy's mind considered this for a few seconds, as if debating between what he believed and what he knew.

“No," he finally replied. Harry waved his hand.

“Explain yourself.”

“He trusts me with certain things, the most urgent things. The really important things he trusts no one with. The Dark Lord has no right hand.”

“But you didn't answer my initial question. Why does he trust you? What makes you so special?” He narrowed his eyes, as if he could figure out what had been on his mind ever since he learned that Malfoy was part of the great elite. “Anyone a little more intelligent and educated could take your place.”

Malfoy let the insult pass, either because of the potion, or because, unwillingly, the answer to his questions came out of him all at once.

“Because of what happened with Eric.”

The density of the atmosphere became even more present, and Ron tensed beside him, immediately recognising the incident he was talking about. Harry recognised it too, and his first instinct was to cringe, remembering the grisly details of what happened that day, just over six years ago.

“The boy you killed…” Hermione muttered, absently.

Malfoy was unfazed, though Harry didn't think it was entirely to do with the Veritaserum.

“That's why, isn't it?” Ron snapped at him in disgust. “The bastard trusts you because that boy's murder was the cruelest, nastiest murder that had been seen at the time, since the war 'ended'.”

Malfoy craned his neck sharply, as if that sentence conflicted him. Harry didn't move, his jaw set and ready to pull out his wand and hex his arse if he tried anything strange.

“Is that true?” he asked between his teeth. Malfoy returned his gaze to his person.

“What?”

“That you killed that boy made him trust you?”

The seconds that followed that question were not long, even if Harry would have felt that way.

Malfoy was still in place again, the vacant expression taking over.

“I didn't kill him.”

Harry turned to Theo instinctively, to find an ill-concealed gesture of surprise on his face. Alarmed even. So either he didn't know, or he was afraid that Malfoy was lying. And he himself was risking his position by taking him there if that was the case, considering he'd taken full responsibility for the man.

“He's lying," Ron said flatly.

But could he do it? Of all of them, only McGonagall, Kingsley and Harry were able to resist the Veritaserum without being noticed by the interrogators, and that was possible after years and years of practice. Besides, they had waited at least two hours to wake Malfoy up in case he knew of some kind of antidote and took it before going to Theo.

Was Malfoy so powerful that he could lie and go undetected?

“What do you mean you didn't kill him?” Harry asked.

“I didn't. I didn't kill Eric. Not directly.”

Harry hesitated.

How could he not — He knew how the Sacrifice ceremonies worked, there was no way Malfoy could be a Nobilium without murdering that boy.

And yet — there it was.

“He's lying, Harry. He's resisting the Veritaserum," Ron insisted, disgust palpable in his voice. “They started calling him Astaroth because of it. The boy — ”

Harry held up his hand, shushing him. He could feel the rest of them staring at him, waiting for him to make a decision. The only one really unhappy seemed to be Ron.

“What happened then?”

He felt Theo settle into position, wanting to get to his friend, but not really knowing how to do it.

“He killed himself.”

A heavy silence followed those words.

Harry focused his gaze on Malfoy, trying to decipher the truth behind that sentence — if he really was being sincere. He couldn't believe it, not after what he knew about him. Not after knowing the methods of torture he'd created all those years for Voldemort. It had always been hard for Harry to accept that in the first place. Malfoy had seemed so frightened in his memory when it came to deaths and torture, but having him in front of him — what seemed actually strange, was thinking he wasn't used to it.

“Where's Hannah?” McGonagall said then, snapping them out of their reverie. Malfoy was still looking nonchalant.

“Dead.”

Harry felt an instant twinge of guilt, hearing Ron mutter something under his breath and Hermione take a step back. But he buried it as deep as he could, just as he'd been doing for the last few years; or he was going to go mad. People died, people always died, and no one was safe. He should be accustomed to it by that point.

Meanwhile, he turned to look at Theo, who still looked doubtful from where he stood, as if he couldn't also make up his mind whether Malfoy was lying or not.

“Did you kill her?” McGonagall asked coldly.

It has to be hard to lose the students you watched grow up get murdered over and over again.

“I've never killed anyone.”

Harry turned his head to Malfoy immediately, examining his face. He felt his blood boil for a few seconds, because that had to be a lie. It had to be. It was impossible to spend eight years in a war and come out with clean hands.

Considering the side he was on.

His heart pounded, and a string of images flashed before his eyes. Images he'd rather forget. Harry balled his hands into fists and shaked his head. No. That couldn't be true.

“He's lying," Ron said, voicing everyone's thoughts aloud.

McGonagall paid him no attention, however, returning to the main topic.

“How did she die?”

“Greyback and I captured her spying on the Manor," said Malfoy, without a hint of remorse. “I tortured her to find out what was going on. She told me nothing except that something had happened to my mother. Then Greyback devoured her and I left.”

Hermione's nails dug into his arm, hard, and Harry felt disgusted at the mental image. Hannah didn't deserve such an ending. Hannah died protecting the Order, and she'd been tortured by the shite curses Malfoy invented, and then eaten alive .

And yet, Harry couldn't help but think and fixate on the fact that this confirmed that Malfoy had told the truth, minutes ago. That he wasn't contradicting himself. Draco Malfoy had found out what was going on with Narcissa from Hannah. He hadn't known before.

“You can't believe him," Ron said again, his voice shaking with anger. “You can't believe him, Harry. He's resisting. He killed Hannah too. He killed Eric. Maybe even many more.”

Harry hesitated again.

Could he really be resisting?

He gave a quick glance at the rest of the people in the room. They were all covered by masks, except for him and Theo, but even if their faces were bare, Harry thought their features would be exuding nothing but ice. The only one who looked slightly different was Nott, his eyebrows half furrowed with concern. He supposed it was clear to him what would happen if, in the end, Malfoy didn't gain their trust.

“This dude could've been one of the guys under the masks when Sprout was killed. When Smith was killed.” Ron spoke again, his blue eyes fixed on Malfoy, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. His friend took a heavy breath, then turned to him, pausing to emphasise his next words, "When Ginny was killed.”

That came as a blow.

Almost seven years, and yet being forced to face that reality was like being burned. Like feeling like he was drowning. That everything had changed and he would never go back to the person he was with Ginny, and it had no right to hurt so much . He had no right to let the pile of emotions climb up his chest and force him to act, all those years later.

She's dead. 

She's dead and you're not, even when you should be. And you have to learn to live with that.

“He doesn't —” Theo interrupted then, bringing him back to reality. Harry had frozen. Nott stood behind them, close enough so that if any of them wanted to, could apply Legillimancy on him to prove that he wasn't lying. “Draco has not been involved in those... missions. The Nobilium doesn't do that.”

But Ron wasn't easily persuaded.

“And yet they did take care of killing Narcissa.”

Theo had no answer to that, and bowed his head slightly, returning to his position. Harry felt his head spinning, not knowing what to do or think. Not knowing if Malfoy was telling the truth. Not knowing if he was going to fuck things up.

“There's no way to corroborate what he's saying," Hermione said then, placing a hand on his back. Harry turned to look at her and she shrugged, answering his doubts mentally. “You know what to do, don't you?”

“A Vow.”

All eyes instantly returned to their prisoner. Malfoy had spoken, his brow high and his chin raised. He didn't seem afraid. He didn't seem to feel anything.

“What?” Harry said, blinking.

“I am willing to take an Unbreakable Vow with you, Potter," he replied earnestly. “I will swear eternal loyalty to you and all that.”

Something inside him stirred with interest at that. It was… surprising, to see a snake swear allegiance to something other than his own convictions. And to be the one to receive it...

“He can't," Hermione said quickly and with alarm, shaking her head. “The ceremony attached to his initiation as a Nobilium says that he is completely loyal to the Chief Death Eater with his life as witness. If he swears allegiance to anyone else, if that means betraying him, he'll die. No — "

“And as I've told you, I haven't killed anyone. Eric killed himself," Malfoy interrupted her, this time speaking for himself. “The binding rules of the ritual don't apply to me because I didn't sacrifice anyone. He sacrificed himself for me.”

Harry considered this, the information rushing through his mind. So far, the only thing that had made them suspicious was the fact that Malfoy claimed not to have killed anyone.

And could it be — could it really be true?

“What can you offer us if we accept your proposal?” he said in a brusque tone. Ron grabbed his arm.

“Harry.”

Harry ignored him.

“I'll bring you whoever you ask," Malfoy replied without hesitation. “I'll give you the information you need. I will provide you with potions. Absolutely anything you order me to do, I will do. If you promise me that the Dark Lord will die. I'll even help you track down your beloved half-giant.”

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

“Hagrid?” he whispered.

Malfoy paused, as if he didn't recognise the name at first.

And he shouldn't. It had been almost eight years since he'd last seen him.

“The Keeper of Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts," he said, answering the question.

Ron and Hermione's grip on their sides tightened, and even McGonagall let out a shaky sigh. Hagrid — Hagrid was alive? Where ?

The idea that at least one of the people he cared about had survived out there was balm for a wound that had been bleeding longer than was healthy.

“Hagrid is dead," Hermione murmured in a brittle voice.

Malfoy turned to her, while Harry felt his ears throb.

Hagrid.

“Hidden, yes, but not dead," he said, again on his own. Telling the truth because he wanted to. “He ran away from The Battle, I saw him. We could never find him.”

And considering the magical quarantine, maybe Hagrid was somewhere else in Europe. Or he was hiding in the mountains, in a muggle village somewhere. Harry didn't want to get his hopes up, didn't want the fall to hurt that much.

No. He shook his head. He couldn't let sentimentality cloud his judgement. He wasn't going to think about that now.

Regardless of Hagrid, the deal interested him. Theodore was useful, yes, but Theo was just an Electis. Malfoy... Malfoy was the source of the information, even though they were keeping quite a bit from him. Who better than Draco Malfoy to find out what happened to Narcissa, to investigate at the Manor? Who better to find out what Voldemort wanted from her? What was Tom after in her head?

And above all, where was Nagini?

“Fine.”

All eyes were on him at his statement. No one dared to contradict him anyway, not out loud at least.

Ron grabbed him, pulling him aside and leading him back to the corner from where he'd emerged, being surrounded by Hermione in turn.

Malfoy was watching them intently from his spot.

“You can't," Ron hissed, putting both hands on his shoulders. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“I can," he replied calmly. “And I will.”

“It's Malfoy ," he said, letting out an exasperated sigh, as if that explained everything.

And it probably did.

“And if his intentions are dishonest, he'll die when he takes the Vow. We lose nothing.”

“He's been with them for eight years," Hermione said this time, "who knows what he could have come up with to get information out of us, to betray us anyway?”

“With an Unbreakable Vow ?” he asked sceptically, causing Hermione to press her lips together. She knew he was right to think that Malfoy was a good ally. And Harry knew she was trying to contradict him more for the fact that this was Malfoy , and a Malfoy couldn't be trusted. “Besides, Theo would've said something.”

She frowned slightly, averting her gaze. “I still don't trust him.”

Harry, who knew better than anyone Theo's reasons for being on their side, shrugged.

“I do.” He tilted his face, giving Hermione a determined look. “And I suppose you trust my judgement.”

She tilted her head, conceding a point, but Ron shook his head again, squeezing his arm and resisting to work with the git. Harry understood, after all, anyone who was a Death Eater was responsible for the death of his two siblings. Even if it was indirectly, they supported it.

“He's tortured people. People fear him.”

“I'm not afraid of him, are you?”

After a beat of silence, he said, “I hope you know what you're getting into. Draco Malfoy is not to be trusted.”

Of course Harry knew that.

“His mother saved me in the Forest and went to Azkaban for eight years for it. That must mean something.”

Ron was still totally opposed to the idea, but there was nothing they could do anyway. Not even Minerva or Kingsley were trying to change his mind, surely seeing the same advantages he did.

“He's going to give us a hard time," Ron insisted, though it sounded much weaker than all he said before.

“Of course he will.” Harry shrugged one last time, turning away from them. “It's Malfoy .”

He returned to his place in front of the man, who was slowly regaining a little more life, the potion leaving him. His eyes were unchanged, though. Harry avoided looking at them, as he stood a few inches away from him. And without warning, waved his hand to undo the bindings with non-verbal magic.

Malfoy fell to the floor with a thud, and promptly every wand in the room, including Theo's, was pointed at him in case he wanted to try anything strange. Malfoy raised his head, scrambling to his feet and breathing artificially from the fall. Harry could see that the loathing directed to him was still there, even under all those layers of coldness.

“Fine," Harry said again, smiling cynically in the man's direction. “I need a witness, then.”

Kingsley was the one to step forward, putting himself in front of them both as Malfoy stood in front of Harry, and extended his hand towards him. Harry looked at it for a moment, noticing that Malfoy was tense and uncomfortable waiting for Harry to take it. And so he remembered a time, many years ago, when something similar had happened. He swallowed, unable to meet Malfoy's eyes as he gripped his hand tightly. It was cold.

How different would things be if he had taken it, but fifteen years ago?

Harry cleared his throat, bringing his full attention back to the present and turned his eyes back to Malfoy's face. He knew that Kingsley's magic was all he needed to sign the oath, but he'd to put intention into his words anyway. Shacklebolt placed the wand in his clasped hands, and waited.

Suddenly, Harry's mouth felt dry.

“Do you swear that your complete and utter loyalty belongs to me from this day forward, until the moment of your death, Draco Malfoy?” he said, savouring every word and the way the man's corners twitched in distaste.

Malfoy's hand burned against his own, and Harry's magic seemed to swirl in the air. His teenage self would be more than pleased to see Draco Malfoy pledge allegiance to him, only to unnerve the giant twat.

“I swear," Malfoy replied after a while, his throat moving slowly as if he were swallowing bile.

A thin, glowing tongue of flame shot out from the tip of Kingsley's wand and curled around both his hands, like a red rope.

“Do you swear that you will do everything in your power to benefit the Order, and never do anything to knowingly harm it?”

“I swear.”

A second flourish of fire emerged from the wand and intertwined with the first, forming a thin, shimmering chain.

“Do you swear to give your life to protect the secrets of the Order, if necessary, in order to overthrow the Dark Lord? Do you swear to give your life to me?”

A moment of silence passed, in which Malfoy squeezed his hand tightly. But his eyes held determination, and, contrary to what Harry thought, more desire for revenge than for continuing to live.

“Yes, I swear.”

A bright tongue of flame illuminated them both, and Harry was able to feel some of his magic join with Malfoy's magic, seeming to dance with his own. As a connection that went beyond superficial boundaries was established between the two of them, as the flourish wrapped itself around their clasped hands, resembling a complex wire.

Harry felt his skin boil, an electric current run down his spine, and Malfoy held him tightly for a long moment.

When nothing happened, he stepped back, turning away from Harry and wiping his hand on his robes with a disgusted expression.

But Harry paid no attention to that, nor to the coldness that seized him as Malfoy stepped away from him.

Because that only meant one thing.

That he was safe meant only one thing.

Draco Malfoy was telling the truth.

•••

“How are you alive?”

Harry frowned as they walked down the tunnel towards the exit of the base. Theo was holding Malfoy by the side, who had his arms tied behind his back. Harry was simply going with them to supervise that none made a strange move. The rest were still waiting for him in the interrogation room.

“I never died," Harry replied tersely. It was partly true.

So far, Malfoy had not addressed him directly, and Harry hoped that would continue to be the case. Allies or not, he wished to have as little contact with him as he could.

Some corner of his mind screamed at him that this was impossible.

“That's obvious," Malfoy said again, slurring his words. “You've been hiding in here like a rat while the rest of us have had to survive up there.”

Harry's body tensed at once and he reached into his pocket, ready to hex the idiot's arse. Eight years and his patience had done nothing to improve when it came to him. Theo gave Malfoy a shove, but he ignored it.

“Better than licking the feet of a bastard like your Master," he replied.

Malfoy had served the son of a botch without a second thought. He'd spent all those years earning his trust. He'd been torturing people and making them suffer, even if he didn't end up killing them. Malfoy was a shitty person, and if his mother hadn't died, he probably never would have left Voldemort's ranks.

He probably didn't even regret it at that very moment.

He had no right to call him a coward.

“At least what I've done takes some balls," he snorted.

Harry's wand was in his hand in two seconds, pointed at him. His grip on it tightened, as Malfoy tilted his gaze to one side and lowered it, staring at the wood.

A shadow crossed his eyes, and the animosity again came to his face.

“Threatening a wizard with his own wand. How fitting.”

Harry looked down as well, watching the hawthorn wood cling to his hand, the one he'd stolen from him at the Manor eight years ago. He let out a shaky sigh, shaking his head.

“It's not yours anymore.”

Harry put it away, trying to control himself. It was just Malfoy being the git he'd proven himself to be all his life. It didn't have to drive him up the wall that much.

Ironic, how in a few hours they had fallen back into a routine that disappeared almost a decade ago.

“What's bothering you so much, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “You're going to tell me you haven't been a bloody coward? How pathetic.”

Harry clenched his jaw, but continued walking with his eyes straight ahead, hearing Theo mutter something under his breath in Malfoy's direction.

“People have died because they've seen me. Anyone who claims I'm alive is executed, don't you remember? You've inaugurated executions yourself," he replied, his voice as hard as steel. “Don't act brave now, when we all know you're a fucking coward. Hide behind everyone and let them do your dirty work for you. At least they have the courage to kill .”

Malfoy's movements paused for a millisecond, before he pulled himself together.

“I've done what it takes to survive.”

Harry let out a humourless laugh.

“Sometimes the world would be a better place if you just gave up for good.”

But Malfoy didn't even flinch.

Harry frowned, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand why some things seemed to affect him, but others — he couldn't care less about. Malfoy was once again an empty, emotionless shell, striding cautiously towards the end of the tunnel.

“The Patronuses are yours then?” he questioned instead, after a minute.

Harry sighed wearily at the question. He had to have assumed that it wouldn't be enough. That even if he sent his Patronus out into the magical world every week, Voldemort would find a way to deny that they belonged to him, even when his voice came from it.

He's destroyed all the radio stations to prevent the world from knowing you're alive, what else did you expect?

“Yes.”

Malfoy nodded, considering his words.

“We all thought they were from the Weasley girl. The people who knew her at Hogwarts said she was head over heels in love with you, that's what the magical world knows. We always thought she sent them and modified her voice to sound like yours.”

“I didn't know that," Nott commented, more to himself than anything else. Malfoy shrugged.

“You never asked.”

Harry didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want Malfoy to talk about it. He had no right to.

“Ginny is — ”

“Dead," he interrupted casually.

The word choice made Harry feel like throwing up. Theo shoved Draco again.

“Yes," Harry breathed.

“We don't keep a tally of who dies in combat against the Rebels, not that I know of, because of the masks they wear," Malfoy continued, oblivious to the way his expression had changed. “We didn't know she was dead. That's good news, though.”

Harry ignored him. He knew the last comment had been said to provoke him, and he was no longer fifteen to react to it as if his life depended on it. He had to remember that to deal with Malfoy.

“Or it is in your Master's interest for her to stay alive so that people can't question that my death was a sham," was Harry's reply.

Malfoy considered his words for a few minutes as they walked on. Harry was relieved that they were almost at the end and he no longer had to endure his unpleasant presence.

“How did he do it? Malfoy spoke again after a while.

“Do what?”

Malfoy turned to him, eyes narrowed. “I saw you die .”

Harry clicked his tongue. He'd no clear notion of how Voldemort had faked his death, but after years of conjecture, he believed he had come as close to the truth as he could, as simple and absurd as it sounded.

“Ployjuice potion in the food of whoever he murdered," he explained his theory. “It wasn't that hard to say 'Accio Harry Potter's hair' after the Battle and find some on the loose.”

Malfoy nodded, looking down at the ground. Harry really hoped he wouldn't speak again, but apparently nothing that had happened in his life had really taught Malfoy to shut up.

“People have given up hope," he mumbled, his expression hard to identify. Harry nodded.

“I know.”

“They think you're dead.”

“I've tried to let them know that’s not true, but Tom's been able to placate it. He's scared. If people know I'm still alive, they'll rebel against him, and he can't allow that when he thinks he's already beaten me. He just has to find me and that's all. Or so he thinks," Harry replied, tired of the subject. He had no idea what else to do. “Besides — ”

He stopped himself, biting his lip. It was no secret what he would say next, but he'd no intention of telling Malfoy as if they weren't two completely different people, and, to some extent, completely strangers.

Hell, he didn't even want to be near him.

“Besides?” Malfoy questioned, turning briefly towards him. Harry shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Nothing.”

Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the corridor, despite Theo continuing to pull him forward. He was taller than both of them, and a bit more imposing as well, at least physically. He must have had gain more strength. Anyway, Harry stood as well, lifting his chin and calling on his magic in case he needed it.

“Besides?” Malfoy repeated. It sounded like a threat.

Harry had to grant him that he was still just as bloody irritating.

“It's none of your business.”

Then Malfoy cocked his head to one side and nodded, coming to a silent conclusion. “You think it's easier for them to accept that you're dead," he commented, the mockery palpable in the sentence.

Harry said nothing, made no move. He simply remembered the words McGonagall had said to him, long ago, when his frustration and magic had threatened to tear down all the barriers and objects around him.

The morbidity of seeing a hero fall and fail is greater than any love they might once have had for him. The sooner you learn it, Potter, the better.

“It must be sad…” Malfoy continued, thinking he'd found a weak spot. “To think that after all, no one cares enough about you up there to find out the truth.”

Harry snorted, staring at him for a few long seconds. Malfoy really wanted to get on his nerves. Sometimes it seemed like that was all he ever wanted from him.

He shook his head then, giving Theo a small wave of his hand. And before Malfoy could figure out what was going on, he'd collapsed again, with his friend holding him down so he wouldn't hit himself.

“At least this way I can make sure he won't know where we are," Harry muttered to himself, then looked into Theo's deep green eyes and added, "A hundred yards to go, I trust you can continue on your own.”

Theodore nodded, and Harry watched him walk away, as he levitated Malfoy's body.

Harry didn't know what to make of what had just happened. He could only remember the warmth he had felt at the touch of his hand, the disgust of his person, the guilt, and a host of emotions he thought he'd forgotten until Malfoy had reappeared in his life. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so much, in such a short space of time.

And besides, what stood out most about the whole encounter was that he knew, with the necessary clues, finding Nagini was closer than they had thought.

Chapter Text

TW: Graphic descriptions of violence and blood

Shortly before the one year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, an event occurred that changed Harry.

Changed him forever.

They spent those nearly twelve months trying to neutralise Death Eater bases, to attack public events, to make the world aware of the farce of his death, but most of their efforts were in vain. Too few people on their side survived the Battle; definitely not enough to face open combat again against Voldemort's retinue, which had only been growing since he took power. On top of that, they couldn't gain adherents because their functioning as a side was hidden. Every time Harry showed himself in public and people saw him—then announced it in every possible way—it only ended in public executions and detailed explanations in The Prophet that there was a group of Rebels who wanted to destabilise their society with lies and deceptions about Harry Potter's survival.

Harry didn't want to give up, but... he didn't know what else to do.

They had tried to find information about places where Voldemort could keep his snake and end the whole thing in the shadows — as quickly as possible. But there was nothing. The only thing they were achieving by making surprise attacks were casualties for their side. The few people they recruited tended to be former Order sympathisers who hadn't been involved in the last Battle, not spies willing to collaborate with them, so they had no suspicions about where Nagini might be, or how many people were completely loyal to Voldemort.

Until Maia arrived.

Maia was a beautiful woman, a descendant of the Snyde, a pureblood family loyal to the Dark Lord. The pure Snyde line had ended, and Maia, one of the few remaining living members of the family, was a half-blood on the run. Harry and a small group had gone out one day to study the barriers that separated them from the Muggle world, to forage for food after the supplies at the base began to run low, when Ginny spotted her. She was thin, weak, and wandering along the edge of one of the barriers. Ginny immediately approached, noting that she was in mortal danger, that she had been Crucioed to exhaustion, and insisted that Maia must be taken to the Order's base to be healed.

When asked what had happened, she said that the Dark Lord's inner circle had been to her house, that they'd spoken to her parents and forced them to hand over her cousin Merula, who was in her mother's care after Merula's parents had gone to Azkaban and died there, shortly before the Lord won; and that Maia had heard everything from outside the room.

For months, her family had been researching how to get out into the Muggle world and get lost there. But they couldn't, because the magical barriers that cut them off from that world were designed so that no one without authorization could cross them. In other words, only those with Voldemort's permission could go out into the muggle world. She said that after weeks and weeks of study they could only conclude that it took very powerful magic to open a small hole in the barrier to get through, and that on top of everything else, it took seven wizards in total to complete the ritual. When the Death Eaters found out about this research, they killed her parents and Merula, and then almost killed her, but she managed to escape. She also said that another reason her family never tried to recruit people to escape, was that they could not find any safe spots to break down the barriers. All the exits the Death Eaters used to go into the muggle world were completely guarded, and the worst one was the one in the village of Hangleton.

Harry listened to their story carefully, focusing on only two things: there was a way out into the Muggle world and they needed to find it.

And the other was that Voldemort was guarding the village where the Riddles and Gaunts had lived. Harry remembered.

Riddle Manor was in Hangleton.

Why would he choose that place to demarcate the magical world from the muggle one? Because... perhaps it was a weak point, and easy to penetrate?

At first he didn't understand.

Then, after weeks and weeks of sleepless nights, thinking over the information Maia had given him, he came to a conclusion.

Voldemort was hiding something in that house.

Harry spoke to McGonagall about it, and his old teacher listened, not immediately dismissing the idea. Harry knew why she was doing it: they didn't have much choice, and they had to grab what little they could find. They were desperate. After that, she and Kingsley had had a meeting with Hermione, and between the three of them decided that either they would try, or in a couple of months they'd die of starvation. Besides, they might find a clue.

The tunnels beneath the Forbidden Forest, where they found themselves, were a dangerous, and anyway, clever base. Hogwarts was full of secrets, and just as Salazar Slytherin had his Chamber, Rowena Ravenclaw had a refuge, in case the wizards ever had to hide from a war against the Muggles. When Hogwarts was created, it was in the age of bonfires, and it made sense that the founders would want to shelter from any danger.

The entrance was located in the dungeons of the castle, behind a wall, and consisted of a main corridor which then connected to dozens of other corridors, with small doors in the walls leading to rooms. There were a large number of books in them, bathrooms in others, and individual rooms. Finally, one came to a large common space, where mattresses were placed in holes in the walls, and in the centre a large dining room stood. McGonagall had known of its existence since she was a mere student, thanks to some reading she had found on one of the shelves at Hogwarts, and had inadvertently alerted Dumbledore about it after a class. He removed the book from the library shortly after, though by that time, McGonagall had already explored the castle and found the wall that led inside. When the war began, she told the entire Order to its existence, and when the Anti-Aparition barriers vanished during the Battle, McGonagall thought of that place and managed to Apparate them there before it was too late.

In the months following Maia's revelation, Hermione and McGonagall collected most of the books that were in the rooms in order to find some information about the barriers, in addition to what Maia had already given. Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Seamus and the rest were trying to help as much as possible. They found things that were useful, yes, but Harry in turn discovered a million other things that no one had told him about. Like before, magic without a wand was the norm, but for some people it was so powerful that only a wand was useful to channel it well, and from then on it became a habit. Or that the creation of a spell depended a lot on Arithmancy and the study of Alchemy, knowing how different effects reacted to living matter. But, after all, it wasn't as impossible to achieve as they were made to believe, and that practically most of the spells Rowena used were created by herself.

Harry wondered, as he read, why no one had ever taught him that . Why Dumbledore and the rest of the world simply took refuge in a prophecy. A simple prophecy , that couldn't even be accurate. Even when he had created Dumbledore's Army he'd taught trivial things, things that in the end, saved practically no one. He understood that maybe they hadn't meant to take away their childhood, that it wasn't appropriate for a kid to know that they could create a spell that would bleed their opponent, but Harry still didn't approve. He even resented them. These were not times to think about keeping children's innocence intact, not times to think about mental sanity. These were times of war. They were at war, they never stopped being at war, though for years they thought they were. If they'd focused on teaching them methods of survival... if they'd forced them to take lessons, if they'd taught them all that the world outside was horrible, cruel and disgusting, maybe they would have had a chance.

Maybe they wouldn't all be dead.

Indeed, as Maia had said, Hermione had found a way to make a hole in the barriers that required six people and one more powerful one, responsible for keeping her magic channelled into the protection so that it wouldn't close.

It was clear that Harry was that powerful person.

It could've been McGonagall, Kingsley, or even Hermione. However, since the Battle had ended, Harry's magical strength was undoubted, and it would have been foolish not to cast him in that role. Everyone felt him in every space he went to, in a way that hadn't happened before. He'd make stones crackle when he was angry, or light torches when he was excited. It was something overwhelming, something that made other people's skin itch if he didn't control it.

When neither his best friends nor his girlfriend had been able to bear to be around him on days of too much stress, Hermione decided to investigate what was going on.

It didn't take her long to realise that Harry Potter was the Master of Death.

Harry hadn't believed it at first. Him, conquering death? But it was true. He never gave up his power over the Resurrection Stone in the Forest. It belonged to him. And, though Voldemort didn't know it, he was the Master of the Elder Wand. Not to mention his Invisibility Cloak.

Harry had a magical force that could cut off heads with the skill of thought alone.

He didn't want it, of course he didn't want it. According to Hermione's studies, since "death" was everywhere, Harry absorbed or borrowed magic from chaos and nature. It was a creepy idea, but it was useful. And if that was what would help him not let down the people who trusted him, he'd use it without batting an eyelid.

So he trained, for months, until he was able to undo an Anti-Apparition barrier with barely a thought.

And at last the time had come. They were going to go that day, and they were going to bet their best chips on it. He doubted that Voldemort was really keeping Nagini at Riddle Manor, but perhaps they would find a clue. And for that alone, it would be worth it.

Harry put his wand back in his pocket, as he looked at the group that would be leaving. McGonagall and Kingsley were in no doubt going, nor were Hermione, Ron and himself. Bill had wanted to join, due to his knowledge as a Curse Breaker, but Fleur was pregnant, and Veelas were extremely territorial creatures so he couldn't leave her side. Luna had proven useful in sensing auras and magical presences, so she would join them as well, as much as Harry didn't like the idea. Aberforth was a talented wizard, who insisted on accompanying them. Plus Maia, who wanted to help with the knowledge she'd gained about magical barriers with her family. Ron had insisted on more people than were actually needed, in case something happened, so Harry guessed that was what they were discussing in the circle.

He averted his gaze to the left, to find Maia and Ginny talking at the far end of the table. Since he'd arrived, they'd become very close. Too close. Maia was deeply grateful to Ginny for finding her, and was almost devoted to her in a way that Harry had rarely seen. Almost like his relationship with Ron, if you could call it that. And Ginny had taken her under her wing just as she'd done with Luna years ago. All of Gin's free time that wasn't spent with Harry or his family, was spent with Maia.

His eyes moved to the front of them, right where Seamus was sitting. His head was down, his gaze completely focused on his plate. He almost always looked like that, these days. There was nothing left of the laughing boy he used to be, effusive and passionate. In every wrinkle of his face was a trace of war, of weariness. There was a scar on his arm, a burn he'd gotten during the Battle trying to save Dean.

Harry wasn't such an idiot — he knew that the reason for Seamus' change in mood, besides not being able to save his parents, was that he'd no idea what happened to Dean after that. Harry remembered — remembered how the first Christmas they spent underground, Seamus begged him to please rescue Dean, that he would do whatever it took. And then a week later when they went with disillusioning spells to see what was going on above ground, an article in The Prophet was published, reporting on the new slaves of the "respected" members of magical society. And Dean's name was on that list. As if it had been there to provoke them, taunt them, and remind them who the winners were.

After that, Dean had disappeared off the map.

Seamus thought he was still alive. Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that he most likely wasn't, that no one outside who had supported them so openly had actually survived, least of all people without pureblood ancestry, Muggle-born or people unable to prove they weren't, like Dean, who'd already been their prisoner. They couldn't have killed them all, of course, but the few they took as slaves? Harry doubted that Voldemort bothered to keep them alive.

Stifling a sigh, he got up from the table to make his way over to where Hermione and Ron were when Ginny suddenly arrived, almost throwing him into a hug.

“What — ”

She broke away to smile at him. She had a lot of freckles that Harry wanted to kiss endlessly, and a really cute smile, actually. Harry made an effort to smile back.

“You looked very distracted. You know I don't like to see you distracted," Ginny teased. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“So your plan was to… push me and throw me around?”

“Indeed.”

Harry grabbed her waist, shaking his head as he looked into her eyes. In these moments, Ginny was the only one who seemed to smile and bring life to the places she walked. Harry had always seen her like that: like a light in the midst of darkness. There were people who just — were like that. Without even thinking about it, or wanting to, they were able to cheer others up.

“See you later," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She frowned.

“Mmm, no? I'm coming with you.”

Harry's breath caught and a heavy feeling settled in his chest.

“No.”

It was Ginny's turn to raise an eyebrow.

“You're not my boss.”

Harry snorted. Merlin, not that again. Every time he wanted to do something to protect her, Gin would get that way. As if Harry's purpose in telling her to refrain from putting herself in danger was to have control over her.

“It's dangerous.”

“Hermione and Ron are going too," she shrugged. “I don't see the problem.”

“It's — ”

“Different?” Ginny interrupted him dangerously. “Don't you dare say that.”

It was different. Ginny was a talented witch, there was no doubt about that. And she was an excellent flyer. But she hadn't been through the things that Ron and Hermione had been through. She'd survived a year at Hogwarts, yes, but she'd faced direct battles on fewer occasions and had to run away on far fewer. Harry didn't want anything to happen to her because she wasn't ready enough yet.

“There's no point in you going.”

“My brother, two of my best friends, Maia, and you are going," she spat. “It makes perfect sense.”

It didn't escape Harry's notice how he and Maia were in a class of their own. A small knot formed inside him, accompanied by the feeling of frustration that Ginny was being so stubborn. Harry released her, crossing his arms.

“You'll have to talk to McGonagall, Kingsley, Ab — ”

“I already did," she cut him off.

Harry stroked his forehead, just above the scar. Sometimes being with Ginny was so... desperating. Hermione had told him repeatedly that it was because they were too much alike, something that was proven in every argument they had. And Harry couldn't blame Ginny for that, not when he knew Hermione was right and that his girlfriend reacted the same way he would. He just...he would have liked things to be easier. They were supposed to be easier.

“Ginny…”

“I'm coming, Harry." Ginny took a step back. “Whether you like it or not.”

Harry stared at her for a few seconds. One of the things he loved most about her was that- she was so... strong. So determined and fierce. Nothing touched her, not really. One of the things he valued most about Ginny was that she never cried, no matter why. It made him feel strong.

That she thought she was invincible was also one of her worst qualities.

Harry walked away then, annoyed. If it was all said and done and everyone agreed, there was nothing he could do about it. That didn't mean he'd to like it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed how Maia walked back over to Ginny and hugged her, while stroking her hair.

Harry thought they understood each other better than the two of them these days.

“You're the only one who understands…” He heard Ginny say, as Maia combed her strands.

“You're lucky I'll always be here," she replied, in that soft voice of hers. “Come on, let's get you ready. I'll take care of you.”

Harry bit his tongue, moving far enough away to stop hearing them. He wished he could understand her better, could support her the way Ginny supported him.

But he couldn't.

He walked over to Kingsley instead, who was discussing the final details of the plan with McGonagall. They were to say a few words in Latin, then cut their palms together as they held hands in a circle to anchor their magicks and make them stronger. Harry was the support. Harry was the one who'd to be in the middle of the circle to channel and direct the power into the barrier and help break it. So, part of their magic had to be concentrated on keeping it open while they did what they needed to do on the other side. They would enter the Muggle world with disillusioning spells and on broomsticks — the brooms they had found down there — and then enter Riddle Manor, looking for what they needed to find. Which really — they didn't know what it was.

Harry nodded at what they were saying, and avoided looking at Ginny who was also listening to everything in case things went wrong. Harry would've wanted McGonagall or Aberforth Dumbledore to stay, in case they didn't come back alive from that mission, but they needed talent and expertise. They needed to gamble everything, or they'd die anyway.

They said goodbye to the people they cared about; the Weasleys were pale as they watched two of their sons leave, but none of them slowed them down. And they lined up, putting on the masks they had designed so that they wouldn't be recognised, and so they left through the corridor that crossed to the other side of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry had a bad feeling.

•••

The procedure almost failed.

Perhaps that had to have been the first sign.

He hadn't wanted to get out of control, not really. But once they got to the place, and Harry noticed how it was — the houses, the trees, the abrupt separation between the real world and the magical one — it was so obvious that Voldemort had won. Everything on his side was dark, grey. Bleak. And the cold was unnatural for this time of year... it made his skin crawl. It made his bones tingle. Harry was there, and he smelled death. He knew that Dementors were on the loose. He felt that in that world nothing good could last.

And it wasn't meant to.

They should have won. They should have won . They got overconfident, thought they could outsmart Voldemort, and it wasn't that way. It wasn't. Just because he'd made mistakes when he hadn't regained his full power didn't mean that over fifty years of preparation had gone down the drain. Harry was powerful too, but he hadn't trained, not enough. And the world believed that because of the bloody power of love —

Ron's hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down. If it hadn't been for the reminder that they still had to fight, he would have nearly wiped out everything in his path.

They all stood with their hands clasped, the slashes of his palm joined in a circle and Harry in the middle, concentrating his magic on bending the barrier to his convenience. Breaking it.

Finally, he succeeded, a small opening appeared in the protection, Harry could feel it, it was big enough for a person to pass through, so they formed a line. They each crept in, placing their respective disillusionment spells. Harry was the last one, who made sure everything was alright. Strangely, at this time of the morning, the few Death Eaters around the place hadn't noticed anything strange.

Perhaps that should have been the second sign.

Riddle Manor was several yards from the barriers, though they'd only been outside for a few steps, McGonagall suddenly stopped. They all looked at her with questions on their faces, as she turned, again in the direction of the magical world.

“I feel something.”

Her gaze drifted to the left and she raised a hand, pointing there. Then she lowered it, as if she couldn't believe her eyes. Harry followed the course of her eyes, discovering that there was nothing but emptiness. He wanted to say something, but instead waited for her to speak.

“I'm the only McGonagall left," she whispered then.

That didn't explain anything, of course, but Harry didn't say it either. Aberforth put a hand on her shoulder, bringing the woman back to her senses.

“I'm the only McGonagall left," Minerva repeated, shaking herself under everyone's expectant gaze. “My uncle... the owner of the Manor... is dead. Now — now it belongs to me. And it's there. I'm the only one who knows its location, it's under a Fidelius, that's why you can't see it.”

Understanding crossed Harry's features, and he nodded. Besides the shock it must have been to realise that she was the only one, the only remaining descendant of a long line of respected wizards, the house must be completely abandoned; full of roots growing up the walls, and grass over a metre high.

“Let's get on with it," said McGonagall, in a curt voice.

And so they obeyed.

Harry walked across a wide field-like plot of land, seeing Tom's parents' village loom a few paces beyond. He felt a hand suddenly latch onto his arm, and when he looked down, Luna was there, looking at everything with big, dreamy, curious eyes.

“Did you know that your magic can be felt for miles?” she said conversationally.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her, then furrowed his brow.

Well, he knew that when he was experiencing something too intense anyone was capable of feeling it, but at that moment, he was calm. Tense, but not tense enough for his magic to manifest as it had seconds before.

He shook his head.

“Does that mean they might find us?” he asked then, startled by the idea.

Luna watched him for a few moments, still walking. “No, no. It's in the air, as part of it. They won't know it's yours , and I don't think everyone can feel it. Except when you get angry. When you get angry you even scare the Nargles with your magic.”

Harry sighed with a small smile. No matter what they went through, Luna would never stop being Luna.

“Right.”

They were arriving at the Manor. Initially, the plan was to enter on a broomstick, but they concluded that they hadn't quite mastered the disillusionment spell to make it work properly in the sky and needed to enter in disguise.

Harry bit his nails, still thinking about what Luna had said. “Are you sure they won't know we're here?” he asked again. She nodded.

“They shouldn't, hardly anyone is able to sense these things," she explained simply. “Ah, maybe that's why people can't see the wrackspurts.”

Harry sighed again, accepting the explanation. Luna sensed magical auras and energies, but it was true that most people didn't have that ability, let alone recognise who they belonged to. McGonagall had told her that it was a rare thing, and that it tended to occur in souls with an affinity for healing magic.

Well, anyway, it would be better for Harry if people felt he was still alive.

Shaking his head and walking for a few long minutes, they reached the grounds.

Entering Riddle Manor was not much trouble. Breaking through their protections was a piece of cake compared to what they had to do with the barriers facing the muggle world. And strangely, it wasn't as heavily guarded as they had thought it would be.

That had to have been the third sign.

Harry remembered being there very vaguely, almost four years ago through his dreams, but it wasn't really the same, not even close. The dwelling was small compared to Malfoy Manor; however, it was still larger than Harry was used to in life. It had a large living room on the first floor and only a few rooms. The staircase led to a first floor with a large hallway and five rooms. If they had to find something, it wouldn't take them long to find it.

So they started looking.

They split into groups of three. Aberforth, Maia and Ginny. Ron, Hermione and Harry. And McGonagall, Kingsley and Luna. Harry pulled Ginny away for a tenth of a second before he lost sight of her, holding her hand tightly.

“Be careful," he said, interlacing their fingers. Ginny gave him a half smile. He could tell she wanted to argue with him when they got back to the barracks, but she didn't say anything, just nodded.

“I always am.”

Harry sighed, looking into her eyes. “I mean it. I need you to live.”

“You're the one playing with death," she said, her smile still intact. Harry gave her a single warning glance, making his girlfriend sigh. “I'll have it.”

Harry nodded, letting her go.

“Stay alive.”

“I will.”

Then they parted.

They didn't have long before someone noticed they were there. Harry already knew, it would be no surprise if they were noticed. Though he hoped, deludedly, that it would take as long as possible. Or not at all.

Ten minutes after bursting into the manor, his hopes were dashed.

Harry was looking in a desk... something, anything, when a bomb exploded downstairs in the courtyard, and through the window he saw black smoke begin to billow around the house.

And panic spread.

“Quick, the bubble spell!” McGonagall's amplified voice echoed through the walls of the Manor, alerting the Death Eaters as well.

Harry conjured the spell on himself almost without thinking, looking across the corridor as Maia and the others were already wearing it.

He recognised the bomb they had dropped then, it was known as the Black Death: if it came into contact with your face, specifically your airways, your blood would begin to boil. It would make you spit out bloody spittle, your limbs would start to turn black and die, almost as if they had been cut off. Black buboes would erupt all over your skin, and when they grew large enough, they would explode, giving off a foul, pestilent odour. The final stage of death was bleeding to death from every available orifice.

Fortunately, the effects were over once the bomb powder dissolved, which lasted no more than ten minutes. It was hard to do, if anything, but most of the time they only dropped a single one. Harry had seen people die from it and it was a painful, cruel spectacle… a sight that still haunted him in nightmares.

They ran back to the first floor to join the others. Then they would talk about what they had or hadn't found. The mission had already been worth it for the sole fact that they now knew they could go out into the muggle world to look for supplements, and even hide there when necessary.

So they started to go out.

They had to do it before the enemies entered the manor, they had a much better chance of escaping, or even winning, if they were out in the open. It was certain that the Death Eaters outnumbered them. And he wasn't wrong. While they numbered seven, the Death Eaters numbered around fifteen, and if the symbol in the sky and the way they were touching their Mark indicated anything, it was that more would soon be arriving.

Harry swallowed dryly, trying to find escape routes the instant he reached the courtyard. The Death Eaters surrounded the entrance gate, but that didn't mean that Harry and the others couldn't summon the brooms on the other side of the barrier at a moment's notice and leave. They just had to find a distraction, or put up enough of a fight so that they could close the protections and lose themselves in the magical world without getting caught. Harry shouted for them to get into position and waited.

Then he began to attack.

Harry conjured Diffindos in every direction he could, watching as they cut deep cuts into his opponents, and even severed a finger or two. The first time he had done it he hadn't been able to sleep. After the tenth he was used to it.

“ Protego! ”

Luna next to him was much more attached to defensive spells than offensive ones, though she had been on the verge of killing more than once. Hermione was trying to use Expelliarmus still and things that didn't cause as much damage. He had yet to see any of them, none of them except for Kingsley had used an Avada Kedavra , killing someone with dark magic.

Harry had to have known that in war, it was impossible to come out with clean hands.

“ Bombarda !”

He was barely able to throw a shield over himself when he saw the curse go straight towards where Aberforth stood next to Maia. The man pushed the girl away, thus saving her and taking the full brunt of the fire. Fire that not only hit him, but caused the bubble on his face to burst and the rest of the Black Death powder to enter his nostrils.

Harry held his breath, watching as Aberforth fell to his knees, and the horrible effects of the bomb began to kill him. The black buboes exploding with yellow and black liquid, the blood bathing his body.

Shaking away the stinging from his eyes and the urge to vomit, Harry fought on. He had no time to mourn his death. Aberforth was not the first to die in battle, nor would he be the last. He had to concentrate on keeping the number from rising unnecessarily.

A green light grazed his arm, knocking him to the right. Harry returned an Expelliarmus , feeling the Death Eater's wand fly into his hand. In those years Death Eaters still wore their masks, so Harry had no idea who they really were, and vice versa; but if Harry was to infer anything, they were either more inexperienced people than usual, or the Order had gained more practice fighting.

Harry watched, his heart in his throat, as Luna's bubble burst as well, but fortunately nothing happened. The dust in the air had dissipated at last, so at least that was no longer a problem.

Aberforth. Aberforth wouldn’t know any more. If only you had tried harder. If only you'd reacted sooner —

“ Cruenta caecitas! ”

McGonagall's scream cut through the air at that instant in a heart-rending manner. Harry spun around, noticing how she clutched her left eye, which was gushing blood thanks to the curse that had hit it. He swallowed the bile in his throat, conjuring a shield to protect her while she recovered, and did something to stop the curse from doing any more damage.

It took only that second of inattention for a Diffindo to nearly slice his throat out.

Harry shuddered in pain and pointed it at himself, muttering the healing spell. He didn't know how big the wound had been, but it was big. It was so big that he felt the cut constrict across his neck. It had closed it temporarily, but they had to get out of there in less than ten minutes, or they'd all end up hurt.

Dead, actually.

“Retreat!” he shouted, to make himself heard above the crowd. “Accio Broomstick!”

The cut bled with every word he said, and even more so when he moved. Harry grimaced, bringing a hand up to his neck and holding it there, still attacking. The broom fell at his feet. Good. Good, they'd get out of there. He hopped on it almost without thinking, watching as everyone around him mimicked him.

Everyone except Ginny.

Harry turned to exclaim that she should get on his already, that they had to get out of there fast. He noticed how Kingsley had already taken flight, taking Aberforth's body with him as he made himself invisible with the disillusioning spell. Harry began to tremble, wanting Ginny to get out of there fast. With him.

But Ginny couldn't.

Maia was holding her tightly, preventing her from getting on the broom. 

Harry was about to yell at her to conjure her own, to let her go or they were both going to die, when he noticed the woman's gaze.

Maia was looking at him, and a machiavellian smile graced her lips.

“Maia?” Ginny exclaimed, as she felt the other's wand go straight for her neck.

Harry dodged an Avada, while conjuring a shield powerful enough to resist all spells coming his way except the deadly one. Panic set in.

Death Eaters began to surround Maia, trying to capture him from the ground. Harry was moving away from the grate, down into the courtyard to where his girlfriend was. They formed a line and surrounded Ginny, ready to capture him when Harry was close enough.

It was a trap.

It had all been a trap .

“Oh, oh, Potter!” Maia called, dragging Ginny further out of his reach. “Are you afraid?”

Maia pulled off Ginny's mask, tossing it away, and buried her wand further into Ginny's neck. All traces of the sweet, helpless girl had left her countenance, replaced by bitterness and mockery. Harry found himself desperately trying to reach Ginny, still unable to process the betrayal.

Her lips moved, and even from a distance, Harry knew what they were saying.

“Maia…”

“Ginevra, don't think it doesn't hurt me to do this to you. You were so cute, so helpful…” she said, laughing. “You believed everything I told you.”

In the distance, Harry could hear the frantic cries of his friends, asking why he wasn't moving and demanding that he get to them. But Harry couldn't. Harry couldn't leave without Ginny. No.

The sun would burn out.

“Why?” asked her, and he could feel the pain in her voice. The heartbreaking sound of betrayal eating at her insides.

Ginny had cared for her, protected her. Harry bet she'd come to love her. That had to be worse — worse than anything. It made his heart shrink inside his chest.

Maia smiled.

“Because you're going to lose," she replied simply. “Because I need to make sure I'm on the winning side. That's why.”

Harry didn't give an ounce of shit about the reasons why she was a filthy bitch and had betrayed them. The important thing was that she'd done it. She'd brought them there to make them die, and Harry was going to watch how she regretted it every day for the rest of her life.

“Because here's Selwyn," Maia said at last, with a chilling smile.

Harry recognised the name. It was the bastard who'd murdered Hedwig. He clutched his wand, conjuring a Diffindo at a Death Eater who couldn't get enough of cursing him, and cut off his hand.

Good. That would buy him a bit more time.

“It was all a lie, all of it," he heard Ginny say.

“No, not all of it. They really wanted to kill me because I failed to give them Merula, and I needed other proof, something else to give them," Maia explained, like someone explaining something to a child. “I didn't know Potter was alive, but what better reward than the Chosen One?”

Harry tried to get closer by lowering his broom to the ground, as the Death Eaters gathered around Maia and began to target him. It was getting harder and harder to keep the shield up. It was getting harder and harder to get to her.

“Drop her!" he exclaimed, dodging another Avada Kedavra.

Maia laughed, as if he really had told her a good joke.

“Oh? What was that? No, Potter, you don't give the orders here," she said, then pushed Ginny to her knees and pointed her wand at her. “ Crucio !”

Ginny bellowed, as she began to shake on the floor. Harry felt the knot in his stomach grow larger.

“Ginny!”

“I like her pretty eyes, don't you?” Maia asked the air, ignoring the way Harry was trying to get closer. "I think I should have one for a present."

She grabbed her hair to reveal her face. Ginny tried to struggle once the Crucio had been lifted, but she was too weak, too —

“No!" Harry shouted, as he saw Maia pull a dagger out of her robes.

She moved towards Ginny, ignoring Harry's stun spell that bounced off the Protego above them. Harry didn't know what to do anymore, how to help her, where was the rest of them, where — where —

Ginny began to scream.

The dagger was buried in one of her eyes.

“Maia," a man tried to tell her, grabbing her arm.

Harry felt his magic tingling in his hands.

“Do you think I’ll need the other one too, Sel?” she asked with a laugh, ignoring him.

Harry recognised him then, even under his mask. Selwyn. Selwyn, the man Maia had done all that for. Harry focused on him.

“Maia!” he shouted. “He's going to — ”

Maia removed her dagger from Ginny's face.

The girl's eye was embedded in it.

For a millisecond, all Harry could do was watch in horror as blood trickled down Ginny's beautiful face. Listen to the deafening screams. The machiavellian laughter. Harry clung tightly to his broom, as the world was reduced to nothing more than that. To that moment, where Ginny's throat was scratching thanks to the screams and a fire was shooting up his spine, practically frying his muscles.

“Fuck," Selwyn then interjected in disgust, pushing Maia out of the way and pointing at Ginny. “ Expulsis visceribus. Diffindo. ”

And that was it.

Just like that, Ginny's insides were emptied out through her mouth, visceras spurting out, as Harry watched. There was a noise in the distance, excruciating and unbearable. And Harry needed it to stop, needed the noise to stop because it was bursting his eardrums.

The noise was his own scream.

That couldn't be happening, could it? Ginny had told him — she'd told him they'd be together for the rest of their lives. She'd sworn to him, and Harry'd believed her. She'd promised him that he was capable of winning the war, that he was strong. That they could both be strong forever.

But Harry watched her die.

As if she'd never existed in the first place.

For a minute absolutely everything seemed to go silent, and those seconds were the clearest Harry had ever felt. A breeze ruffled his hair, the spells stopped hitting his shield, and the Death Eaters stood still, watching Ginny's corpse bleed out at his feet, her throat slit.

Every moment spent at her side flashed through his memory. Their first kiss. The first game they'd played together. When he met her. The poem she gave him in second year. The best days of his life by her side. The hugs. The reassuring words.

Ginny. Ginny. Ginny.

And Harry's magic became monstrous.

He felt it roar from deep inside him, mingling and connecting with everything around him. The power was not entirely his own, but Harry had conquered Death and it responded to him as if it were.

What the Death Eaters felt at that moment, he had no idea. But even the sly smile on Maia's face had faded, and most of them took a step back.

Fear.

Harry had become an expert at smelling fear.

He couldn't say he didn't enjoy that they all looked terrified, afraid of what he was going to do to them, and that they were realising they had underestimated him. One of them even tried to Apparate, but Harry waved his hand and stopped him, cutting off his legs. His magic went up, it went down, and he even felt the wind move in tune with him. Harry could dry oceans, he could set water on fire if he set his mind to it.

The Chosen One raised his wand and pointed it at Selwyn.

“ Sectumsempra.”

The spell blew away the Death Eater's shield as if it were air.

Then Harry watched with satisfaction as the man's skin began to split open, and the black robe soak and drip. Selwyn brought his hands to his face, pulling off his mask, as new cuts appeared and he tried to stop them with his hands. On his eyelids, his lips, his neck, his fingers, in every nook and cranny of his skin, blood gushed. Harry smiled, hearing the Death Eaters moving again.

“No!" Maia cried, grabbing him.

Anger welled up again at the sight of her, magic swirling around him. If it wasn't for her, Ginny.... Ginny —

Ginny.

Harry pointed his wand at the woman.

“ Sectum —”

Suddenly, Harry was almost knocked off his broom by an enormous force.

Strong arms grabbed him, and abruptly, he was being pulled away from the scene. Harry tried to break free, but the arms were unyielding. Panic set in again as the Death Eaters began to chase after them.

“No!" he shouted, turning to look at Ron, staring straight ahead, one hand on his broom and the other on him. He tried to get away anyway.

“She’s gone, Harry," he said, his voice extremely calm. It was unnatural.

Harry denied it, holding back the scream that wanted to leave his throat. Because — because Ginny... He hadn't told her he loved her, he'd never told her. He hadn't kissed her one last time. What was she doing there? Why had she gone? Why had they let her go?

Why hadn't Harry stopped her ?

He should've made her stay. He should have. He should have fought and cried and begged her on his knees to listen to him.

Ginny would be alive.

“Ginny…” He muttered as they flew away. Her body was still there, lying on the grass.

It didn't look like her.

“It's not her. It's not her, she's gone," Ron repeated, though he seemed to be saying it more to himself than to Harry. “She's gone. She's dead. She's dead, Harry.”

Harry wanted... he didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to scream, he wanted to go back in time. He wanted to have been able to save Ginny. He wanted to have had five minutes _ just five more minutes with her. That was all — that was all he was asking for.

Five minutes.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling unconsciousness and exhaustion take hold of him.

The barrier closed.

•••

That was the first time Harry had ever killed anyone.

He had desperately wanted it to be the last.

When Harry awoke, the first thing that swept over him was regret, even before the pain of loss. The regret that he'd killed a person, that there was blood on his hands. It was so overwhelming, he came to feel guilty about it, because Ginny had been killed , he shouldn't be regretting cutting that son of a bitch to pieces. He should feel happy, relieved. Maia would mourn his death, just as he mourned Ginny's.

But it wasn’t like that.

Harry lay there for a few minutes doing nothing but staring at the ceiling, when he noticed a faint light coming through the bedroom window.

It alerted him.

Because it wasn't right. There should be no light. It should be dark, the room should be smaller, and above all there should be no windows. Because the base was underground.

Harry stood up, feeling the dizziness attack all at once, and the pain from the wound in his neck became almost unbearable. With a groan, he grabbed the glasses from the piece of furniture beside his bed and put them on, grabbing the wand as well. All his senses screamed at him to lie down, that he needed to rest. The lump in his throat shouted out to be released, and a part of his brain just wanted to curl into a ball and cry.

But he didn't have that luxury.

He stepped out into the corridor, trying to work out where the fuck he was, when he noticed how Hermione stood at the staircase banister, her gaze lost in the great hall that loomed in front of them on the first floor. She turned to him, and from the look on her face, he knew she wanted to burst into tears.

“Hello, Hermione.”

Her friend lowered her face, burying her hands in it, and Harry stood beside her, not knowing what to do. He should hug her, of course he should, let her cry into his chest; but Harry felt incapable. He knew that once he gave in to the pain — to the stabbing ache that was poking through every muscle, every nook and cranny of his person — it wouldn't stop.

Harry didn't want to think about what had happened.

It was too painful.

“They…” she said through sobs. “They took Luna too.”

No.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No.

What was the point? Why? How did no one see her?

How did no one help her?

Harry gripped the edge, feeling everything he believed in, every feeling, every hope — slowly dying. Three. Three people had died — because Luna wasn't coming back. It was impossible. They were dead, and he could never take back what had happened. And Harry didn't understand why, why them and not him. He would have gladly taken their place, as long as Luna, Ginny or Aberforth were there.

“Oh, Harry…”

Hermione was the one who hugged him, throwing herself into his arms, and he let go. His body slowly lost strength, to the point where he ended up on his knees on the floor, his friend falling with him.

The lump in his throat was becoming more and more suffocating, and… why? That was the one question that kept replaying over and over in his head.

Why, why, why, why?

He didn't know how long they stood like that, at the edge of the stairs in a place he didn't know, Hermione clinging to him. There was noise elsewhere in the house, but Harry couldn't… couldn't exist beyond that embrace. Once he stopped being strong for Hermione, once he'd to face the real world, he'd have to accept what happened. That Aberforth had died protecting a dirty traitor. That Luna had been taken, and that no one had helped her. That she was being tortured right then and there was nothing anyone could do.

That Ginny died in front of his eyes, and he would never see her again. That he would never hear her laugh again, or see her fly. That he would never again kiss her, hold her, tell her he loved her. That he wouldn't —

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up to see McGonagall speaking to him from above. Her lips were tight and tense, her robes destroyed, and a bandage covered half her head just above her left eye. Harry remembered the curse then, she had been blinded in one eye, and in some twisted way, they should be grateful that it was just that.

“Follow me, please," she said.

Hermione nodded, letting him go, and Harry stood up and began to walk after her. The walls of the corridor looked old, and the wood creaked under his feet. The place was dark and much, much, much bigger than Riddle Manor. Harry did not want to look at the portraits, which watched them as they passed and murmured to each other. The windows were covered in creepers, making it more and more apparent how deserted the dwelling was.

The woman opened a door, and let him pass. It led into an office. Old, dust-covered books lay on the shelves around the desk, where Harry walked over, sitting down in the chair opposite McGonagall's.

Harry looked at her then. Her black hair was down, styled in the best possible way for the circumstances. She was wearing the same robes she'd been wearing during the mission, as was he, and her eye bandage was stained with dried blood. If it weren't for everything that had changed, Harry could almost have pretended that he was in Professor McGonagall's office at Hogwarts, and that he was about to be reprimanded for wandering out of bed during curfew.

For a moment, neither said anything.

“This is McGonagall Manor," she said at last. Harry let out the air he was unconsciously holding in his lungs and nodded, not understanding what that was all about. “It will be a new base.”

Harry waited again for her to tell him why she was saying that to him. He was eighteen, not even nineteen yet, he wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to be struggling. To be suffering for the death of — the death —

“We'll keep the main one, but a lot of the people… I think they'll have to move up here," she went on. “There's enough room for everybody, plenty of room even, there's — ”

“Excuse me, Professor McGonagall," Harry interrupted her, his voice so distant it sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I don't understand how any of this concerns me.”

She raised an eyebrow. Harry just then noticed that she wasn't wearing glasses, her trademark glasses. It seemed ridiculous to see her like that. The whole situation seemed ridiculous to him.

“It concerns you," the woman said, "because you will be the guardian of the Fidelius . You’ll be secret keeper.”

The breath froze in his throat.

“No.”

McGonagall sighed, as if she'd expected that answer and had hoped she wouldn't get it anyway.

“Your magic... your magic, Potter," she began, interrupting herself. She shook her head, focusing her one eye on him. “You have a better chance of survival than the rest.”

That was like a punch in the stomach.

“No," he repeated.

Helplessness instantly seized him. He didn't want it to be true. He needed it not to be true. What kind of life was that? To be condemned to watch every person he cared about die because it was more unlikely that he would?

Why?

“No, I'm not going to be the guardian because —” because you've given up, he tried to say, but was interrupted.

“We haven't surrendered," McGonagall spat sternly. “Surrendering is disrespectful to those who have died. This is realism.”

Harry shaked his head again, clenching his fists until his fingernails dug into his palm. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair.

Since when is your life fair?

“I don't want to be," he said, closing his eyes. He didn't quite know why he was saying it. McGonagall sighed again.

“Potter…”

“I don't want to," he repeated, cutting her off. “I don't want to have to survive. I don't want to have to watch them die. I don't — ”

“We're at war," she said, sternly. “People are going to die whether you want them to or not, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.”

“I could have stopped this. I could have —”

“Could you?” she asked sceptically, squinting her eyelids. “You are powerful, but that doesn't make you omnipotent. You had no way of seeing the future and you have no control over other people's lives.”

“But I killed someone.”

He almost laughed. 

It sounded even delusional. Him? Him , kill someone? The Chosen One? The Golden Child? The person everyone longed to look up to and take as a symbol of the side of the "good guys"?

He'd conjured a spell that split his opponent in half, an opponent who hadn't seen it coming. He'd done it, and watched, and then tried it once more. It wasn't the first time he'd done it.

What kind of person did that make him?

“I decided on someone else's life," he said, blinking.

And I enjoyed it.

Harry kept his gaze on McGonagall, but his mind was elsewhere. He had ended someone's life. He could be the worst person, the worst person in the history of mankind , and yet that life was not his to decide. It was not his to do anything, it wasn't his decision, it simply wasn't. It didn't matter what he wanted to tell himself.

Killing someone makes you a murderer.

Whether you want to or not.

“Potter…” McGonagall spoke in a weak voice.

Harry looked away from the table, beginning to clench his thighs and trying to regulate his breathing. He could hear the tinkling of objects shaking because of his magic, the magic in the air that unwittingly responded to him.

“We shouldn't have let you believe…” The woman muttered suddenly, more to herself than to Harry, as she shook her head. Then she focused her gaze on him, though Harry couldn't see her. He felt her. “We are at war. You have to learn this — Potter. It's either them, or it's us. There is no justification for murdering someone, there is no justification. Except self-defence, but that's never — never going to make you feel any less guilty. You have to learn to live with this.”

Harry shrank in place, as those words looped. He wished they would leave him alone. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted the war to end. He wanted - he wanted... he wanted to die . So he could rest, so he could — he could see the people he loved —

That's not fair. Ron and Hermione wouldn't get over it, if you weren't there.

Ron. Think of Ron. He's lost two brothers fighting for you. It's not in your jurisdiction to take someone else away from him. You don't deserve to decide your own death.

“You'd have to be sick… be a bloody psycho ," she continued, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, "to kill someone, and not have it affect you. But — but it won't be the last time.”

It stuck in his brain and burned. It burned because it was true, and he didn't want it to. He didn't want to feel that way again for the rest of his life.

Harry leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the table.

“It won't be the last time, and it's going to suck forever, Potter," McGonagall said, her steady voice shaking a little. It was the first time he'd ever heard her say something even close to a curse. “But you have to make sure it means something. It's the way of the world works. War is like this. And it's not fair. It's not fair, I know. You're either the one the wand is pointed at, or you're the one holding it. There is no other way.”

There is no other way.

You're either the victim, or you're the victimizer.

The world was shit, the world was fucking shit and Harry had learned it the hard way. Would it always be like this? Would he have to live the rest of his life knowing that he would either be the executioner or the victim?

There is no more.

“You can't let it eat away at you," McGonagall seemed to be trying to convince herself. Everyone wanted to believe what they were saying, after all. “It's necessary — Potter. Potter, look at me.” Harry refused, wiping a hand across his eyelids to chase away the tears. McGonagall leaned forward on the desk. “Harry. Harry, look at me.”

He obeyed her.

The woman had an almost frantic look on her face, but she was so sure about her words. She was convinced. Harry felt unable to avert his eyes.

She placed a hand on the wood, tapping it.

“It's necessary.”

Harry said nothing. He couldn't say anything. Words seemed to have deserted him, and everything that was happening, everything that had happened, everything that had been said — kept replaying over and over in his mind, making his head ache.

He let out a choked sob.

“We have to learn to live with this. Even if it's not fair.”

We have to learn to live with this.

Then McGonagall did the strangest thing.

Suddenly, she stood up from her place, and wrapped her arms around Harry's body. Not like Hermione had done, wanting to seek comfort from her best friend, but in a motherly way. The kind of hug Mrs. Weasley gave, years ago, that said everything would be all right even if they couldn't promise it. Even if they couldn't know.

And Harry let himself be hugged, desolation taking hold of him, and when he couldn't hold it in any longer, he began to cry, without stopping. Brown eyes present in his memory and the floral scent permeating his nostrils. A harmonious laughter, which enveloped and soothed him. The screams reaching his ears, the blood, the betrayal, the death. And Harry cried, and screamed, and he wanted to peel off his skin so that he could feel something other than the blinding pain in his chest.

And he could almost pretend that the person holding him was someone else.

From that day on, he decided he would do whatever it took to win the war. 

Whatever it took.

No matter who fell.

Chapter Text

Draco lay awake in his bed for what seemed like hours, his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his mind elsewhere. Because—

What the actual fuck.

Harry Potter.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what that revelation made him feel. It was too much to know. Draco had gone with Theo thinking he’d lead him to the vapid Potter’s friends who continued fighting in his memory. He hadn't expected... hadn't expected to see him.

Almost eight years since he’d died that day at the Ministry, and Draco was only just finding out that it was all a damn lie. And he should be grateful, he knew that there was a prophecy involving both the Dark Lord and Potter, and that the 'Chosen One' could be the only one with the power to take him down — or so it had been rumoured years ago. That Potter was alive meant that option was still possible, that they had a chance of the prophecy coming true. Draco should even feel relieved.

But he was just completely and utterly enraged.

He’d watched him die . Draco lied for him at the manor because he didn't want Voldemort to win the war. Draco had saved him at the last minute from being killed by Crabbe and Goyle. Draco had hoped that even after the carnage that had resulted from the final battle, the Order and the "good" people would rise again and save everyone from the bitter pill of the grey world they inhabited. But that didn't happen, and once the Dark Lord was proclaimed victor, Draco had to adapt in order to survive. Draco had to follow his ways and his methods to help his mother, to get his family back. He’d been doing things for eight years — horrible things, because he believed there was no other way. There was no other way. 

And it turned out that yes, all the time... things could’ve changed. The story could’ve been different.

If he’d known, things would’ve been different...

Or maybe they wouldn't.

He would never find out now.

Draco turned abruptly on the mattress, with the anger eating him up inside.

Potter really had the nerve to say all those things to him, judging as he judged everything, the narcissistic git — separating things into good and bad. Black and white. Well, some people weren't born fucking perfect and good, with no chance of making mistakes. Some were born in the shadows, growing up to be no more. Some were born to make the rest stand out.

Draco let out a frustrated sigh, and then decided to focus on what he’d learned about his mother. Or he was fairly sure he’d start to scream otherwise.

Narcissa knew something, and the Order believed that something had to do with Nagini. Maybe she knew where the snake was, after all those years… But how could his mother know that ? And why? Why would she know, and why was it so important? How could that nasty snake be so vital to the whole thing? Draco had been so happy when he realised that it had disappeared, or even died during the Battle; that he wouldn't have to watch it eat people again... but it turned out that Nagini was apparently still alive, and that both the Order and the Dark Lord were fervently searching for it.

And probably his mother knew where it was. And she kept the secret. And she died for it.

Why?

Well, it's not like he could ask. Potter and the rest would never tell him.

His head thundered, pain slicing through his temples.

Shit. He needed to sleep.

He preferred that, anyway. He'd rather occupy his thoughts with the Order, the interrogation, the Vow, with bloody Potter and bloody Nagini , than pay any attention to the other thing that was haunting his head. The ghost that suddenly attacked him when he let his guard down. The voice of a woman begging him to let her go.

No, Draco couldn't think about that.

It was too painful.

He turned again, this time back to the bedside table and picked up the non-dreaming potion that was there, stuffing it into his mouth as he threw the vial against the wall. ‘Narcissa would have wanted you to sleep, Draco.’ Well, he was going to fucking indulge her, but he didn't plan on closing his eyes and seeing the faces that haunted him every time he didn't take something to prevent the nightmares.

Eric's empty eyes, for example.

Eric.

Draco tried to chase away the lump that immediately formed in his throat.

He hadn't thought about him in a long time. The truth was, Draco didn't think about the things that were important. He buried them deep inside himself and hoped they would never surface again. And somehow, the memories always found a way to do it. During the interrogation, the boy's name had come up and the weasel accused him of lying. Of lying about Eric.

Draco couldn't do that.

And there was the promise. The bloody promise. He hadn't remembered that. He wished he'd never done it. But there it was, as clear as the first day, and as heartbreaking as ever.

"So my death will have meaning," Eric had said.

Another person he’d failed.

Draco wanted to scream. He wanted to scream, to run away and forget about this shitty world that wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth the deaths, the tortures. It wasn't worth his mother's life. It wasn't worth his father's sanity. It wasn't worth Eric's death. It wasn't worth anything. It would be better off if they were all destroyed. If absolutely everyone died —  it would stop hurting.

Draco closed his eyes tightly, and rolled over one last time.

It didn't take him long to fall asleep.

•••

That night, he didn't get much rest.

And when he received the next day's visit, he knew he wouldn't get much rest all day either.

Seeing the Dark Lord would never cease to be both less impressive and creepy at the same time. Draco had learned that.

The passing years had made him so un-human-like that he sometimes doubted he ever had been. His mouth spanned little more than half of his cheeks, his eyes had turned completely red, devoid of the whites a person would normally have. The nose was never there in the first place, but all those features combined with the new ones he'd acquired — each of his teeth sharp as fangs, yellow and almost rotting — made him resemble one of the monsters his mother told him about when he was little.

Except he was real.

And he was there.

When the Dark Lord entered a place, he could feel it. Draco had always been able to see and feel people's magic, even if most of the time he couldn't determine who it belonged to. But ever since he met him, he was able to see the dark magic that surrounded him: a dark aura that rose up like tentacles, ready to murder you at the flick of a finger. It made your head ache, made you grit your teeth to endure the way your skin sensed its power. It was — it was frightening.

Draco lost his fear of quite a few things, really. When he was nothing more than a teenager he’d feared practically everything. He’d cried out of cowardice and been unable to torture without a wand pointed at his temple. But as the years passed he felt more and more numb. More and more capable. His voice didn't falter if he had to conjure a spell that would make you confess, while your limbs would be cut off and then grow back within minutes to repeat the process over and over again. He had to adapt. He had to stop being terrified about everything.

But Voldemort was one of those things he’d never stopped being afraid of.

Not to the extent of when he was sixteen and this stranger had come to his house, marking him and ordering him around, but he could feel his hands shaking and his stomach clenching with nervousness, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. It happened every time he saw him. It was impossible not to if you were close to the Lord and his eyes were staring straight at you.

At that moment, though… all Draco could feel was anger

A wave of overwhelming anger, that made him want horrible things, to see him die in the most gruesome ways there were. Burned. Dissolved in acid. Screaming and crying and pleading. The Lord was powerful, but he wasn’t immortal. He had to be able to die one way or another

Draco was going to find that way.

The Dark Lord entered the parlour where Draco was already waiting for him after sensing his presence in the Manor's protections, shortly after breakfast. He didn't know what he was doing there, but he had an idea; in the Wizarding World news flew, and even if one wanted to believe otherwise, it was practically impossible to keep a secret

Draco ducked his head as the door closed, avoiding making eye contact. The Dark Lord didn't like it, he believed it was too much for people to look at him without his permission, to speak to him without being granted the word. The Lord advanced to stand in front of him, with that wand in his fingers, the one he never let go of. They were of the same stature, but anyone standing next to Voldemort would seem insignificant.

Her red eyes stayed on him for a full minute.

Then he said, “Good afternoon, Astaroth.”

Draco no longer reacted to the name the way he jumped at it the first few months after he got it. Most people said it to honour him, as a sign of respect or awe. The only person who seemed to realise how much he disliked it was Greyback. He reminded him of it with derision, he laughed. Draco couldn't allow that, so he reacted and attacked.

They had to respect him by hook or by crook.

“Good afternoon, my Lord," he replied cautiously.

The Lord paced around him, still studying him, as if he could hear what was going on inside his head or thinking he would get some clue that way. Draco forced himself to keep his eyes on the ground.

“I hope you're feeling better," he told him, not a hint of softness or sincerity in his tone.

Draco's jaw clenched, though he relaxed it instantly. He'd always thought that one of the most maddening things about the Dark Lord was that: that false politeness and politeness. That false charm. He could tell you he'd cut out your tongue, and he'd still make you believe he was being polite while he did it.

It made him angrier.

He forced himself to calm down.

“I am," Draco replied neutrally.

The Dark Lord didn't respond to that. He didn't wish him good luck or his condolences. Draco hadn't expected him to, it sounded ridiculous even, but he was deeply grateful. He’d no idea what he would be capable of, knowing that the Lord was precisely the one responsible for what happened to his mother. And that his father... that his father —

“Well," the Lord said then, and made a gesture with his fingers that Draco saw out of the corner of his eye. He wanted him to look at him. Against all his senses, Draco did, discovering those horrible eyes and the calculating countenance. “Macnair came by yesterday and told me you weren't at home. May I ask where you've been?”

Draco forced himself to calm down, to think with a cool head as he suppressed the urge to tell him the truth so that the fact that he knew everything would explode in his bloody face. But no, he couldn't do that, Draco wasn't stupid. Taking a deep breath, he stifled a snort as he realised what the Lord had said.

As if he could refuse to answer his question.

Draco pretended to fidget, congratulating himself on the ease with which his cheeks turned pink. He opened his mouth a couple of times, as he finished by biting his lip.

“I…” he said in a low voice, “I was with Theodore Nott”

The Dark Lord's indifferent countenance did not change, but it did not escape Draco's notice as the corners of his mouth turned down in distaste, those strange prejudices attacking him.

He doesn't belong in this world , he had to remind himself, he doesn’t . He’d heard his father and mother murmur years ago about the possibility that the Dark Lord didn't have the ancestry he claimed to have, and it stuck in Draco's memory, though he and no one else had ever said it out loud. It was something he kept thinking about, and reaffirmed whenever he had to give him advice about the society they lived in; or when the Lord found the relationship between two men or two women strange or repugnant. That wasn’t natural in the magical world, to be disgusted by such things. It only happened to those of Muggle heritage.

The Dark Lord returned his hands to the front.

“Yes?” he questioned, returning to the subject. Draco didn't move. “With Theodore Nott?”

“Yes.”

The Dark Lord raised his wand, and pointed it at him.

“Let's see, then.”

That was the only warning he had, when Voldemort was already inside his mind.

Draco stifled an exclamation, keeping himself as composed as possible to avoid driving the Dark Lord out of his head. He had no mercy or gentleness, advancing through the innermost recesses of his mind like a dagger slicing flesh. It hurt, it hurt like hell, and had he been weaker, Draco might have wept, for it felt as if his brains were being set on fire and his sanity shattered. But he couldn't say anything, couldn't show weakness. He had to force himself to grit his teeth and maintain the connection.

Draco couldn't push him out either, couldn't lift the Occlumency barriers, because he knew how suspicious it would look, and that whatever he was looking for he would find it one way or another. Even though Draco was a powerful Occlumant, he couldn't use his ability. Not against the Dark Lord.

He scrolled through the memories of the last few days, as Draco watched the conversation with Pansy happen in front of his eyes. Draco couldn't show him something from his youth, the Dark Lord would know it was a way to divert attention from what he was really after. He couldn't make up a memory either, it would be quite conspicuous. So instead, Draco thought of real things. He occupied a real memory of him arriving at Nott Manor, a real memory of Theo waiting for him at the entrance, and then he thought of other encounters the two of them had had. Real encounters. The Lord would never be able to tell if they were from the same day or not. He hoped so at least.

The memories flashed back and forth, back and forth, as if the Dark Lord was scanning for some flaw that would give away that Draco was lying. It boiled down to Theo kissing him. Theo caressing him. Theo falling to his knees as he took him in his mouth. Draco felt no shame that the Dark Lord was watching him. He knew it disgusted him, so he tried to keep the memories as graphic and vivid as he could.

Then he stopped.

The Lord snapped out of his mind, causing Draco to gasp and take a step back, digging his nails into his palm in pain. The Dark Lord still looked nonchalant, but some of the tension in his body that Draco hadn't even noticed, was gone. He lowered his wand, the big wand he always carried totally different from the white one he saw as a teenager, and watched him.

Draco withstood the scrutiny.

“Yaxley has been kidnapped," the Dark Lord suddenly blurted out.

Draco guarded his reaction with tongs, allowing himself to show slight concern: he raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth. He had to look surprised, but not enough to arouse suspicion and make it look fake. Nor overly concerned; it was common knowledge that Draco didn't get along with basically anyone in the Nobilium or the Electis, except for Theo. He could never fool Voldemort if he pretended too much.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a soft voice.

The Dark Lord watched him, his red eyes searching. Draco had no idea what he could possibly be thinking.

“Are you questioning my assumptions?”

Years ago, that would have made him break down in pleas and forgiveness. It would have made him jump up and tell him that no, he would never do such a thing. But Draco knew that the Dark Lord, as much as he loved to be feared, detested weakness with all his being. No one could be more powerful than him. No one could be more skilled, or better. He knew that wizards served him out of respect and fear of who he was, not worship. But that didn't mean he liked open displays of weakness. Draco was a Nobilium, he had to act up to it.

His head was going to explode from mental exhaustion, the pain in his temples was growing stronger.

“Who could kidnap him?” Draco said, ignoring the question. “It's practically impossible to enter our homes, and we don't walk around the Wizarding World day in and day out like ordinary people. The population respects us.” Or fears us. “Who?”

The Lord narrowed his eyes, considering his words. He looked around. Draco knew he was pretending to think, everything the Dark Lord did was coldly calculated.

Absolutely everything.

Many had been fooled into thinking it wasn't.

“I think there's a traitor," the Lord said as his eyes returned to him, studying Draco.

Again he forced himself not to react. He’d no idea how the Lord could have come to that conclusion, or if anyone had seen him take Yaxley. What he did know was that if he knew the truth, Draco would be dead by now.

No, the Dark Lord was assessing him. That meeting was to draw his own conclusions. He distrusted him, yes. He distrusted him because Greyback had to have told him how the meeting with Hannah went. He distrusted him because Draco had every reason to turn against Voldenort if he learned the truth behind his mother's death.

And make no mistake, he was going to learn the truth.

“Why would they betray you, my Lord?” he said at last.

“You tell me, Astaroth.”

He knew why he said it. He knew that the Lord had never forgiven Narcissa for her betrayal. And that for the same reason, Draco could not be so affected by his own mother's death.

He bit his cheek so hard he drew blood.

It was probably one of the most cynical conversations he’d ever had in his entire life. The Dark Lord didn't trust him, but he came to recognise Draco's usefulness. And clearly Draco didn't trust the Dark Lord, he served him because he feared him, he was clear on that. And that conversation —

That conversation was a test, a test to see if Draco came to the same conclusions he did. It was a test to see if he was lying. It was a test that encompassed so many things that Draco couldn't even begin to explain them.

He took another step back and sat down in the chair, to let Voldemort know that he was his subordinate. He liked that, knowing he was in control.

“Because no one could have approached him without knowing the weaknesses of the Nobilium's security," Draco began to speak, averting his gaze to the floor. “Because there has never been a kidnapping of someone in such a high position. Because... because…”

He ran out of excuses. He didn't know what reason there was for his most adept followers to betray him, except that they knew what a farce his government had been, what lies it had been built on, starting with Potter's death. But he wasn't supposed to know any of that. Draco was supposed to have spent those eight years living in ignorance and still was, being useful as nothing more than a weapon; creating spells and potions for the Lord, helping to propose laws and guiding him in that society so that he would have the benefit of both Death Eaters and the rest of the population. Draco had been his puppet, while his mother was tortured.

Anger began to rise again, bile rising in his throat.

He concentrated on what was happening, taking a deep breath. He had to get this right. He had to pretend. For his mother.

Always for his mother.

Draco took the robe and smoothed it out. What the Dark Lord was really after, what he wanted to know, was whether Draco was aware of all this, that his government was lies upon lies.

“The Rebels have struck again.” The Lord said, after a few moments of silence. “Someone has said they saw Harry Potter, and people are beginning to believe.”

There it was again, the testing of waters. How much could he trust him?

How much did Draco know?

He forced himself to snort.

“That's stupid," he replied, looking him in the face as he suppressed a shudder.

“You don't need to tell me.” The Lord nodded. And then he did something that haunted Draco's nightmares: he laughed. That screeching laugh, with all the fangs protruding from his mouth and the scent of blood wafting through the room. “Only someone foolish enough would believe that Harry Potter is alive. That the Rebels and their selfish interests have a chance to overthrow the wonderful world we've built.”

Draco had no idea what to say to that, so he kept quiet. He might say something stupid, something that would throw away everything he’d achieved and everything he planned to achieve. Draco leaned back in his seat waiting for him to continue, but the Dark Lord didn't; he was clearly waiting for Draco to say something else, to comment on that, to catch an exaggeration, something that would help cement the suspicions he had of him.

He wouldn't indulge him.

“Perhaps Yaxley is dead," Draco said then. The Dark Lord pretended to consider it.

“If someone wanted information from him, they would never kill him.”

“What kind of information?” Draco asked within an instant. “Yaxley is part of the Nobilium, but that doesn't mean he's a key to overthrowing an entire government.”

The Lord looked surprised for a split second, as if he'd realised he'd said more than he should have, so he didn't elaborate. But Draco had picked up on it anyway, jotting it down in the back of his mind.

Yaxley knows something.

“Why would they want to kill him?” The Dark Lord asked instead, putting the onus on Draco to argue his answer.

“We all have enemies," he replied, fixing his eyes on him. “Sometimes they are closer than you think.”

The Lord glared back at him.

Lifeless, bloodshot, cruel eyes.

Draco kept his expression neutral, his countenance indifferent, as if what he had just said spoke only of Yaxley and nothing else. They stared at each other for what seemed like decades.

“Speak plainly, Malfoy.”

It sounded like a threat. Draco tensed his jaw in anticipation.

“Look at my father. I thought he loved mother, thought he was waiting for her... and he wasn't.”

The silence tightened between them after that, as Draco felt disgusted with himself. The worst part of it all was that he didn't know how true or not what he was saying was. Part of his brain didn't want to believe it, the childish part, the part that still had shitty hopes. But he felt disgusted anyway, for occupying the situation — the death of his family as a way of deceiving the Dark Lord.

“Do you think Yaxley's family has anything to do with this?”

Draco cupped his chin, pretending to think. “I think pureblood marriages are a great way to keep the line clean," he replied rather than give him a straight answer. “That's not to say there's love.”

But of course the Dark Lord had already thought of that.

He must have known what Draco was telling him. More likely in this case, someone had murdered Yaxley, not kidnapped him. The Dark Lord only wished to rule out the slightest possibility that it wasn't that.

“You're right, Astaroth," he said calmly. Too calm.

He didn't like it.

Draco supposed that in the occasion of another event similar to Yaxley's, the Lord would take more measures and precautions. But as he was just one, just one member of the Nobilium, he couldn't do too much. Not when there was no evidence and it was all too circumstantial.

Draco wasn't planning on kidnapping another member. For now. Luckily, it seemed he'd already picked one who knew enough.

“We need to punish the Rebels," The Dark Lord began to say, changing the subject, but left the sentence hanging in the air waiting for Draco to say something. He nodded.

“Absolutely.”

The Lord walked away, beginning to pace the room, touching armchairs and furniture. His eyes travelled to the large portrait of Draco that hung on the side of the fireplace.

“The execution of those who said that sighted Potter will be next week," he said, reaching the entrance. “Three new doses of Conflandum Cute are required.”

Draco felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest. Sometimes, he wondered if that was the only thing he was good at in life.

Making people regret living.

“Yes, my Lord," he replied in the most composed voice he could muster. The Lord took the doorknob.

“And continue working on that Organ Dissolver spell, the one that mimics the potion" he commanded.

The potion that killed Eric.

Draco wanted to throw up.

The Dark Lord’s wish was to turn it into a spell. He wanted people to fear being attacked by something like this as they walked down the street. Draco would like to sabotage it, to say he couldn't do it.

But if he had managed to create the curse that copied the effects of the Black Death bomb, the Dark Lord knew he could handle it.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort opened the door, stepping outside. As Draco was about to grab something and slam it to the floor, the Lord turned to him.

“Malfoy.”

Draco looked up, feeling his whole body tense.

The Dark Lord was watching him over his shoulder.

“Rookwood was Yaxley's lover," he announced, walking away.

The room was silent for a few long, exhausting seconds, and Draco finally let the air out of his lungs.

That had been a test.

Draco stood up abruptly once the Lord was out of sight, ready to go to the dungeons and smash something. He felt like murdering someone, venting the impotence that threatened to eat him alive.

Just as he thought, that had been a test, and Draco had passed it.

But Voldemort had made it clear that he didn't trust him.

Draco grimaced contemptuously.

He'd be a fool to do that.

•••

Draco had to talk to Theo. He had to tell him what happened, but he couldn't do it right away. It was too dangerous.

He went on with his life as if nothing had really happened. As if he’d never found out that Potter was alive; as if his mother was still in Azkaban; as if Lucius was still in the house, ready to appear any moment Draco turned the corner. He created the potions Voldemort had given him, continued to study the Dissolvi Organa spell, and began to research the things he’d promised that Potter imbecile. He waited, and waited, and waited, until it was Theo who contacted him.

Theo had gone into his potions lab, in his own words, to check up on him and see if he still thought the Order was a good alternative. As if Draco would have any regrets at that point.

But instead of answering his questions, what Draco had done was look at him, let him take a seat, and blurted out without even saying hello, “I need to see Potter.”

Theo paused in his movements when he heard him, leaning back on the wooden bench as he watched him.

“I feel like I'm back at Hogwarts.”

Draco didn't succumb to the taunt, merely raised an eyebrow, his gaze insistent. “Theo. Now.”

“What happened?”

“The Dark Lord tried to see my memories," Draco said bluntly. “He was in my mind.”

Theo slumped back in his seat, his body tensing up entirely. It seemed to affect him too much.

“Shite. Did he see anything?”

“No, I highly doubt it, but I can't take any risk.”

Theo pulled his hands away from his face so he could look him in the eye. Normally, the man was emotionless, cold, distant, wearing a blank mask like a good pureblood, but in this moment, Draco could see how despondent he was.

“What do you want Potter to do?” Theo asked, swallowing. Draco shrugged, averting his gaze to one of the shelves.

“ Obliviate me.”

Theo pulled his wand slowly from his pocket, pointing it at Draco. “I can do that.”

“No, it's too risky, it has to be him. There's a variant of the Obliviate , Severus Snape used it when he didn't have a pensieve nearby to empty his memories. He taught it to me in sixth year, and then I showed it to you guys, remember?”

Snape always taught the Slytherins everything he could, when asked, even the wrong things. But when Draco took the Mark at sixteen, his former professor took it upon himself to nurture him with most of the knowledge he thought he could use to survive. He supposed Severus knew what it would mean for Draco to join the Death Eaters at such a young age; and thank Merlin he considered it, because he was alive because of him. His lessons had given Draco the chance to climb the ladder.

“You'll have to choose what to forget when Potter casts the spell, and then he can undo the Obliviate every time he touches you with his wand," Theo completed after a few seconds, remembering what he was talking about. Then he noticed Draco's arched eyebrow. “Merlin, that sounded bad.”

“Yes," he replied tersely, rolling his eyes. Then he added, "It's the only thing I can think of.”

“And can he do it?”

Draco snorted. “No, not many people can do it. I'll teach him.”

Theo nodded again, then frowned, considering a possibility he hadn't thought of. Draco just waited for him to speak. “ Can he do it? I never saw him as someone who would be quick to learn spells he didn't know.”

Draco sighed, rising from his spot to walk over to the cauldron that had begun to boil. He added the black beetle eyes as he lowered the fire, letting it sit for another twenty minutes or so.

“I don't know, Theo. You're the one who's played his best friend for the last few years, you should know.”

Theo's countenance changed at his mocking tone, a brief feeling passing over his features, one that Draco didn't recognise, but he said nothing.

That, too, was a theme that had been haunting him ever since he'd learned that Potter was alive. Why did Theo seem so committed to the cause? Why did he take such a risk?

Why did he trust Potter of all people?

Draco wanted to fight, but he was so sick of doing it.

“Why?” he asked instead.

Theo went completely still and averted his gaze to the empty vials a few tables away, avoiding his eyes. “I told you why.”

“No, you said you were with them because the Dark Lord was going to destroy our world, that it benefited you side with the Order. But you're smart and you know that for now they’re at a disadvantage. They are desperately searching for the Dark Lord's snake — from what I conclude from your interrogation — and until they find it, their hands are tied.

"You said you weren't on either side, but you seemed loyal to them when I was there. You seemed willing to sacrifice me, just to please them. Just now you nearly shit yourself thinking that the Dark Lord might have found out something," Draco walked back to the table, standing a few feet away from him. “Why?”

“I'm not on either side.” Theo spoke too calmly. 

It only got on his nerves.

“How did you get to them?” Draco spat. Silence was again all he got. “How did you go from being marked, and then join the Order? How? Why?”

“Draco — ”

“We're on the same fucking side. I lent my life to useless Potter for this, and you've been there for years ," he said, blurting out what he'd really been thinking. Draco's jaw tensed tighter and tighter as he spoke. “You've let me rot in my own world. You've known things, things that — I could — surely you knew that mother had something to do with all this, that that's why Abbott was at the Manor, and knew of her death before I did. You — you — " he interrupted himself off, expression curving in disgust, spitting out the next words, "You were supposed to be my friend .”

A slight wince crossed Theo's face, but it only lasted a second. As children, he’d never expressed affection towards Draco, at least not often. At Hogwarts he avoided him, enjoying the calmness more than the attention Draco liked to hog. But Theo knew that he was the only person Draco truly respected, the only one he considered to be on his level, and Draco had believed that it was mutual. That something had to mean that, at the end of the day, he was the only person Theo sought out to talk to, that Draco was one of the few who at least tried to make an attempt to understand his quiet, reserved nature, contrary to the Slytherins who, for the most part, liked to tout.

Apparently he’d been wrong.

You know you're not being fair, a voice in his mind reminded him.

“I'm your friend," Theo stated then, forcefully. Draco held his gaze.

“Why, then?” he asked quietly, almost desperately, "Why did you join them?”

Theo sighed. “Draco…”

“ Why? ”

They stared at each other for seconds. Or minutes, he didn't really know. He only knew that Theo was debating with himself, Draco could tell. He could bet that whatever he was about to say no one else had heard it. Theo turned his neck, averting his gaze as he answered.

“Luna Lovegood.”

Time seemed to stand still.

Draco didn't know what to say. He hadn't heard that name in years. He’d no idea what it meant, but it caught him completely off guard. Luna. Loony Lovegood. What the fuck could she possibly have to do with Theo's decision?

It didn't make any sense.

It. Didn’t. Make. Sense.

“ Excuse me?”

“You wanted to know why," he replied bitterly. “She's the reason. She's the how.”

“Do you care to explain what the fuck that means?”

Theo sighed, an utterly frustrated sigh. He turned to look at Draco, his eyes furious that he was being interrogated like this. “Fuck, Draco. Really?”

“Yes.”

He wanted to understand what was going on, Merlin.

Theo raised his wand again, green eyes never leaving his. “Then I'll have to erase your memory later," he said in a firm voice. Draco raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

“Over my dead body. Stop threatening me with Obliviates when you know damn well you won't do it, and there's not a single person I'd tell your shite to, nobody's interested anyway. And I think for the sake of the Order and the fucking Vow, I can't even , in case you forget. So tell me.”

Theo still looked disgruntled, clearly not wanting to tell the truth behind his joining the Order. Draco didn't care. He didn't care if it made him uncomfortable, he didn't care if it was something totally horrible, he needed to understand .

Too much had been kept from him already.

Theo took a breath, lowering his wand and knowing that if he got something in his head, no one could get it out. Draco waited in silence.

"Shortly before you joined the Nobilium," he said, speaking more softly than usual, "Luna Lovegood was captured in a Rebel attack.”

Draco forced himself not to react. He didn't know that, of course. Before he joined the Nobilium, he was nothing, no better than an insect. He was treated like the plague itself, crap on the Death Eaters' shoes. It didn't surprise him that he hadn't known, it surprised him that it had taken him so long to find out.

And that Theo had anything to do with it.

“It was never public knowledge, if you're trying to find out why you never found out," he clarified, guessing his thoughts. “Nothing that happened that day ever came out, I don't know why, only the people who attended know. My father was one of them.”

Another secret. Everything was full of secrets. People were made of secrets.

How many more?

How many were missing?

Did his mother have a secret too?

Did she die for it?

“It was on that mission that Ginny Weasley died," Theo said, and Draco nodded. Potter had said it, so he wasn't baffled to hear it. “That was what bought Maia Snyde her position at Electis, and what got Luna into my father's hands. He was a very important member of the Dark Lord's inner circle, as you may recall. A prodigy in Legillimancy.” Theo paused, his face darkening. “And torture.”

Draco said nothing, what could he say? He had always suspected Mr. Nott of being a sadist, though Theo had never said anything, but he still had no idea how that and Theo becoming a spy for the Order were connected.

“The mission he was given," he continued, "was to find out everything he could about Luna, the Order, and Harry Potter. And then assassinate her.”

Something feral came over his features. Something that, if Draco was completely honest with himself, worried him. All of them  —himself, Theo, Pansy, Daphne, Blaise and even Goyle— had a side that they reserved for certain people. Hannah had seen that side, one of the darker parts of him. What dominated Theo's face at that moment was the purest desire for revenge. Lethality. All traces of indifference cast aside.

“She spent a year in the dungeons of the Manor," he said. Draco nodded, remembering that Lovegood had been a prisoner in his own house, years ago. It wasn't pleasant because it was all too obvious that she didn't deserve to be there.

“Why so much?”

“She was trained," he explained, his voice somewhat absent as Draco sat back down. “We didn't expect it, we thought — we all thought... I don't know. We underestimated them, the Order I mean. Luna was a good Occlumens, but regardless of that, the training helped her not to give away the location of the Order, not exactly. And all the information they were able to get out of her were things we either already knew, or already assumed.”

Theo's expression was getting further and further away from the present. Draco could feel how he was remembering. How he was reliving the past.

“At the time, I was in training too," Theo ran a hand over his face, Draco could almost see the memories dancing in front of his eyes. “No one expected me to become a servant to the Lord. We weren't even supposed to be bred for that in the face of the world, but…”

“Speak for yourself.”

It came from his lips before he could stop it, and he regretted it instantly. That wasn't entirely true, and he'd be a hypocrite if he meant it. Draco had taken the Mark because he had wanted to, hadn't he? He got himself into this mess by choice. He had no right to complain.

He'd made up his own mind.

“Draco —”

“Go on," he cut him off, determined.

Theo stared at him for a few seconds, but then Theo shook his head, ready to go on. There was no point in him trying to talk to Draco about it. It wouldn't change anything.

“No one ever expected me to become a loyal servant of the Dark Lord, or they never told me," he continued, matter-of-factly, "but I needed to be trained. Or so my father always told me since I was a boy. So Luna was offered to me as a practice subject.”

Draco could picture it perfectly. Loony Lovegood was small, seemingly fragile. She was a good object of amusement, and much better, a good puppet for Theo to manipulate at his whim and thus... ‘train.’

“It was... horrible.” Once again, he seemed lost in memories, his eyes unfocused. “Sometimes, Luna would end up with a bloody lip, or bruises on her body, and she'd be the one looking at me with pity. Me . She'd tell me that she felt sorry for me, and that she'd like- she'd like things to be different for both of us. And — Draco, she — you don't... you don't understand —”

“I understand," he said, remembering 1998. Lovegood said and did the strangest things, things that sometimes managed to drive him mad. Sometimes it seemed as if he wasn't even aware of the danger he was in there. “She was my prisoner once, too, remember?”

Theo's countenance darkened once more. “Right.”

He looked annoyed with him now.

Draco found that... peculiar. He'd forgotten that Theo was capable of feeling emotions, thanks to how cold he always appeared. He almost seemed like a normal human being and everything.

“I couldn't do that. I couldn't use her like she was nothing more than a doll," he muttered, though he seemed to be talking to himself rather than Draco. “Lovegood was getting smaller and smaller as time went on. And I think the only thing that kept her sane was that she was never completely lucid in the first place. I didn't —”

“You what?” Draco asked after a beat of silence.

“I pleaded with my father for Principle number five of the Sacred Twenty-eight," he blurted out.

Draco thought he'd misheard.

Tenets were things rarely used these days, created centuries and centuries ago, and he doubted all purebloods knew them. They appealed to the honour of families of clean lines, and the people on the list of the sacred twenty-eight were bound by them as if they were other laws, once they were used. They had each other's backs, though nowadays their use had almost died out because to make use of one of the principles, something had to be given in return. A sacrifice.

Principle number five, was that no truly irreversible harm could be caused from one pureblood to another pureblood.

Draco didn't ask what Theo had given in return for using that against his father to protect Lovegood, it wasn't any of his business. But perhaps the scars he had scattered across his back could be an indicator of what it had been.

He’d used the principle repeatedly during his imprisonment in the manor after the Battle of Hogwarts. In return, he gave everything in his power. He even offered to be subjected to minor torture in exchange for not having his hand cut off, for example.

Before he was a Nobilium, he was truly nothing.

“He didn't want to obey at first," Theo continued. “Obviously, my father tried to refuse, but it's impossible. We all know that. Lovegood had been there for two months by then, and I could already smell that the physical torture would soon begin. Real physical torture. Not bruises, not little cuts. Things — things I didn't want to see, or think, or hear. No…”

Theo pursed his lips, his gesture closing. Draco knew better than anyone the sadism and cruelty with which his peers treated prisoners. He knew the kind of things they would do to Lovegood. After the Lord had triumphed they had no one to stop them as they had at the beginning of the war. They could take her skin off bit by bit, they could split her in two while they kept her alive, and no one would tell them anything. No one would stop them. No law would stand in the way.

Theo avoided that.

“So my punishment, and my mission for my insolence, was to guard her cell.

"I was there, from the moment I got up to the moment I went to bed. I witnessed them trying to get information out of her, I witnessed the Dark Lord's visits. I witnessed her suffer. Witnessed — saw everything.” Theo gritted his teeth so hard he heard them grind, with his eyes lost in the table and the memories replaying in his head. “And there was nothing I could do.”

Draco could have told him that he'd done enough, that he'd done what he could. But nothing left his lips

Because it was all too close to home, too familiar.

Too painful.

“Then, eventually, she began to talk to me.

"It was stupid stuff in the beginning, really stupid stuff, like that my head was full of wrackspurts. Or that if I let her make a necklace out of bottle caps, I'd feel better and see that there was no point in keeping her there. That she could help me. She could help me.”

Draco almost smiled. Almost. During her imprisonment in the Manor, Lovegood was no different, he knew first hand what Theo was talking about.

He also saw Theo's corners turn up, just a little, before that look of seriousness returned to his face. Draco finally dropped back into his seat. The potion had a few minutes left before he’d to put out the fire.

“I tried not to listen to her, not really. They didn't call her ‘Loony’ for nothing, and they were absolutely right. It's just that…” He paused for a moment, weighing up what he would say. “I felt sorry for her, man, I'm not going to lie to you. I felt sorry to see her ask when she could leave, or if she'd let him write a letter to Harry Potter to rescue her.”

“Sounds like her."

“I know, and at the time, I thought it couldn't hurt to talk to her. What could happen? She was a nutter, after all. At least I could respond to what she said to me. So I started to answer.”

Draco didn't know what Theo was remembering at that moment, but he did know that whatever it was, he didn't remember ever seeing that look on his face. Not when he was pleased. Not when he was angry. Or sad. Or happy. Or lost in lust. Not ever. It was an unusual thing.

Something that, apparently, could only be provoked by Luna Lovegood.

“She responded to silly things, really silly things," he said sincerely. “Like when she told me one day that the Nargles kept hiding her shoes at school, and that maybe they had also hidden the memories they were looking for inside her mind. I'd play along, tell her that the Nargles were smarter than they seemed then, and she'd reply that yes, finally someone understood her. And before long, we were talking about her father and how he’d loved her. How he’d died for her in battle. And about her mother and her death too, and a lot of personal things that I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know. I didn't need to know.

"She talked to me about my eyes. That they reminded her of the woods and the lawn of the house she used to live in. She would tell me that she would have liked to have met me before, or in other circumstances. She'd tell me that... she wished she could make me wreaths to take care of me," Theo smiled bitterly. “ Me . Her fucking captor.”

It was something that didn't bring back good memories. Draco knew it. It showed in every line, in every wrinkle, in the position of his body. And yet Theo's face lit up talking about it. Draco didn't think he noticed it. It was an unconscious thing.

He didn't know what to think about it.

“I thought — I thought I just felt sorry for her. I thought I just saw her as a crazy prisoner," he said, a little louder than a whisper. “I never thought she was different. Not the different one we all knew. I just... I never thought she was different to me .”

Oh.

Oh.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, anything. But Theo clutched his hand on the edge of the table and his breathing got a shade heavier, so he decided he'd better not.

“And then she broke.”

It made him swallow whatever words were about to leave his throat.

“It was... It was one of the worst things I've ever witnessed," he said, and now it seemed like he wasn't talking to Draco. The words, the thoughts, everything was coming out of his lips without Theo processing it. “Luna was... she was like a light. No matter what happened, she — but — they reached a level in her unconscious, a level they weren't supposed to touch and... and everything exploded. Luna came to, unable to distinguish what was truth and what was fiction. And that — she had thought it was all true before. The nargles, the wrackspurts. All of it, Luna…”

Luna. Not Loony. Not Lovegood. Luna.

The way Theo said her name made Draco shift uncomfortably in his place. It sounded like he was saying something precious; something he worshipped. And Draco was beginning to understand. He just found it hard to believe.

“She stopped eating. She stopped talking. She ignored my attempts to talk to her," he blurted as if it really hurt, even though it had happened more than five years ago. “Anyone else would have been happy. Relieved. Finally the lunatic had shut up. But — but not me.”

No, it really wasn't believable.

“And one day I saw her cry.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. Lovegood. Crying. At the Manor, Draco had never seen her cry. Sometimes it seemed like she didn't even understand where she was, the ultimate sign of desperation she ever had was trying to escape. Other than that, the girl almost looked like a Hufflepuff coming to terms with what was happening.

Theo took a shaky breath. “Draco, I promise you, I — I felt like someone was hitting me with a Crucio.. .”

Draco stopped listening after that.

A Crucio.

Theo loved her.

That revelation wasn't unexpected, not with everything he'd told her, but it was still hard to believe. At Hogwarts, Draco couldn't remember Theo ever giving her a second of his attention, and vice versa. It would never have happened without Voldemort's triumph. Their paths would never have come together. It almost seemed like an accident.

War had a strange way of destroying people.

“I didn't want to see her like that again. I couldn't see her like that anymore. That's when my plan began, which led me to become a spy. Which led to the Dark Lord 'honouring me with his Mark'," the last was said with a sneer. “I had to get her out of there, even if I died trying.”

That's stupid , he thought to himself. He was risking everything for a plan that was destined to fail. But Draco didn't say it out loud.

Theo was just as stupid as his plan.

“My mother was having an affair with a Muggle-born, did you know that? She was helping him hide, and in return I suppose she was asking him to shag her. But that’s just my guess.”

No, Draco didn't know any of that.

Sometimes he felt like he had no idea about anything anymore, really. All the lies he believed in had started to fall apart since he was sixteen.

Theo bit his tongue, really bit it, thinking about all that. Draco knew it hurt him to talk about Vanessa. She wasn't his biological mother, but after marrying Mr. Nott when Theo was but a child, she had raised him as her own son and he’d started calling her mum. Draco knew it burned him to talk about her.

Losing one mother was hard enough. He didn't want to imagine what it was like to lose two.

“My father found them, and in a fit of rage, he murdered her," His voice had returned to neutral, as Draco again felt like he was being taken by surprise. The rumours... the rumours always said that Theo was the one who killed her, except he'd never believed it. He never knew what Vanessa died of, but Draco certainly hadn't expected her to have been killed. “I... saw the whole thing. Without meaning to. I saw — I saw how he —”

Anger came over his face once more, it was the same gesture he’d made a few minutes ago. The cruelty seemed part of Theo in that moment, and Draco saw who he truly was, or who he could become. Draco saw the person whose hand did not tremble at publicly executing people. He saw the person the rest of the world feared and respected, as well as himself. He saw the man who stunned and manacled him for the Order.

And it dawned on him.

“You…” Draco muttered, passing his breath. Theo didn't move. He didn't answer. He waited for him to say it. “You killed him.”

Draco reached subtly for the wand in his trousers, his heart picking up speed. Theo was exaggeratedly still.

“You killed your father.”

“Yes," he admitted calmly. “Yes, I did.”

Draco couldn't speak. Most of the talk he’d felt like that, but that — that shut him up completely. It was hard in itself.

He'd never been able to kill anyone, he was too much of a coward to even try. He couldn't imagine pointing his wand at a person, and see how life left their eyes — he just couldn't. Draco had no idea how he was able to stand to gouge out eyes, to conjure spells that caused the victim to cut every inch of their body and keep regenerating and healing while new ones were made. He could do all that — but wasn't able to go to the other extreme. It was ironic and ridiculous.

And if he couldn't even imagine actually killing a stranger, someone without a face, the thought of murdering his father ... was simply inconceivable.

“That made it possible for me to help Luna escape," Theo spoke once more, continuing his story as Draco looked at him like someone looking at a stranger. “It was all very quick. I listened to her directions on where to Apparate, and I did. I listened to her in everything. Whatever she asked me to do. Whatever she — if she’d asked me for the sun, I would’ve given it to her. If she’d asked for my life, I would’ve handed it over in a heartbeat.”

Strange. All this is strange. Unlikely.

It doesn't make any sense.

“I turned up outside the base at the time. Someone knocked me unconscious, and suddenly when I woke up, I had Harry Potter in my face demanding answers.”

Draco allowed himself a nervous snort. “Sounds familiar.”

“Luna interfered for me," he said without paying him attention, again bitterly. “She defended me. I didn't deserve her defence. I didn't deserve... I didn't deserve anything, not even her. I don't .”

Draco almost laughed at him.

Deserving or undeserving — who was to dictate that? Was someone, somewhere, deciding it? If deserving things were fair, if there really were morals —

His mother would be alive.

No. All of that was just bullshit.

And yet  — he understood Theo better than anyone.

“The moment I saw them, I knew I had to help them. If it — if it assured me that Luna would live on, that she would have a future, and a chance at happiness... I’d do it. And my mother... I couldn't leave things like that with the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters would ask questions. So the Order helped me map out the plan, what I would do, they even altered my memories. If I showed them to you, you'd see that I really think that's how things happened, the way they're put in my head. If it weren't for the fact that I've been told countless times that it wasn’t like that…” Theo shaked his head. “I went back to the Manor then, and called the Lord, setting the scene. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t confess, I didn’t even show regret for killing one of his most loyal servants. I simply... told him to take a look.

"He saw my memories. One by one. I think it was only thanks to Potter's magic that he didn't notice they were false," Theo was breathing heavily again. “What he saw was... that I got tired of my father's mediocrity. That he caught my mother cheating on him, and had a breakdown, running off to take it out on his prisoner. In the midst of that Luna had a chance to escape, because he made the mistake of not leaving the door sealed and so the protections were weak, and Luna had a bunch of uncontrolled magic that helped her escape. There were a lot of mistakes that the Order created to make the story more believable. And when I supposedly found out about them, I killed my father because he wasn't worthy of being close to the Dark Lord. And then I killed my mother, for disgracing purity.”

The smirk returned to Theo's face. Draco's mind was working at a rapid speed, analysing what Theo was saying.

“As you can guess," he said, "the Dark Lord loved this story.”

Oh, Draco could bet on it.

“The first thing he did was punish me. He distrusted me, obviously. I had killed one of his most loyal and powerful followers, but he recognised the courage in that. He recognised that I was able to do something that not many people would do: put blood purity first, put his ideals before my own family. And all the while, I feigned adoration, devotion and loyalty to him," Draco could visualise perfectly what kind of punishments he was referring to. How Voldemort's sadistic mind worked. “So... he offered to mark me. He offered me a lot of things. It was a test, obviously. The Dark Lord doesn't offer that kind of opportunity like nothing. The things I had to do — the things I had to commit... he found that I was more use to him alive than dead. That I was more use to him on his side, than anyone else's," Theo finished, and Draco could only think of the things the Dark Lord was capable of asking in order to test someone. Draco could question Theo, to explain what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do, but — he'd lived it. 

Draco had lived it with Eric. 

He knew what he was talking about. 

“And finally, the Lord decided I was worthy enough.”

He didn't know what to think about it all. It was too much information. Lovegood. The Order. His father. His mother. Voldemort. He didn't know what he could say. So he simply said the first thing that came to mind, “The Order used you.”

Theo shrugged, indifferent. All the glacial composure returned to him. The worst was over, he'd told the truth, the whole truth. He could wear that mask again.

“Maybe," he said. “It wasn't a price I wasn't willing to pay.”

Draco tried to analyse everything he found out. That was the beginning of Theo's spying. The reason he'd done that and more.

Lovegood .

Theo had killed his father. Now, with the information more coldly, it didn't seem so extraordinary to him. Draco had seen worse, that was for sure, and Mr. Nott probably deserved it. He'd no idea what it said about him that he thought that. He had no idea what it said about Theo that he showed no remorse whatsoever when talking about that part of his past.

So he just didn't think about it.

“She's the woman from your memories?” Draco muttered, his gaze focused on the potion. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Theo nod tersely. “But she looks so different…”

Draco remembered what he'd seen on Theo's head weeks ago. That short, dull blonde hair, dull blue eyes, scars on her face, unhealthy thinness.

Lovegood had always been small, but her long hair and dreamy, bulging eyes were characteristic of her physique. This woman was a far cry from the girl Draco had known.

It was a little terrifying, seeing how being in constant contact with cruelty could change you.

“ She is different," Theo replied. Draco nodded, not wanting to talk about it any further.

“Is she still alive?” He asked instead.

“Yes.”

The way Theo was talking about her, Draco could only come to one conclusion.

“But you're not together.”

A few seconds of silence passed.

“No.”

Draco watched him carefully. That day, he'd found out more than he'd planned to. He had learned that Theodore Nott had a heart, as unbelievable as it sounded. Draco had thought that so many years under Voldemort's wing, raised under the watchful eye of Death Eaters, had robbed them both of the ability to feel.

“Why?” he asked. Theo snorted disdainfully.

“Why, Draco? Really?”

Courtship did sound ridiculous to him, but perhaps that was because Draco hadn't found anyone, nor did he plan to. His life was hard enough as it was, having to deal with getting his mother out of Azkaban —

Draco closed his eyes for a moment.

“We're in the middle of a war," Theo thankfully interrupted his train of thought. “I can — I can die. I don't want to do this to her, letting her get too attached to me just to leave her alone. She doesn't deserve it.”

Draco tried to find something inside himself to react to those words as he would have as a child. An urge to mock Theo, to ridicule him. Or feel impressed at the intensity of his emotions. Discomfort at something Draco couldn't understand.

But nothing came out. He just didn't care. None of it.

He'd already gotten his explanations.

“She doesn’t feel the same, then?” he asked. Theo shifted in his place.

“She was my prisoner.”

That wasn't an answer.

“Seven years ago.”

“Six.”

Draco didn't add anything. What for? It wasn't his problem if Theo wanted to kill and torture himself that way. It wasn't even like he was affected by that decision, except for the fact that he would probably lose a good bedmate if Theo chose Lovegood. Other than that, he could do whatever he wanted with his life. And if his thoughts were with the lunatic when he couldn't have her, Draco couldn't care less.

“Even if she has feelings for me, it's because of the time she spent with me when she was kidnapped," Theo muttered, more to himself. He seemed to be reciting words he'd said before. “She deserves to fall in love with someone who hasn't — who hasn't witnessed — who hasn't been part of her tortures. She deserves... She deserves the world.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, slightly disgusted.

“You love her," he stated the obvious. Theo looked away. “It's been six years, Theo. Lovegood hasn't developed any kind of unhealthy attachment to you.”

Theo furrowed his brow. Draco was only saying that because his behaviour was irrational.

“You don't know. You don't know her.”

Draco nodded, shrugging. 

Fair enough.

“No, I don't know her.”

Theo looked taken aback for just a tenth of a second, but he didn't comment. Maybe he'd expected him to insist more, maybe that was what everyone else who knew about his feelings was doing. But he wasn't about to do that. Draco just —

He didn't care .

“Enough," Theo said, rising abruptly from his seat. “Are you satisfied now?”

Draco curved his mouth into something resembling a smile.

“Quite.”

The potion rattled in the fire again, indicating that the first part of his brew was ready and should be left to steep for another twenty-four hours. Draco rose from his place under Theo's watchful eye and put out the fire, conjuring a spell that would keep the cauldron watertight so that no foreign objects would enter it. Draco gathered the ingredients he would use the next day, then turned away.

“Okay," he said, walking towards him. “Let's go see Potter.”

•••

Draco didn't know where he was when Theo appeared there, but he could recognise the magic rippling around him.

He glanced around, noticing that a few feet away the barrier that separated them from the Muggles was rising. He could see it, like a blurred reflection between one world and another.

Theo pulled a coin from his pocket, tapping it with his wand. Draco recognised the protean charm instantly: it was the same one he had occupied in sixth year with Madam Rosmerta, the one he had stolen from 'Dumbledore's Army'. It seemed so far away at the time. When suspicions on his behalf dropped among the Death Eaters, Draco would demand that Potter give him one as well.

He felt a familiar hint of adrenaline rise in his stomach as he watched Theo's gaze focus on a spot he couldn't see, surely a Fidelius.

It was there, it was happening.

“What now?” Draco said in a bored tone.

“Now we wait.”

“What? Potter's going to materialise out of thin air here?"

“That's right, Malfoy.”

He turned around the instant he heard his voice. Potter was standing behind him, wearing that serious expression he'd worn since he was nothing more than a child. Draco could see traces here and there that told him it was the same person he knew at Hogwarts, the same puny teenager. The gangly posture, the messy hair, the round glasses. But the rest... The rest was another being, entirely. Potter felt — threatening. He exuded almost the same power as the Dark Lord, dark magic rippling around his body, and the distinctive scent, the magical signature Draco had always sensed, was so insistent that it tantalised his senses.

He shot him a grimace that imprinted all his displeasure. “Just in time, St. Potter." 

“You'd think in eight years you'd come up with cleverer names than the ones you used at school," he replied, starting to walk over to where they stood to face them both.

“I didn't need to think of new names for dead people. And you were, for me, and what good years they were," Draco told him. “I didn't think you were hiding like a rat.”

He'd forgotten, really, how much he enjoyed watching the way Potter's face angered. His eyes turned into two slits, and the word irritation seemed to come alive in ghere. His jaw clenched, and his cheeks took on a red tinge. It was his favourite pastime as a child, and it was amusing to see that he could still make him lose his temper with a couple of words.

“If you hadn't taken to creating bullshit spells that killed people who could testify that i was alive," Potter retorted, with the same venom the'd occupied himself with, "you might have noticed.”

Draco snorted derisively, anger beginning to take hold of him. There were some things that didn't change. “That's your excuse? You've been scratching your bollocks off for eight years. You could have —”

“ Draco. ”

Theo's voice made him turn to him, his tone warning him that he might be crossing a line.

He didn't give a shit.

He was being irrational, he knew. He knew that looking at it from an objective point of view, Potter didn't have much of a choice. Still, that part of Draco, the part that helped him lie to himself, found it far, far more comfortable to blame Potter and his ineptitude for everything. He couldn't even begin to explain why it bothered him so much — only if he'd known the truth about his death.... If he had known...

Nothing. Nothing would have happened. You're not a good person. Don't try to convince yourself of that.

You probably would have fought to hand him over to the Dark Lord, to buy your mother's freedom. You wouldn't have helped him. You're not like Theo.

You are nothing more than what you became.

In the midst of his thoughts, he couldn't help but wonder how much truth there was to all that. Whether he would've given Potter up without batting an eyelid for his mother, he didn't know. He didn't want to know either. It hadn't happened. 

That didn't mean his blood wasn't boiling because of the thought.

Potter held out his hand, and Draco, out of inertia, did the same. A second later, he felt a piece of paper fall on top of it. It read a strange address. Coordinates, if that was accurate. But by the time his brain began to work out what it was, the ground was already opening up from below, and a Manor almost as large as his own had begun to rise up a few feet from where he stood. It was more like a castle than anything else, roughly five stories and an occasional tower, the construction made of stone and notoriously ancient. The fence-like protections were made of stone and wood as well, standing upright across the large grounds and blocking the view inside from where they stood.

Draco looked around. It was a field, where many yards beyond there was a small village with equally small houses, and a miniature mansion. There was no one there, and yet he suddenly felt he was being watched.

He raised his eyes, though he noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

“Let's go," Potter said, opening the large, metre-high gate as they muttered a long incantation. “This way.”

Draco and Theo followed him. Draco vaguely remembered the spell Potter had cast. It was dangerous, and it served to completely seal off a property. Within that Manor, absolutely no one entered or left without the keepers’ consent. Draco thought that the spell was actually a legend, he never saw anyone use it outside of his fabled tales. Apparently, it was real.

The Mansion was almost at the end of the grounds, so that everything in front of it was a maze of bushes and trees forming a common space in the centre. Almost like a park in the middle of the property. Draco knew that this was how older magical houses were designed to make it harder for enemies to enter from the ground, and that the maze at Malfoy Manor was even more complicated than that. That one seemed to be there just for decoration.

“What happened?” Potter asked suddenly, stopping just inside the common space, the trees surrounding them and making it a little more private. His words had been directed at Theo, but his eyes were fixed on him, so Draco was the one to answer.

“The Dark Lord wanted to see my memories, after asking about Yaxley's disappearance," he told him bluntly.

Potter just blinked. If he realised how serious the situation was, he didn't show it at all.

“So?” He replied after a few seconds of silence.

“He didn't see anything, but I think it's dangerous to have my memories there if I'm within his sights.”

Potter still didn't move. A breeze rustled through the trees, and the bitter cold in which they lived became a little more noticeable. A few miles away, Dementors must be hunting for prey to steal their happiness. Draco almost pulled out his wand and conjured a Patronus. Though in the dark of night it would draw too much attention.

“Weren't you an expert Occlumens?”

“Yes," he answered, though it wasn't quite true, and he ignored the mocking tone with which Potter had asked that question. “But you can't use it against him. The Dark Lord would notice that I'm putting it out of my mind. He'll think I'm hiding something.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“There is a... spell. It's a derivative of Obliviate. It'll erase my memories, but temporarily, and I'll decide what to forget. Once you reverse it with a flick of your wand, I'll get everything back. Everything that has to do with the Order.”

Draco, for some reason, had expected Potter to demand explanations. To ask him where he'd gotten that from and why he thought it was a good idea. Or that he would dismiss it and Draco would have to fight tooth and nail to get him to listen to him and his plan, and drop that stupid preconceived idea of morality. Draco thought he'd have to yell at him not to reject his proposal just because he was Draco Malfoy.

But instead, Potter pulled his wand out of his pocket.

“All right," he said calmly. “Show me.”

Draco stayed where he was for a few seconds before nodding and closing the distance between them, pulling out his own wand as he stood beside him.

He avoided looking at the wood Potter held between his fingers. He avoided the thought that it was his, and that he had no right to use it. Because it was true that the wand chose the wizard, and he'd gone eight years without it. He didn't need it. Yet the fact that it was Potter, of all people, who had it —

Merlin.

“You have to move it this way…” He said, making a zigzagging motion like an elongated, curved Z. Potter tried. "No, no. Like this.”

It was one of the most complex spells there was, no wonder the useless man couldn't do it.

Draco did it once more, making it clear with his wrist how it was conjured. Potter followed suit, his eyes determined as if it was some sort of challenge.

“Yes," Draco said, once the move was copied correctly, "And you must say 'Pars Obliviate'.”

Potter repeated it.

“Yes," he said again.

Draco was vaguely aware that they had been a little closer than normal when he took a step back and the heat of Potter's body had disappeared from his side, the brush of clothes fading. He didn't dwell on that fact, however, because a thought crossed his mind, striking him instantly.

“What happened to Yaxley?” he asked suddenly. Potter raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean, what happened to Yaxley?”

“Did you manage to get anything out of him?”

Potter studied him for a few seconds, sensing that Draco had an ulterior motive with that line of questioning. “No. He's been resisting all…”

“Leave it to me," he interrupted. "Talk to Theo. After the next execution, take me to him.”

Potter's features grew darker after hearing that. Draco didn't know why. Because of the execution, or because of the obvious implication that he could make him talk.

He didn't care aswell.

“What for?” Potter asked, almost resentfully. Draco pocketed his wand.

“For small talk and snacks, Potter. Don't be an idiot — though I'm sure it's hard for you — but I know how to get him to talk.”

Death Eaters and society in general, especially children, were raised to be soldiers, but they were not trained like the Order. As he had found with Hannah and according to Theo's story, an average member of Potter's side was able to withstand the worst things, the worst torture, and still die without revealing more than was necessary. Death Eaters, unlike them, didn't need to because they had no threat of any kind on them.

Or so they thought.

“The same way you get Hannah to talk?” Potter said then, anger creeping into his tone, accusation in every word.

Draco laughed.

From the look on Potter's face, he knew it wasn't a pleasant sound.

“She was one of the difficult ones, I must admit," he replied with a half-smile. “She didn't even scream as much as the rest, only when Greyback ate her alive. A good show, I have to admit.”

There it was once more. Live rage adorning every fraction of Potter's expression. The wand was pointed at him the instant he finished, and Theo took a step towards them.

Draco didn't wipe away his grin.

“You disgust me," Potter hissed, gritting his teeth..

He wasn't the first to say that.

He wouldn't be the last.

“Get in line.”

For what seemed like a full minute, no one moved. Theo watched the scene from his position, ready to intervene if things escalated. Potter was pointing at him, exuding anger and revulsion. And Draco was sneering, eyes eager to see how he would react to what he said.

And just when he thought they might start cursing at each other, Potter lowered his wand, taking a step back and cutting off eye contact.

Draco stared at him blankly for a few seconds, though it wasn't long.

“Okay, Potter. Do it now," he chose to say, then turned to Theo. “You'll have to stun me once I'm done, so stay ready.”

Potter, in his place, furrowed his brow. “That won't be necessary, we can do this outside and while I'm hiding under the cloak and you're confused, Theo can Apparate you away.”

Draco turned to him once more, one eyebrow raised. “It will be necessary. I'll still feel your magic and wonder why you're alive, and the Dark Lord will be able to see it in my memories."

“Enough people can feel my magic," Potter replied, almost narcissistically, "that doesn't mean you'll know it's mine.”

Draco looked straight at him, eyes cold and razor-sharp.

“I'll know.”

They stared at each other for a suffocating few seconds, and Draco almost wanted to shout at him that not everything he said had ulterior motives. That he was being honest and that even if he wanted to, he couldn't betray them. That he didn't understand how not even an Unbreakable Vow could make Potter trust him.

But he said nothing of the sort.

“What's the problem, Potter?” he huffed. “When I knew you, you would have fought to be able to hex me.”

He realised almost immediately, how that sentence left his lips. When I knew you. It didn't make much sense, but at the same time it made all the sense in the world. Draco no longer knew the man standing in front of him. He had no idea who he was, apart from his name. He didn't know what he'd done over the years. He didn't know.

“Alright then," Potter said.

Without further ado, a wand was over his face, and a bunch of memories began to flash before him, Draco focused on them, as many as he could, to forget them. Theo. Yaxley. Potter. The Order. All fading away and remaining as nothing more than unrelated, unconnected ideas.

Draco sighed, feeling suddenly weak.

And finally, his surroundings went black.

Chapter Text

Harry walked back into the Manor feeling his heart pounding in his throat and the familiar anger rising in his stomach.

Bloody hell.

He'd seen Malfoy before, that day of the interrogation, but given that he'd been under the Veritaserum for most of the encounter, Harry couldn't get a good picture of him. He'd been met with that cold facade that the potion gave, combined with the anger of his mother's death. Physically, that was where he could see the most differences with his past self, but in that moment?

In that moment, he’d met Malfoy, and he had finally understood the turmoil, the fear behind that name.

The whole appearance he’d had at Hogwarts, the spoiled, wayward child he once was, had vanished, leaving a man who seemed to lack any human emotion. The man Harry saw that night, was the Malfoy who made new people that joined the Order afraid that he would find them.

Not Rabastan. Not Greyback. No known, veteran Death Eater.

Malfoy.

Malfoy, whom the common people feared and respected, because they knew that if his eyes rested on them for any longer than normal, all was lost. Malfoy, who inaugurated executions and watched everything with hard, analytical eyes, wiping the blood off his shoes as if it were nothing more than a nuisance. Malfoy, who had risen unexpectedly fast through the ranks of the Death Eaters, reaching Voldemort's closest circle. The elite of the elite. The Nobilium.

Malfoy, the torturer. The unmerciful.

As he’d been nicknamed, Astaroth: demon among men.

It didn't matter that he hadn't killed anyone, that he claimed not to have. The cruelty in his gaze hid no secrets.

"I know how to make him talk," he’d said, his voice cutting like a dagger. And when Harry thought that — thought of the things Malfoy would do to achieve that, remembering Hannah, he’d only laughed . As if he thought it was funny.

Harry heard things during those nearly eight years, of course. He knew the role Malfoy played, who he was, how could he not? Stories that Malfoy tortured people into madness, that he used spells that made a 'Crucio' look like child's play. That there were people whose blood literally boiled, causing them to burn from the inside and tear their skin off with their fingernails to stop feeling their organs degrade — but his mind was never able to unite the image of the child crying in the middle of a bathroom for not being able to fulfil the task he was given, with the one of a cold and merciless torturer, who aroused the respect and fear of the people who knew him.

Now he could.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Harry turned towards the voice once he was inside, taken a little by surprise. It came from the side of the fireplace in the main room, and the distrustful tone with which all the people had treated him since he had made his alliance with Malfoy was evident in the words.

“No," Harry answered truthfully, approaching her, "But can you think of a better way to find out what Narcissa has to do with all this, than her own son?”

The woman stretched her long legs out on the couch, the book in her hands slipping slightly as she watched him, her blue eyes scanning his body.

Harry knew she was listening to his thoughts.

“You should let me into his mind," she said lazily. “See what's in there, what he knows... and then get rid of him.”

Harry sighed, massaging his temples. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't crossed his mind — but no, that wasn't the course of action they would have to take. What they had to do was take advantage of the position Malfoy had carved out for himself.

Harry sat down beside her. “We already gave him Veritaserum," he replied, "He doesn't know anything, Astoria.”

Astoria snorted but added nothing more to that sentence, resting her legs in Harry's lap and resuming reading. Harry grabbed her ankle, beginning to trace lines over the skin as he lost himself in thought. Malfoy had said he’d a public execution, it was due in a few days. Harry knew all about them. They used to happen when someone made an attempt against Voldemort's government, either because they claimed to see Harry Potter, or because they were caught doing suspicious things. The executions were held in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, on a platform right in front of where the statue of his supposed defeat stood. They were all different, so that people didn't know what to expect, and could go from a simple Avada Kedavra , to dismembering them alive to the delight of the magical community. Members of the Nobilium and Electis opened the executions, and in quite a few of them, they were the ones who carried them out. And if the victims didn't qualify as important enough, Voldemort didn't even show up.

After that day's execution passed, he would have to let Theo know to have Malfoy come to the quartel and extract information from Yaxley, using methods of torture that Harry could only begin to imagine. They knew some of those spells — the Veritatis Dolorem or the Flacse, for example — and had trained to withstand them. He supposed that Death Eaters, especially experienced ones, could withstand them too, but that didn't mean that the rest of the spells that had been invented over the years were common knowledge, that they could be resisted. And Malfoy... Malfoy was sure he was going to make him talk —

“You're being too loud.”

Harry let go of Astoria's ankle, turning to look at her. The woman hadn't taken her eyes off the pages as she spoke to him.

“I haven't said anything.”

“I can hear your thoughts. They're always chaotic, but I've never heard them like this before…” she murmured in reply, glancing sideways at him over the top of the book. “Are you all right?”

The answer came automatically. “Yes.”

Astoria looked at him for a few more seconds before she frowned and went back to reading, leaving Harry to lose himself in his head once more. 

If there was an execution, that meant that in the last raid someone had seen him. That was the most likely scenario, that they had seen him and announced it to the world. Maybe they could sabotage the execution, then. Maybe they could even kill a few Death Eaters. No — they had to stick to the plan of kidnapping the guards who had contact with Narcissa. That was what they had to do. Expend their strength and endanger the Order for nothing would be stupid, as much as Harry wanted to do something about it —

“Fine," Astoria said abruptly, "I'm leaving.”

Harry looked up when he heard her, to see Astoria rise from her seat, leaving the book where she had been sitting moments before. Her long hair was in a braid, and the white dress she wore was quickly covered by the grey robe she had put on over it, which was resting on the back of the divan earlier. Astoria conjured a quick Glamour that transformed her face as she rearranged the garments, the hood instantly falling over her head.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, watching Astoria make her way towards the door once she was done. She turned briefly.

“Home.”

Harry stood up as well, following her out of the hall, both of them walking towards the front door. Astoria was a few inches taller than him, but at the moment the difference was noticeable thanks to her shoes. Harry had no idea how she could walk so well in those heels.

“Are you really going to leave because I interrupted your reading?” he asked, sighing, as she reached for the door.

It wasn't the first time she had left to be at peace with her own thoughts.

Astoria turned around then, and the serious face she was leaving with had already changed. She gave Harry a smile, taking a few steps forward until they were facing each other. Her blue eyes sparkled, the dim light of the corridor making the shadows that reflected on her face frame her features, beauty and elegance exuded from them even with the Glamour .

“Don't be self-centred, Harry," she said softly, raising her hand to cradle his face. “I had to go anyway, Daphne could be home any minute. My work here with Yaxley is done.” She leaned down, leaving a small kiss on his cheek, just to the side of his mouth. “As long as Malfoy doesn't break him enough to get into his mind, I can't do any more.”

Harry sighed again, a little dizzy from her closeness, the expensive perfume permeating his nostrils. “All right," he murmured as she pulled away. Astoria nodded, turning to the door.

“Are you going to call me when that guy comes in?”

“Yes.”

“All right," Astoria took the doorknob and walked out into the garden. “I'll see you later.”

And with that, she left.

Harry went to one of the windows, watching Astoria move through the maze and past the common area where he, Theo and Malfoy had been minutes before. The hood billowed in the wind, and, when the protections warned him that someone was trying to break through, Harry pointed his wand at the door, muttering the spell that would let her go. He wasn't worried about Astoria. If Apparition failed, she would always have other methods of getting home unseen.

Harry let out another shuddering breath, feeling the protections moulding again, and pulled back. He would have liked to talk to her more. Astoria was always pleasant to talk to, and Harry had learned to appreciate her over the years after the woman had almost fought tooth and nail to be allowed to join his side. He’d learned to recognise her intellect and how useful her gift with Legillimancy and Transfiguration was to the Order. A part of him thought that he might even at some point have fallen in love with her; but he dismissed it immediately, right now and then. Not only because there was no more dangerous thing to love in times of war, but also because in the midst of all that mess, the weaker he made himself in the face of his enemies — who would not hesitate to take advantage of sensitive spots if they were discovered — the more painful it would be once they were gone... he was okay like that. Besides...

He would try to see Ginny in Astoria.

Harry walked down the corridors that led to the stairs of the manor, putting the thought out of his mind. Astoria and Ginny were nothing alike, physically or psychologically. While Ginny was bold and fearless — passionate — Astoria was cautious, and preferred much more the intellectual terrain to the battlefield, though she was a talented witch as well. Harry would try to find similarities that didn't exist, and it wouldn't be fair to none, not to Gin's memory, not to him, or to Astoria. It wouldn't.

He really was okay just like that .

Harry reached the edge of the stairs. They were large and showy, leading to a first floor just as spacious as the first. Harry went up, ready to resume the meeting he'd abandoned halfway up before his coin got warm, when he suddenly noticed Luna in one of the first rooms down the corridor, sitting at the last window of it as she looked out.

Harry paused, deciding it couldn't hurt to give himself a few minutes to talk to her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, entering the room.

It was one of the smaller ones and had a piano in the middle. Apparently Luna wanted to learn how to play it, but all she’d managed to do was play unrelated tunes, though no one ever told her that. There were few things that made her truly happy since 2000. And if playing the piano ridiculously was one of them, Harry would shut up.

Luna turned to him when she heard him, a small smile gracing her lips as she nodded. “Good," she said.

Harry came to her side, looking out the window beside her. From there, he could see a bit of the common area, the maze, and some of the manor's exit.

“You saw him through the window," he said, knowing that was what Luna was doing there. 

She nodded again. “Theo.”

Harry gave her a cocked glance as Luna's eyes remained fixed on the garden. She hadn't said many words the last few years, just like Andromeda. The last time he'd heard her speak like a normal person was the night Theo had rescued her and taken her to the old base to safety. After that, her list of sentences had dwindled to no more than monosyllables. ‘Good, bad, and Theo’ were the most commonly used words in her little collection.

It wasn't that she didn't understand the world around her, or that she had some kind of problem in her head. Hermione and Poppy explained that it could be a defence mechanism, that we all had different ones, and that it was easier for Luna to deal with reality that way since she'd been kidnapped. Harry didn't understand, he missed hearing her go on and on about Nargles and stuff, but it wasn't his place to dictate how everyone survived the war.

“Theo was with Draco Malfoy, remember him?” Harry asked slowly. Luna nodded again. “He was the one who brought Yaxley in.”

She blinked a couple times, surely remembering the night they had moved the man to the manor. “Good..?” Luna said, leaving the sentence hanging in the air. 

Harry grimaced. “I wouldn't say he's good," he replied, sensing that was what Luna was asking, “he's Malfoy .”

Luna didn't answer anything at first. Her fingers went to the window, tracing shapes on it, her gaze fixed on the spot where Theo had been standing minutes ago.

“Theo?” she whispered. Harry took a few seconds to answer.

Theo had killed a lot of people. Theo had chopped heads off without a second thought, without remorse. Theo had cut to pieces anyone who tried to touch a hair on Luna's head. That was not a good thing to do.

But Harry couldn't judge him either, after what he'd done himself.

“Theo protected you," he replied instead, knowing that Luna would defend the man no matter what he told her. She nodded solemnly.

“Theo," she said, the name sliding across her lips fondly. “Good.”

“Yes," Harry said, his voice distant, "Theo is good to you.”

He didn't know if Nott enjoyed doing such things or not, and he didn't know if on more than one occasion he’d killed members of the Order. Harry was aware he shouldn't take his word for anything. But Theo had already risked his life, years ago, by bringing Luna back. Maybe Harry was being delusional — he probably was, but if someone like him could tell that Theo's feelings were true, then he’d no reason to distrust him.

That didn't mean he liked the idea.

Luna watched him openly, her big blue eyes less dreamy and bright than they had been as a teenager. Her already dull blonde hair had darkened more shades over the years, and the small scars running across her forehead gave the image of a woman who had been through too much.

Just like the rest of the world.

Harry turned away from the window, ready to get back to what he was doing.

“Have you seen Hermione and the rest?” he asked. Luna pointed down the corridor, just where Harry thought they would be. “Thank you, Luna," he said, ducking his head slightly in farewell and leaving the room.

As Harry turned away, Luna waved her hand and looked back once at the spot where Theo had been, almost as if she thought that if she wished hard enough, the man would reappear. Harry shook his head.

It didn't take him long to locate his friends. They were inside a large room with a table that spanned little more than half the room. They were in one of the corners where he left them last time. Hermione, Ron, Percy and Bill were bent over a pile of pages, reading and talking quietly.

Harry walked towards them, noticing once again how Hermione's hand, which she was waving over the paper, was missing two fingers. It hadn’t been a pretty experience the day the Death Eaters had recognised and nearly killed her; her big, messy hair giving the clue even behind the mask, as her picture and those of several Order members were hung all over the magical world, recognising them as "The Rebels". Ever since that day when two of her limbs had been torn off for good to torture her, she wore her hair short, level with her jaw, and tied back in a half-ponytail so that she was unrecognisable.

Ron listened to her intently, covered with scars on his hands and arms as well, the ones he'd gotten that day in the Department of Mysteries in fifth year, and a few more. Bill, with the ones Greyback had left adorning his face, and Percy, with half his face burned off after the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry felt that usual stirring inside him as he looked at them, remembering his own scars as well.

They had all been scarred in one way or another.

“Hey," he said, when he reached their side. The group looked up briefly to acknowledge his presence, before returning to their notes.

“What did he want?” Hermione asked a little more sharply than usual.

Harry looked at her for a few moments, knowing that Hermione still distrusted Theo. Her biggest reason being that he couldn't make an Unbreakable Vow with Harry that would trust them with his loyalty, due to the fact that they needed him to be able to swear to Voldemort whatever he asked for. All they got from him was that he would swear that whatever happened, he would not abandon the Order. Hermione didn't believe in his affection for Luna, much less after he didn't want to be with her, or reject Luna's attempts to get close to him. Harry had already given up on trying to convince her that there were reasons for his behaviour, and that no, he would not betray them.

“He was with Malfoy," Harry replied, waiting for the reactions that sentence would bring, which didn't take long.

Ron's body tensed visibly, and Percy and Bill grimaced in displeasure. Hermione pursed her lips, her hands squeezing the edge of one of the pages.

“And…?” Ron spat, clenching his jaw. Almost annoyed.

It was no surprise. Everyone knew who Malfoy was and the way he'd gotten into the Nobilium: sacrificing a poor boy and enshrining him as the worst murder of those years. They all hated him on different levels.

“Tom tried to see his memories a few days ago," Harry explained, with his voice neutral. “Malfoy thinks he distrusts him.”

His friend snorted, his eyes focused intently on the papers.

“What a spy…”

Harry stood beside him to look at the leaves as well, ignoring his comment. Whether or not he detested Malfoy, he knew that Voldemort distrusted everyone. He had pets and followers, but no equals, and he would be a fool if the possibility that Malfoy had found out everything they were doing to Narcissa, (and so that Lucius' cover story hadn't worked) hadn't crossed his mind. It was more than obvious that sooner or later he’d make sure that the secret was still intact, and that the urge to check that Malfoy still knew nothing would’ve grown after Yaxley's kidnapping.

Some part of his brain reminded him that, as things were, Malfoy should go to great lengths to prove that he was devoted to Voldemort. No one was going to like that part very much.

“So," Percy interjected, pushing up his glasses, "What did you do about it?”

Harry shrugged. “He taught me a spell, I don't know where he got it. It's a variant of Obliviate .”

“Why didn't you ask?” Hermione questioned with a frown.

“Of course, Hermione, because Malfoy was going to answer me, wasn't he?”

His friend pursed her lips again, her eyes returning to the paper. Bill stroked his chin, raising an eyebrow. “I thought if he's any use to the Order, he's obliged to tell you," he pointed out.

Harry looked at him for a few moments. Bill was the quietest of all the Weasleys, even quieter than Percy or Charlie, but that hadn't happened overnight. The change happened, when Fleur suffered a miscarriage six months into her pregnancy thanks to the stress they were living with, and because Bill went on a mission to find Nagini without her. By the time he returned, it had already happened.

Harry looked away, letting the terrible memory dissipate, and sighed. What did it matter how he knew that spell? It made no difference. Malfoy surely knew how to do a lot of horrible things, he must have learned them over the years. So did all of them.

“Yeah, well, whatever," he said. “He taught it to me.”

He pulled out his wand, demonstrating how to conjure, and repeated the words. A faint white flourish came from the tip and clattered against the wall as he finished. He explained what he was doing, and mentioned that Malfoy at the end of it all said they should stun him, that he could feel his magic and would know it belonged to Harry. That got him a few frowns, and Hermione assured him that she would ‘investigate’.

Once finished, Harry looked back down at the pile of papers on the table, beginning to outline the handwriting with his fingers.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, with interest. Hermione looked at the papers as well, while her brown eyes scanned the lines written down, with the ink still runny.

“Hannah's notes," she said, and Harry raised his eyebrows. He thought Hannah had left those things at home and they should go and get them, not that she'd handed them in. “She didn't know who in particular had access to the cell — well, the secluded section where Narcissa Malfoy was being held. She didn't know how many people, except for the ones she caught a glimpse of, were the ones who went in there. The guards mostly covered their faces, or wore some kind of polyjuice or Glamour .” Harry nodded slowly. It made sense. “She was able to collect similarities between those guarding her, and established a pattern, along with Leice. At least three of them are the same person," Hermione pointed to the blade on the left and the one below it, “and two more remain to be discovered.”

Harry looked at them. One of the ways Hannah determined similarities between the different people she saw entering Azkaban was gestures. She along with Leice had to have been quite attentive to that. And not for the first time, he regretted losing such a talented member.

He refused to delve any deeper into what that meant: not feeling worse about it. To begin to become more and more numb to the deaths of those he knew.

“Do we know how we can get to them?” he asked, stroking his sparse beard.

“Leice is on it," Percy said. "He's got a tricky one, though, according to the owl he sent to Bulstrode. They're on to him since Hannah's murder has become public, and the Nobilium has claimed it as justice.” His lips, like the rest of them, curved in distaste. Harry suddenly felt disgusted, remembering Malfoy's words. “In a few weeks he should be able to give us information.”

Harry nodded, going back to reading the data on the table and mentally thanking Hannah and Leice for it.

Leice was a quiet Ravenclaw boy who used to work with Hannah in Azkaban until Narcissa’s murder. He was a half-blood, but his whole family was able to falsify their records and place themselves as purebloods during the first period of the war. He battled Voldemort at Hogwarts anyway, on the side of the Order, and after that fiasco and Voldemort took power, Leice and his family had to surrender to him and endure public whippings and torture, (as every other pureblood family that wasn't on his side did, in order to continue to exist after Voldemort won). He and his brothers accepted a position in Azkaban, one of the lowest in the magical world, and from there he began to help them.

And he wasn't the only one. He wasn't the only member living two lives, quietly pitching in with what he could. People were tired.

Over the years, and thanks to allies like Theo and Astoria, more Slytherins joined in as well. Millicent Bulstrode and Adrian Pucey, for example. Every time they leaned on them or came up with a solution that the rest of the Order hadn't thought of, Harry saw more and more flaws in the course of action Dumbledore took. It was a mistake not to find a place in his camp for pureblood children. It was a mistake not to find a place for Slytherins. It was about unity, wasn't it? If they had shown the world that they were worthy opponents — if they had trained to be worthy opponents, how many ancient families would’ve been on their side?

How many of Voldemort's followers would have gone over to their side, if Harry had been sold to the masses as a capable wizard, rather than ‘The Chosen One’ of a prophecy?

They were stupid. Morality was a nuisance, prejudice was the beginning of digging their own grave. They had been naive and delusional. People didn’t seek to be on the side of ‘good’, they did not seek to satisfy such an empty concept as ethics during the war. People sought to survive; it was the primordial instinct of human beings. And, between a side with trained wizards who’d mastered techniques and magic unseen before, compared to one that, after Dumbledore's demise, the visible face was a seventeen-year-old boy who as far as was known had escaped Voldemort by nothing more than mere luck... there wasn't much of a doubt what most would choose.

At this point, the numbers still weren't with them, never had been, but Harry was determined to make sure that wasn't a problem. People had sought them out, chosen them because they knew that in the world Voldemort had created, nothing would survive at the end of it all.

And Harry would make sure that the same mistakes wouldn’t be made again.

He looked up as Arthur called Bill and Percy from the doorway to come over to him. Harry examined him for a few seconds, still amazed at how thin he was, how haggard he looked, and how tired his mannerisms were. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at this moment were little more than a shadow of their former selves, whom Harry had known when he was a boy. Losing children without being able to do anything about it wasn’t nothing, and bitterness, a thirst for revenge, had driven every action ever since.

Harry watched the brothers leave, wondering if at some point in the future, the family would shrink even further.

“He wants to see Yaxley," he blurted then, when Percy and Bill were far enough away.

Ron and Hermione turned to him in a matter of seconds.

“What?” Ron spat, instantly going on the defensive.

Harry waited for the door to close before speaking again, making a mental note as he saw how thin Hermione was, that they were due to move on to the Muggle world in search of food within the next few days.

“Malfoy," Harry said again, plopping down in one of the chairs around the table, "He says he'll make him talk.”

Hermione and Ron didn't sit down. Instead, they looked up at him with scrutiny. Harry ignored their expressions and pulled his wand out of his pocket and began to fiddle with it, aware that in a twisted way he’d always been attached to Malfoy. Those eight years.

That he had his wand was one of the things that would help him win that war.

“Did he tell you how?” Hermione asked between her teeth. Harry looked up, a little taken aback by her question.

“You know who he is," he replied simply, "I think we can get an idea of how he's going to do it.”

Ron said nothing, but that familiar look of disgust and annoyance was on his face, as it had been every time someone had mentioned Malfoy in the last seven years or so. The Weasleys, but especially Ron, hated Death Eaters more than any normal person would.

And they were right to do so.

“And you're going to let him?”

Harry slowly peeled his eyes from Ron's to rest on her. A few strands of hair were falling across her forehead, sticking out of the ponytail. Her brow was furrowed, matching the bags under her eyes. They all looked tired. Harry wondered briefly how much the situation they were in had aged them.

“I don't see why not," he said with a shrug.

Hermione folded her arms, the look of disgust in her eyes and the wrinkle in her forehead deepening. Ron mimicked her expression.

“Maybe because he'll probably do something horrible to him?” she replied, raising her voice a tenth of a tone.

Harry thought about it. He thought about Hannah, and Malfoy’s ‘I know how to make him talk.’ He thought of the emptiness in his eyes, and how terrible his laughter sounded.

Hermione was right.

But he also thought about how Yaxley might have important information in his possession. That they needed to get to it any way they could.

Whatever it took.

”He's no innocent," he said, more to himself than to his friends. Hermione pursed her lips.

“It doesn't make it right.”

Harry sighed, putting his wand back in the pocket of his robes, and turned to face her. Ron watched the scene from the side, analysing their every move. Harry tried to be patient,

“Hermione, yesterday I made him twist with Crucios between the chains. He asked me to please stop.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something but then closed it, staring at him silently. Harry knew she was only behaving like this because it was Malfoy they were talking about, the one who would perform the tortures. Hermione had long ago learned to recognise the importance of putting morals aside, at least in those times, and to accept that sometimes it was necessary to torture someone until they couldn't remember their name. That dark magic could not be excluded from the spells they used, though she had never killed or tortured anyone.

She defeated some enemies and severely wounded a few others. However, only in self-defence. She had never pointed her wand at someone for the sole purpose of murder.

Harry sometimes envied her.

“He cried, begged for mercy, and then vomited blood," he continued, ignoring her gesture of discomfort. “And yet he said nothing. I think it's clear to all of us by now how desperate we are for information. The very act of allying ourselves with Malfoy is proof of that.”

It was eight years since the Battle of Hogwarts. Eight years since he'd come back for nothing. It had taken them so much to establish a connection between Narcissa's tortures and her knowing a secret. A secret that Harry was sure would lead them to Nagini's whereabouts, and thus make Voldemort mortal.

To then murder him with his bare hands if necessary.

He wasn't going to let any opportunity pass him by because Malfoy or Satan himself got in his way. He wasn't going to.

My parents didn't die for nothing. Fred didn't die for nothing. Dumbledore. Sirius. Remus. Dobby. Tonks. Teddy. And the list goes on and on and it's never going to stop if this continues. Nothing can be in vain.

Ginny.

Harry wasn't going to allow anything to be in vain.

“When?” Ron interjected then, at his girlfriend's silence. Harry looked at him. “When does he want to see Yaxley?”

“After the execution. Theo said it would be in three days.”

Ron nodded thoughtfully, but it was Hermione who spoke this time. “So we'll see it”

He was petrified for a second.

No.

No. Harry loathed seeing people die.

Even more when it was because of him.

“Why?”

“He said he hasn’t killed anyone, didn’t he?” she replied with a straight face.

He shook his head, catching on to where she was going as soon as he heard her. He didn't feel like watching that execution just to see if Malfoy was telling the truth. He didn't think he could resist Veritaserum like they could. He wasn't that smart, and he was definitely never that talented.

“Hermione —”

“She's right," Ron interrupted, before Harry could say anything. He let out a sigh.

“Whether or not he kills someone in the execution doesn't prove anything," he said, because it was true. What did it matter if Malfoy killed someone now?

Most of them had. He had, countless times, seen life leave the bodies of his victims. How heads fell at their feet. How they were unable to process what was happening, when Harry had already hit them with some existing killing curse.

They were at war .

“A murderer doesn't become one out of nowhere.”

Harry came to his senses as he listened to her, and analysed his friend's words, looking down at his shoes. He was tempted to agree with them, only because he'd had enough of talking about Malfoy. It had been too much of him for one day.

You don't like to think about who he's become, because he reminds you of the person you are, too.

“Do you really think he could have cheated on an Unbreakable Vow?” he asked anyway. “I mean, that he didn't die after swearing allegiance to me already proves that he's not allied to Tom by any ritual. So he was telling the truth about not murdering the boy he was supposed to have killed to be part of the Nobilium.”

Hermione sighed, beginning to massage her temples as Ron's gaze changed to a more fierce and determined one.

“He might not have killed the boy who named him after a bloody demon," he said, his face starting to turn red. “But he said he'd never killed anyone on Veritaserum.”

Harry took in his words, digesting and accepting them. He understood that if he was lying, it meant that he could resist, and that he couldn't be trusted. That he could be hiding valuable information about Nagini. But he didn't like the idea anyway. He didn't feel like watching that execution, because it was the same as watching injustice and not acting. Malfoy killing someone was one more argument to distrust him, he understood. They had to know how dangerous he was.

Harry closed his eyes, knowing what he was going to answer even if he delayed it.

“Fine," he said, without opening them. “Fine, we'll see it.”

•••

Harry really hated to witness that.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen an execution, but he hadn't watched that many either because of how difficult it was to conjure a spell at a distance that would allow them to do it without being caught.

But he knew the procedure by heart.

Harry hated hearing the same old speech, saying that anyone who wanted to attempt against the Dark Lord's government would receive the death penalty as a sentence. He hated hearing the lies, about how the condemned received fair trials and were found guilty. He hated seeing things from Adrian's perspective, knowing that he would witness the murder of innocent people and there would be nothing he could do about it. Yes, they could try to save the one who was condemned to death, but they would lose useful soldiers for a battlefield.

Harry hated that too.

He hated having to decide that some lives were more valuable than others. He hated always doing the maths, convincing himself that they could all fight at least five Death Eaters and come out successful, and knowing that at the end of the day that wasn't true. That experience had taught him that they still lacked the numbers to win the war, and that as much as it fucked him up, there was nothing he could do to stop the injustices of the world.

The opposite was true to the man who carried the vials in his hands at that moment.

Malfoy had opened the execution, as the staff and Death Eaters gathered around the stage. He took the vials afterwards — which Harry could sense contained something horrible — and handed them to Macnair without a drop of emotion on his face. Then he stood to one side of the three kneeling, manacled people who looked around them with desperate eyes, searching for help that would not come. They were all over thirty, and as Harry watched them, knowing their fate, he had to repeat to himself over and over again in his head that death didn't hurt. That it was peaceful and better than that shitty life. They would rest, when it was all over, and nothing could be worse than staying alive in that world. That —

His thoughts were interrupted, as he saw the execution actually begin.

Macnair pulled the gag from the mouth of the one man, who could not even manage to scream, as a tube was placed inside his mouth, holding it open, and the contents of the vial were deposited into it, forcing him to swallow the liquid. The woman next to him, possibly his wife, began to stir at the sight of him as she wept. The chains connected to the floor were shaking frantically, and her knees were tearing at the point of bleeding wounds.

Harry felt his eyes sting.

Macnair stepped back pulling the tube out of the man's mouth, and watched with satisfaction as the man began to flail on the floor, letting out gasps of pain as he sweated, blood beginning to pour from his nose and ears. This was new. At least, he hadn't witnessed a potion do that before. Not publicly.

But then he recognised its effects.

The man's skin slowly began to melt as he screamed from the pain, as if an acid was burning him.

The two women were alienated now, watching as their loved one began to be reduced to nothing but muscle. Then to tissue. And more and more like a skeleton. Macnair beckoned Malfoy, and Malfoy, without thinking, slapped them both so hard that it turned their faces and made them spit, the ring mark on their skin visible even from the distance. Harry almost burned with anger at the sight, he felt his hands itch to hit him back once he’d him in front of him.

However, the slap did nothing to silence them. The despair of seeing the man die and not being able to prevent it was bigger.

The chains echoed through the Atrium, and not a soul dared to speak. Not even Harry and the others — miles away watching everything thanks to the spell — seemed able to break the silence.

Layers of skin were completely melted, scattered on the floor. The pain was heartbreakingly palpable in the cries of the man, who was fully conscious as bones began to peek out from under the layers of tissue and organs.

Unable to watch any longer, Harry averted his gaze to Malfoy.

He made no further gesture of wanting to hit them again, except when the supposed wife's screams became too loud, to which Macnair beckoned again, and Malfoy conjured a spell that choked her into unconsciousness for a few minutes. Other than that, Malfoy didn't even seem affected by what was happening. His eyes seemed to be witnessing anything, a formality that needed to be done to continue the day. Not the death of one person.

More than one.

His face was a mask of indifference, and his hands were folded behind his back. He didn't even react when Macnair took some of the skin and flesh of the man falling to the ground, and shoved it into the wife's mouth, to shut her the hell up. The only time he moved of his own accord was when the pool of blood and brains that was left behind expanded to reach his shoes. Then Malfoy took the wand from his robes pocket, and without a word, pointed it at it lazily and wiped it away.

As if it was nothing.

A nuisance.

Harry closed his eyes, hearing Hermione get up from the spot at his side and run to a rubbish bin at the other end of the room, vomiting there what little food they had eaten hours before. Ron's hands clamped around her shoulders, and McGonagall pressed her lips together so tightly that Harry thought they were going to start bleeding.

He didn't want to look any longer. He didn't want to. But he couldn't help but watch as Macnair made the women drink the rest of the vials, and Malfoy saw the whole thing with barely a blink or any sign of regret. They fell at his feet as they suffered one of the most painful and horrible deaths he’d ever witnessed. Harry couldn't even describe it.

And he knew all of this was because of Malfoy.

He’d said it, he created potions and spells for Voldemort. What else could it be, other than that? Methods of torture, and ways to kill people in creative ways? He’d created that potion, and he didn't give a shit who died or how. As long as he achieved the task that bastard Voldemort set him to.

Harry could understand people's fear at that moment, more than ever. He could understand why he inspired what he inspired. Harry saw Malfoy, and he understood them.

Macnair's satisfaction was remarkable. Maia exuded sadism in every deed she committed, laughing at her victims with laughter like a dump ass Bellatrix. The rest of the Death Eaters didn't hold back when it came to expressing how much they enjoyed seeing someone suffer.

But not Malfoy.

Malfoy was more frightening, because a human being who didn't feel was less predictable. Malfoy could be indifferent to your presence, and the next day cut off your hand to make you confess what he wanted to hear.

And as Harry watched him stretch his foot to move the near-dissolved corpses on the floor, making sure they were dead, he was convinced.

Draco Malfoy was a murderer.

It didn't matter that he didn't point his wand at people, and muttered an "Avada Kedavra". It didn't matter that he didn't cut throats, or took lives outright. He was a murderer.

He broke people's minds. He defiled their bodies.

He killed their souls.

Harry had to stand up too.

Technically, that didn't prove that he’d resisted the Veritaserum. Technically, Malfoy had only handed over the vial, like someone handing over the murder weapon and watching the executioner commit the crime; looking silently as if he was too much to get his hands dirty. Harry felt waves of revulsion at the memory of Malfoy wiping his shoes and watching everything with neutrality.

He had to contact Theo, he knew. They had to get Malfoy to Yaxley now that the execution had come to an end. But for some reason, the idea of being in contact with him at that moment repelled Harry in a way that few things had since he'd started to become aware of how disgusting war was.

They were all children when it started. All of them. And where were they now? Half were dead, and the other half had blood on their hands.

Harry moved towards the door, hoping that Adrian or Astoria would be able to come that afternoon.

“Tomorrow," he said, speaking to no one in particular as he picked up the handle. Air. He needed air. To get out. Breathe. “Tomorrow we'll contact Malfoy.”

Harry didn't stop, didn't stop until he reached the garden. He didn't stop until he sat down on the grass, and let the cold chill freeze his bones, letting reality come back to him. He thought of the first man he killed, years ago, and how it pleased him to see him die. He thought that it didn't matter which side, that it didn't matter that he tried to tell himself that he at least killed the right people. Harry was no different from Malfoy. He wasn't.

It all felt like a nightmare. A game he hadn't mastered yet, and one in which everyone was a pawn in something bigger. It all seemed unreal. The deaths. The blood. The cruelty. The desolation. The things they had done. The things he'd seen.

Harry craned his neck, and sat there, telling himself he needed it to stop. Wondering over and over again when this shit was going to end.

If it was ever going to end.

If they were even capable of winning.

•••

Harry would do anything, anything , to get this war over with.

So they contacted Theo the next day, and he led them to Malfoy, just as the man had requested. Harry wished he'd been the one who'd cursed him to take him there.

What's more, as the men lay unconscious and Harry rested his wand on his temple, waiting for his memories to return, he considered doing it. Fuck up his face or something, give him a bigger scar than the one he already bore, let him know how much he despised him, how disgusted he was by what he'd seen. But he dismissed it when he considered the pointless trouble that would come later. For now, they had to focus on what was important: getting information from Yaxley. He’d have a chance to do him the damage he felt he deserved at some point.

Harry leaned back once he was done, staring at him and waiting for Theo to wake him up.

Malfoy, with his eyes closed, even looked like a normal person, his expression relaxed and peaceful. The scar on his face no longer looked so noticeable, and his sharp features no longer seemed so cutting. He looked younger, and could even be considered attractive — if it weren't for the fact that Harry knew how he looked when wide awake, with the grimace of disgust twitching on his face and those icy, empty grey eyes staring at everything with cruelty.

And no.

Malfoy wasn't attractive , he reminded himself, the memories of him beating two persons with all his might replaying in his mind. Malfoy was lethal.

Theo approached him once Harry was a safe distance away, and pointed his wand at Malfoy calmly. “ Rennervate .”

Malfoy opened his eyes within seconds, blinking and getting used to the dim light of McGonagall Manor's dungeons. Harry watched silently as the life Malfoy gained by resting was lost once he awoke.

His silver eyes settled on him.

“Potter," he spat, the venom Harry already knew by heart palpable in his tone of voice.

He gave a wry smile. “It's always a pleasure.”

Malfoy's gaze darted to his side, watching Astoria, who wore a dark robe and a mask. Harry doubted he recognised who she was, unless he knew what her magic felt like. And if he did, he couldn't say anything either. Harry wondered if Astoria could hear any sounds coming from Malfoy's thoughts considering he knew Occlumency, but he didn't ask her. They weren't there for that now.

Harry had no idea if Malfoy was curious about who the woman with them was, but as usual, his face showed nothing. He promptly stopped scanning her.

“Well?” he drawled.

A hint of irritation rose in Harry's throat, and he conjured a Lumos as he turned away, feeling that he could no longer look into his face without wanting to break it. Theo moved to Malfoy's side, and Astoria latched onto Harry's arm, also turning to face the corridor where the prisoner was.

“Let's go see Yaxley," he said with apparent calmness.

Malfoy followed without a word.

Chapter Text

Having his memories back was a relief.

It gave him something to think about.

Draco had kept himself busy those days he’d been stripped of his memories, avoiding his mother's magical portrait at all costs since he’d heard her tell one of her ancestors, that she was almost never in her painting because it bored her to be there, with Lucius and Draco inanimate beside her, and that she’d always thought that she and her husband would leave together. Draco listened unwillingly as Narcissa asked how much longer Lucius had left to keep her company, and that she was curious to know the cause of her death.

So to take his mind off that, Draco focused on researching the spell the Dark Lord had asked him to create, and also brewing the potion they would use for the public execution.

But it wasn't the same having those distractions that Potter's death brought him. The truth about the Order. And the truth about his mother.

Without all that, all Draco felt was that a part of him had been taken away. That they had torn his heart apart, making him unable to perceive anything but that deafening pain that came over him every time he saw the pictures of his mother at the Manor, or every time he ate breakfast, and the blackberry jam was there, it was there because his mother loved it, and no one else seemed to notice.

No one else could .

That ever since the war had started, almost a decade ago, Draco had been in pieces, and the only person holding the pieces together was his mother, and the idea that he would ever be completely safe. Without her — without her...

Draco was nothing.

Narcissa was his reason for getting up every day. Everything he did, every action he took, he did it with her in mind, knowing that for his entire life, all he’d had was his family. If Draco bought a robe, he always had one made for his mum, so that the day she got out of Azkaban, she would have nice new clothes so that she wouldn't have to wear one that brought back bad memories. If Draco bought new land, it was always with the idea that when he had his mother by his side again, they could go and live there, leaving the Manor; because he assumed that Narcissa would not be able to live in that house once she was free.

And in the end, all he was left with was a wardrobe full of unoccupied clothes and imaginary houses that would never be built.

It was hard to live without her, far away, imprisoned.

But it was fucking unbearable to know that he had nothing left but the memories of something that was, and would never be again. Like his mother counting the freckles on his cheeks, saying they were little stars and he himself was one. Hugging him when he had a nightmare, and ordering the elves to give him his favourite food at least once a week. Sending him books to Hogwarts just because she saw them in Diagon Alley and they reminded her of him. Giving him whatever he asked for and whenever he asked for it, because she said that Draco was the most important thing in the world, and that she would do absolutely everything in her power to make sure he never lacked for anything. That if he asked for it, Narcissa would give him the whole world. The universe. The galaxies. That she would bring down the moon for him.

And he’d failed her.

Draco knew that his mother's death hadn't hit him yet. That he still wasn't fully aware of what had happened, and that it all seemed to have come out of a nightmare he'd been trapped in. But he would do his best to delay as long as possible the moment when reality would strike and he would be forced to face the fact that he would never see her again. That his mother was gone.

Because he knew when he realised it, he wouldn't be able to recover.

So when Pansy came to visit him during the period when he didn't have his memories, Draco didn't let her in. He remembered their earlier argument. He was clear on what she would say to him and could almost guess the conversation before it happened. He also blocked his friends' owls, except for Theo. He wasn't sure he could handle the condolences.

Draco worked as hard as he could on what the Dark Lord had tasked him with, asking himself why he was doing it. There was nothing left to fight for.

Nothing.

And then, came the execution.

He didn't know what it made him, showing up there just because it was another good distraction. Draco couldn't care less who these people were or what they had done, and while their death might be quicker and more painless, Merlin knew he’d seen worse.

So Draco watched their executions, not really feeling anything, and wondering if it wasn't better to just give up for good. None of it made any sense if at the end of the day it didn't serve a purpose.

And that purpose no longer existed.

He knew how people saw him when he was on that podium, he was painfully aware. Draco knew the faces they made, and how they avoided his eyes. He knew by heart the ways in which they approached him and licked his shoes to be on his side. And in a twisted way, it satisfied him to know that they respected him. That they feared him.

He'd experienced firsthand what happened when they didn't.

Draco went home that evening after the execution was over, remembering one overriding rule.

Don't stare at them for too long, or you'll start to believe they're human beings.

When he got to Apparate out of the manor's wards, that's when he was tackled. And he woke up there, with his memories back and that rage that made him feel alive seeping into his bones again.

Draco supposed he should start to get used to being woken up by a pair of green eyes glaring at him in disgust. He wondered briefly if there was ever a time when he didn't look at him like that, as if Draco was nothing more than a pebble in his shoe.

And he knew there had been; more than one. Bathrooms, cries, mansions, face recognitions, and burnt out rooms involved in every one of them. 

But he didn't like to think about it.

Potter's gaze wandered over his face once it focused on him, then settled on the red Nobilium drop-shaped brooch he wore on his chest, causing his features to darken. Draco almost wanted to laugh in his face at how weak he was. If a simple pin affected him that much, he had no idea how he’d survived eight years in that world.

Then, Draco noticed the woman next to him. She must’ve been wearing a disillusioning charm or something, Draco could sense it; but that wasn't what caught his attention.

As soon as his eyes met the woman's, he felt her attempt to push the barriers of his mind, which Draco was already unconsciously raising in front of anyone who might want to read him. It was imperceptible almost, the way she did it, like a small breeze on your forehead. For her to do it without a wand, and for it to be barely noticeable, she had to be an innate Legillimens, or at least one who’d trained enough to become excellent. Draco watched her curiously, drawing her out of his thoughts with little effort. The eyes were blue behind the Order mask.

She looked familiar.

After the usual acknowledgement of each other's presence, Draco followed Potter and the woman down the corridor of the dungeons of that manor. He vaguely recognised it from when he had to study the important Houses of the families in the UK, and if he wasn't mistaken, that had to be McGonagall Manor.

The dungeon wasn't that different from the one Draco had in Malfoy Manor, though he wasn't sure it was the only one there. It was a little darker and larger, but with only one cell. However, Yaxley wasn’t inside it, but on the wall to one side, his four limbs tied together at the corners, making his body form a star. His face was swollen, covered in bruises, and the clothes Draco had kidnapped him in were filthy. One could tell he was exhausted, to the point where he didn't lift his head until the four of them were a few steps away from him.

But after a few seconds, he looked up at him.

Yaxley's eyes met his and a storm passed through them. Draco made sure to keep his expression neutral, though inside, he was enjoying it.

“Malfoy.”

Until that moment Draco hadn't believed that another person could spit out his surname with more disgust than Potter.

Apparently, he'd been wrong.

“Hello, Corban.”

It was hard to decipher what emotions were running through Yaxley's face at that moment. Anger, betrayal, rage, revenge... fear. Draco didn't care to see his face scrunch up, and how it looked like he wanted to jump on him and kill him. He even found it pathetic to show weakness so openly. But then again, he supposed Yaxley had already come to the conclusion that he didn't stand a chance. It was impossible to get out of there.

And he was going to take advantage of that.

“You were one of them," he snapped, his voice thick with hatred.

Draco gave him a wry smile as he watched Theo seal the door behind him. Potter moved closer to the man, to put a final rope around him to force him to watch them, and then forced him to swallow Veritaserum, despite the fact that most Death Eaters could resist it. The woman who accompanied them took a seat in a chair she had summoned, looking as if she was about to witness an entertainment show.

Draco observed him for a few moments, unsure how to begin. If it was for him, he could make Yaxley puke his guts out right then and there and not feel a shred of pity. But he’d learned that his victims spoke best when they thought they had a hope of staying alive.

“Now I understand why you sympathised with Potter," Yaxley continued, mumbling. “His bitch of a mother screamed just as loud as yours when she died.”

Ah, it was fun watching people dig their own graves.

Draco pulled his wand from inside his robes with a bored gesture and pointed it at him. He didn't even bother with a Crucio . There were much, much worse things.

“ Veritatis Dolorem. ”

Yaxley jerked, clenching his jaw so hard, the muscles in his throat contracted. Draco held the curse as Potter seized on the opportunity.

“Did you kill Narcissa?” he asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. Of all the questions, Potter was choosing that one. It was obvious that Yaxley was part of her murder; completely. Voldemort would never trust that kind of ritual (the one that ended up taking his magic) to people who weren't part of his closest circles, or competent enough. Potter was an imbecile for asking something they already knew the answer to.

Besides, it was easier to focus on his stupidity, rather than how his chest constricted when he heard that sentence.

“Why did they kill Narcissa Malfoy?” Potter asked, as Yaxley continued to agonise over the curse. Ah, that was a much better question. “Why did they — Malfoy. It's not going to work.”

Draco stopped the spell when he heard Potter address him. He tilted his head, to find his green eyes looking up at him and raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“We've already tried it. That. The Imperius , Crucio . Quite a few things. It didn't work.”

Draco snorted, looking at Yaxley squarely. Purebloods, almost all of them, were taught Occlumency from the time they were mere children or teenagers. Draco didn't learn until he took the Mark, and it didn't come completely naturally to him. But for the rest, the ones who learned from birth... it was practically impossible to read and enter the mind of a person who didn't want you to. Like his Aunt Bellatrix, for example, only the Dark Lord could enter her head, and only because she allowed him to. The younger you trained, the harder it was to break down mental barriers with Legillimancy. Almost like forcing someone to stop blinking, or breathing.

What he didn't understand, was why Yaxley would want to continue to be subjected to that, protecting the information he had. A smarter man would have spoken by now.

Draco raised his wand again then.

“Pellis mortua.”

The effect was immediate. Draco couldn't see it, but he knew that the tips of his toes had begun to burn and turn black. That for as long as he kept the curse on him, it would advance and kill the skin it touched, rotting it and turning it black. That it hurt like hell, if that indicated the way he began to scream, desperately begging for it to stop.

He supposed he didn't relish the idea of losing his legs.

“What did Narcissa know?” Potter asked.

Yaxley didn't answer, jerking in his chains, and Draco almost smiled at the sight of him remembering the things he'd done. The things he'd seen him do. The children he tortured and killed. How he raped women, schoolmates of his in front of her eyes. How he had laughed at him when he was no better than a bore. When those who were now his peers took turns to crucio him.

Oh, how the tables turned.

“Say it again now," Draco sneered then. “Repeat what you said about Lily Potter. Repeat what you said about my mother.”

“I acclaim the Prin — ”

“Shut him up!”

Miraculously, Potter complied. Waving a hand, he sealed Yaxley's lips and Yaxley began to cry. Draco knew that he wanted to acclaim the Principles of the Sacred twenty eight, that he wanted to keep him from losing his legs. Draco wouldn't give him the pleasure.

Yaxley continued to moan, and from the knee down, there was no movement anymore, the curse had rotted all the flesh there. The smell of burnt tissue and putrefaction had filled the space. Yaxley began to ask about his legs and what the hell he’d done to him. He seemed to be on the verge of fainting.

Draco sighed, cutting it off. It wasn't going to be any fun killing him if he didn't confess.

Don't forget that you're not capable of it. 

You're a coward. You've never killed anyone.

“Are you going to talk now? Why did you kill my mother? What did she know?”

Draco could feel the tension radiating from the rest of the people in the room. He supposed none of them knew about all the curses and potions he’d worked out for the Lord over the years, and their effects. That if Draco had applied them to the Rebels, most of them hadn't lived to tell. Would they be thinking about that...? Honestly, he was a little amused to know how much it hurt Potter. But luckily, he didn't intervene between him and his prisoner.

Curious.

The boy Draco knew would have fought to the end to make that whole process more dignified and human.

Well, Yaxley didn't deserve that treatment, after all.

”Aren't you going to talk?” the woman interjected at that point, rising from her seat and walking towards him, while she shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Well, it was known that to join someone like Tom, you mustn’t be very smart. Too bad.”

She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. Yaxley was about to spit at her, but Potter waved a lazy hand from his place, causing the man's lips to seal and the woman under the mask to laugh loudly. Draco could only think then, that the reason she looked familiar was that she must have belonged in Slytherin, there was no other way.

“Did you know...?” She began to ask, tracing her fingers across Yaxley's face as he pressed on the bruises on his cheek. “Did you know that your Master is a filthy half-blood?”

Yaxley's gaze changed instantly upon hearing her, red with anger once more, and surprise as well. Potter didn't even react to the name-calling, which Draco found most hilarious.

“How dare you," he said, having freed himself with non-verbal magic from the spell Potter had cast to prevent him from spitting at the woman.

Ah, pity the rest of the spells holding him prisoner weren't so weak. It would have been fun to watch him try to free himself without a wand, and fail in the attempt.

“His name is Tom Riddle," she interrupted him, her smile clear in her voice. “His father was a Muggle and his mother was no better than a squib. He's a filthy half-breed who cheated on all of you. Do you realise how stupid that makes you?”

Draco had thought the woman was just trying to provoke him, to infuriate him enough to weaken him, but Potter let out a derisive laugh, and even Theo smirked a little, a few feet away, as he watched. It wasn't certain yet, but that story— that story seemed true.

Draco had suspected it, there had been a rumour, but....

He remembered how the Dark Lord had been so lost in his society. How he despised things like attraction between two equal genders, when it was a normal thing in the Wizarding World with no religious doctrines governing them all like Muggles. How he didn't always seem to understand the traditions and ceremonies of purebloods unless they were used for his convenience.

And he knew.

The woman was telling the truth.

Draco didn't have time to figure out how that reality made him feel.

“Bitch," Yaxley exclaimed, with what little strength he had left.

And then, she let out a sigh of condescension again, and entered his head.

It was never pleasant to watch someone try to break someone else's sanity through Legillimancy, and how they tried desperately not to succumb. Draco remembered without a doubt that it was even more painful to experience. Bellatrix had delighted in searching for his innermost memories.

“I see a ritual," she announced suddenly, her voice harder. “We knew that already, though," she added. Yaxley was struggling with his strength as tears began to fall from his cheeks. “No. I can't see anything else.”

The woman came out of his head, stepping back, and touching characteristic parts of her body to remind herself that she was still there and not in someone else's mind. Draco watched her, noting that, if she went to Slytherin, she couldn't be from his year. None of the girls of his own generation seemed to match the traits of the person in front of him.

“The ritual, Yaxley," Potter spat, stepping forward. “What happened in it?”

Ah, Potter and his bad-phrased questions yet again.

They already knew what had happened in that ritual, for fuck's sake.

“That whore Narcissa — ”

“Oh," Draco moved in place with apparent boredom, "poor choice of words.”

He didn't even have to think long, when the curse that made him relive his most painful memory in a loop had already left his lips.

Yaxley began to bang the back of his head against the back wall after a few seconds, crying and choking back cries with his eyes closed, seeing things that the rest of them did not. A bitter smile sat on Draco's mouth as he watched. If physical torture curses weren't enough, they could always resort to those, the ones that made their victim beg for mercy. He was trapped in his mind.

There were few worse punishments when your mind was one of your enemies.

“Malfoy," Potter warned, as Yaxley's blows began to echo around the room, surely opening a wound in the back of his skull.

Draco didn't hear him, turning serious once more. That son of a bitch had killed his mother .

“What happened in the ritual?” He asked again, cutting off the incantation for a few seconds. Yaxley's head dropped slightly, as far as it would go, but his lips didn't move. “Why did they kill my mother?”

For a few seconds, all he heard was the way his breathing regulated. Draco knew that Yaxley's initial anger at seeing him there, what had kept him on his feet and wanting to fight back, was gone. And that if he could string anything coherent together, all Yaxley should want by that point was for it all to be over.

“The... magic…”

He fell silent, letting out a shaky breath.

“Magic?” Potter repeated, a few paces away.

Yaxley snorted, but it was a little more tired, as if it cost him — hurt — to speak.

“The traitorous little shit — ”

“Ah, ah," Draco said,shaking his head, "we’ve gone through this…”

Well, it was never too late to apply a Crucio .

Draco knew that with so many things combined, Yaxley would most likely pass out in a few minutes, without even a chance to say anything to them. But having one of his mother's murderers in front of him... it didn't make him think straight.

He wondered, for a few seconds, why Yaxley still had everything intact. Why the Order hadn't cut off a hand, or gouged out an eye. He'd bet he'd be more willing to talk without an arm.

Well, maybe Potter and the rest still felt above that kind of cruelty. No wonder they'd lost the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Malfoy," Potter said, but once again, Draco ignored him.

The Crucio was one of the worst pains; the problem was that it clouded the mind so much that the person wasn't even aware that they were receiving it after all. Either way, Draco didn't stop, to the point that Yaxley peed himself thanks to the spasms.

“We took...” he stammered, as Theo cleaned up any excretion the man had spewed. “We — we took — ”

Ten seconds had barely gone by.

“What are you talking about?” Draco scoffed. “I can't understand you very well.”

Yaxley was crying openly now, sobs and incoherent words in between.

Fifteen seconds.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

“Malfoy!”

Potter shook him hard enough for Draco to lose his concentration and the curse was cut off. Draco watched the man with annoyance, also noticing how the rest of them were looking at him expectantly now, even irritated that he'd let himself get carried away.

Draco grimaced, lowering his wand.

“You're no fun, Potter.”

He gritted his teeth, less than a metre away from him. Draco could smell his scent, strangely addictive for not wearing perfume. The place where the Chosen One had touched him burned beneath his clothes.

“Is this fun for you?” he replied, though he didn't look as disgusted as he should have.

Draco arched an eyebrow.

“He called your mother a bitch," he reminded him, and Potter's expression closed at that. “I think it's rather amusing to watch him swallow his every word.”

Yaxley continued to breathe artificially, and if Draco could guess anything, he'd already given up. If he didn't speak, it was only out of resentment and exhaustion. But he knew things could get worse.

For Merlin's sake, what had the Order done and shown to him? Love and kisses?

At least Draco was satisfied. It wasn't one of his worst torture sessions, but it gave him a certain pleasure to see how much Yaxley had suffered. Maybe it was the first time it had ever happened to him.

“Why did they do that ritual, Yaxley?” He asked once more, having no intention of continuing the absurd chat with Potter. “Oh, and talk to me nicely. Don't make me do things you might regret. Do you think you need all those teeth in your mouth?”

The semi-smug gesture faded, as the man stared at him, as if he was looking at him for the first time in a long time. Draco knew that the Nobilium had learned to respect him, because it was stated in the rules and principles that they could not see him or treat him as inferior, and they also saw the attitude of the people around him. But not everyone witnessed what he looked like when he got angry; when he put into practice the spells he had been forced to create.

Well, now he knew it wasn't a pretty sight.

“What?” Draco scorned “Did you think I was going to be the little boy who cried if he was looked down upon for the rest of his life?”

He felt Potter's eyes on him for a few long seconds after he finished the sentence, but Draco didn't want to think about it, studying how Yaxley was finally starting to give up.

“Speak," he ordered, "or I'll make a coat out of your skin.”

And he meant it.

If it were up to Draco, he would go on. If it was for him, he would destroy his sanity in a couple of hours, without a second thought. Salazar knew he deserved that and more.

But before he could delve into that idea, he saw the man begin to weaken, on the verge of falling into unconsciousness.

Or worse.

“Astoria," Potter said suddenly. Do it.”

The woman obeyed.

Draco finally understood the familiarity of her movements, the sense that he knew her. Astoria Greengrass had been a Slytherin, a year younger than him, sister to Daphne Greengrass of his same grade. Draco had been to her house a couple of times in the last few years; he'd even had a odd run-in with her sister that he didn't even remember. But Astoria — Astoria had seemed so quiet . So quiet and sweet and innocent. She was devoted to the Lord, and her family had sworn absolute loyalty. She worked in the same department as Theo, the Muggleborn Regulation, and she and Daphne were among the most influential of the young purebloods. Astoria, for her beauty, as a peerless candidate to preserve purity in marriage, and Daphne, being the editor of The Prophet.

Draco didn't know her well enough, and didn't care much for that revelation. But he would never have thought. He would never have believed —

Well, that was the point, wasn't it? That people wouldn't suspect that someone like her would be capable of betraying the Dark Lord's precious rule, not just because of the open devotion she professed, but because she didn't seem capable enough to do it.

But Astoria wasn't just a pretty face after all. A sweet, quiet, helpful girl. She was a Legillimens, and a traitor, and she was anything but helpless and innocent.

Yaxley barely fought the intrusion, making her job easier.

“Ah, a difficult mind," she said without breaking contact. “Charming.”

As Astoria navigated the man's head, Draco averted his gaze, devoting himself to watching Potter. Because for some reason, ever since he was just a boy, his eyes had been searching for him. To tease him, to taunt him, or — Draco truly didn't know.

He looked different, that much was obvious. The distinctively brown skin paled a little because of the confinement, and he’d gained muscle, becoming stronger than when he was a boy, though he still retained his leanness. His lively green eyes were unforgiving and even cruel, though Harry Potter was never known for being a person who believed in forgiveness. If it weren't for the scar, he would be someone else, but Draco wondered how much he had really changed. How much of the boy he knew at Hogwarts remained inside him; intrinsically good, a hero through and through, willing to save even his worst enemies because he couldn't bear the thought of carrying dead bodies around with him. Draco found it hard to conceive the idea that there was still light in the face of all that darkness. He found it hard to think that he was still the same person, when there were people in their ranks nicknamed: "The Black Death".

He was curious, always had been when it came to Potter, and animosity drove him to answer his questions. But, he had to admit, in the face of everything that was going on, Potter and what had become of him was pushed to the back of his mind. And Draco intended for it to stay there.

A gasp cut through his thoughts then, and Astoria was taking that step back again as Yaxley fell unconscious, too tired to take the pain any longer.

The woman looked up at him, and even under the mask, Draco could see how agitated she was.

“They wanted to get inside her head," she blurted out.

Draco returned her gaze. That was partly obvious; if his mother knew anything, the Dark Lord would have wanted to get inside her head to find out. But the way Astoria had said it...

“So what?”

She swallowed dryly, turning her neck in Yaxley's direction. Draco had a feeling he was grimacing.

“And without magic…” Astoria muttered, grabbing the lapels of her own hood. “No magic to raise the Occlumency shields…”

Draco realised what she was talking about.

“My mother couldn't have continued to protect her mind. That's why her magic was taken away.”

Astoria nodded slowly as she heard him. Theo and Potter stood quietly in their place, listening to their conversation.

Draco felt everything start to spin.

A Muggle was unable to stop a wizard from entering his head. Wizards, on the other hand, or at least the more experienced ones in Occlumency, sometimes even they couldn't break down their own defences when they wanted to, because they lived inside them like an arm or an organ. To take away their magic was to take away that defence.

And Voldemort tried.

“They wanted to take away her Occlumency walls so that the Dark Lord could get inside her head," Astoria reported, her voice firmer, "and… see whatever he had to see. Although — ”

She closed her mouth, in a silence that seemed thoughtful by all accounts.

“Although…?” Potter asked. Astoria stepped back far enough to stand in front of Draco, who was still staring at the floor, trying to take in the information.

“I think it's — it's a bit more than that," she said. “Besides keeping your mother from using Occlumency to find out what she was hiding, they were looking for something else by taking her magic, but I don't — I don't know what.”

She fell silent again, and none of them tried to complete their sentences. None of them could understand what she meant. She was the one who had been in Yaxley's mind after all.

After a few seconds of digesting the information, Astoria turned to Draco squarely, her whole body pointed at him. “It was probably related to Nagini, that's what we've believed for years, but we could never prove it. We could never get into her section in Azkaban. Whatever it was, Malfoy, your mother spent eight years hiding it.” Astoria folded her arms. “Hiding it, to the point where they had to resort to taking away her magic in order to find out what it was.”

Draco's jaw clenched as he listened to her. She said it... as if she was proud of it. As if it made her happy that his mother was willing to sacrifice her life to hide something for the fucking Order.

And no . It wasn't right .

It wasn't something to be proud of. His mother had died protecting that secret. And why ? Why didn't she give up? Why didn't she give that bastard Voldemort what he wanted? It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth it.

“But it backfired," Draco said, his voice surprisingly calm. Astoria paused in her movements. “My mother is dead.”

He wanted to laugh as he finished the sentence. What was a world without the sweets Narcissa had made especially for him? What was a world without his mother teaching him how to play magical chess? There was no point. There was no point in staying there.

None of them said anything in the face of those words, and what would they say? Theo knew he didn't want or need pity. And the very thought of two strangers like Potter or Greengrass trying to pat him on the back was laughable.

“She's dead," Draco repeated, sounding distant. “They killed her.”

Yaxley and others took a part of her. They had violated much more than her body. The magic was the most important thing they had. And it had been taken from her... for a secret?

It wasn't fair.

Maybe it's what you deserve. It's what you all deserve.

“She was murdered," Draco repeated, incredulous.

The room suddenly became too small, and the smell of blood and rotting flesh too heavy for his system. Draco took a few steps away, putting his wand away, keeping the desolation from overtaking him.

“Malfoy — ”

Draco was out of there before he finished listening to that sentence.

He felt Theo follow him almost at once, but Draco didn't turn to say anything to him. He needed to get out of there. He needed to be somewhere where he didn't know that his mother had let herself be killed for something as stupid as a secret that benefited the fucking Order.

He walked back down the corridor, up the grand staircase that led to a small hall. Draco didn't know where the exit was. But he needed to find it. Quickly. He wanted to leave.

He saw a few people on his way, though he didn't converse with any of them, didn't even recognise their faces at the moment. He didn't feel capable.

It wasn't until he reached a window that he felt Theo catch up to him, and someone shot a spell at his back. Then again the memories involving the ghosts of his past left, flashing before his eyes. Draco concentrated on forgetting.

And only one thought remained.

His mother.

•••

Draco awoke in his bed in his room at the mansion with no memory of how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered was the execution and having had an unpleasant dream that had left him tired. Other than that, his mind seemed to have some sort of mental gap.

Draco continued for the next few days to live in what seemed like a nightmare specially designed to damage his mental sanity.

He would have thought that after so many years of walking in the dark, of living every day in a world that was incapable of giving him anything but grey, he would’ve become used to the fact that it could always be worse. That when things were bad enough, something would always happen to make them crueller. Less human.

He'd been wrong.

Draco hadn't learned anything.

He needed answers, needed to know if what was being said was true. If — i — if his father —

Draco needed to hear it from his lips.

So he went to see him in Azkaban.

It was practically impossible for other people to visit family members in Azkaban; though having them there was already a privilege, since most traitors were either executed, or subdued after the Battle of Hogwarts. Only the most important criminals —in terms of influence— or totally minor ones like thieves, or murderers without a licence to kill were there, with no in-between. The only ones who were truly allowed to kill, (with justifications) were the Nobilium and the Electis. The rest had to stick to the laws and rules of all life.

So Draco walked around the prison, trying not to think about how, almost a month ago, he’d been there, witnessing one of the scenes that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He avoided looking at anyone that time, and wore his brooch so he wouldn't be questioned. Lucius was not in such a protected section as Narcissa used to be, which Draco was definitely not allowed to enter without authorisation. Still, he wasn't supposed to be able to visit his father either.

But they couldn't deny Draco Malfoy anything at the moment. Not unless they really wanted to get to know him.

Draco entered the cell holding his head high and sitting in the chair away from the bed, where Lucius was in a magical straitjacket and a spell that prevented him from getting any closer. The person who closed the grille door gave him a look laden with something Draco couldn't decipher, before he disappeared down the corridor.

Draco stared at the floor for a few long seconds, unsure how to start the conversation.

Then he raised his head to speak.

And — he saw him.

Draco detailed his face, saw how his hair fell in messy, unkempt cascades over his face. His appearance bordered on madness, his features were nowhere near what they once were. He looked at him, and Draco could not conceive that there was a time when he would have given his all to please him, to be like him.

Father and son stared at each other for a full minute, and Draco felt his heart in his throat, unable to believe that this was really happening.

Lucius opened his mouth, and closed it, and Draco could only register that he probably wanted to say hello. As if it was nothing. As if they could really follow etiquette and manners in that circumstance.

“Why?” he whispered abruptly, his mouth feeling dry.

Draco hadn't expected that to be what came from his lips.

The anger and supposed indifference had vanished as he stood before his father. He couldn't see the man the rest of the world saw. The man who killed people, who completely destroyed the lives of innocents. The Death Eater. The man who was more than likely his mother's presumed murderer.

Draco saw his dad .

Draco was seeing the person who taught him how to ride a broom. Draco saw the man who made voices when he told him stories, or the one who was capable of cursing someone to madness if they gave Draco a single bad look. He looked at him, and saw the special occasions when Lucius allowed himself to leave etiquette aside, and he and his mother would enjoy afternoons in the garden; Narcissa with her head resting on her father's lap while Draco scampered the peacocks around them. Draco looked at him, and saw the family he’d lost, the man who kissed him goodnight, and promised him in whispers that he would give his life to protect him from harm.

Lucius did not answer.

“Why did you do it?” he murmured again, his voice breaking.

He could not conceive it. Ever since he was a boy, when he'd seen his parents, he'd only noticed their mutual respect and adoration for each other. Draco had always believed that he would have something like that, the day he married.

His mind couldn't conceive what happened. He simply couldn't. It was bigger than him.

“Dra — ”

“Did you kill her?” he interrupted him, because he needed to know.

There was a beat of silence between them.

And Lucius's face turned to stone.

“Yes.”

Worst of all,

he expected it.

Draco shaked his head, drawing his wand and pointing it at him, trying to summon his anger again, trying to feel something besides the sadness that threatened to devour him.

Lucius never looked away, as if he wasn't afraid of what Draco might do. He was never fully present those years, but his father knew what Draco had become, it wasn’t as if he was blind . Maybe Lucius just thought he wasn't capable of hurting him. Or maybe he wasn't thinking at all.

Lucius didn't look away, even when Draco entered his mind. He didn't raise the barriers, even though he wasn't a born Occlumency like his mother. He just... let him in, let him read his thoughts; see if it was true.

And it was. 

He was telling the truth without any regrets.

Draco clutched the back of his chair, feeling the lump in his throat grow larger.

“Why?” he asked again in a whisper, feeling everything he believed in shatter.

Lucius's expression did not change.

“Because I loved her.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut furiously, stopping the tears, the first tears to appear after what had happened began to swirl in his eyes.

“You murdered her," he blurted out, feeling the words burn on his vocal cords. “You took my mother from me.”

Draco would never see her again. Draco would never speak to her again. Draco didn't take care of her enough, and he was supposed to. She was supposed to be there instead of him. 

And why didn't it happen that way, what was the reason?

“I put an end to it all," Lucius said calmly, but when Draco looked at him, his eyes had taken on a manic tinge.

I put an end to it all.

It wasn't his fucking place to decide. Draco— Draco would have ended it all, but by giving them a happy life. Far, far away from there. Running away to another continent if necessary. Forgetting the war and who they really were. Forgetting everything.

And he took that chance away from him.

“Who are you?” he murmured, feeling his vision blurring.

Lucius shook his head, a smile creeping onto his face.

“You don't understand. I put an end to it all," he repeated, as if repeating it to himself every day. “I saved her.”

Draco pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to touch him, but not to hurt him or make him react. Draco wanted to touch him and he wanted to pull him into an embrace. He wanted to bury his face in his father's chest and pretend that everything would be okay, that they would get through this together. That he didn't know what he was saying and that it was all a mistake. Draco needed him.

Suddenly, he felt like he was sixteen again.

“I saved her," Lucius repeated, laughing frantically. “I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her…”

Draco stood up, feeling mentally ill, a headache hovering in his forehead, refusing to hear any more. There was no point.

Lucius confessed.

“Shut up!” he exclaimed under his breath, completely dizzy. “You're going to rot in here," he added, without the resentment that should be there. Because it was his father. And because Draco, against all common sense, loved him still.

Lucius continued to repeat the same sentence over and over, his eyes now lost in one spot on the wall. Draco stumbled, stopping in the doorway, and telling himself that he couldn't save him. Out of respect for his mother.

“You're going to rot in here," he repeated.

But the man was no longer listening.

•••

The first thing he heard when he came out of the fireplace was an elf telling him that Greyback had entered the manor a few hours ago, looking for him, and it took every bit of Draco's self-control not to start screaming and cursing the bastard.

For some reason, Draco felt like he was being watched. As if after his mother's death, he had suddenly become a volatile, non-functioning human being. Maybe he should leave something to spy on conversations at strategic points in the Manor. It would teach them not to hide things from him.

Then, after Draco frowned, seeing on one of the tables in his room, a folder full of information about the half-giant Hogwarts idiot, Theo suddenly appeared behind him, taking him by surprise.

And apparently abducting him.

Draco had no idea what the hell was going on, but it served as a distraction and a release trying to hex Theo so that he wouldn't Apparate him away from there.

Though, when he landed on the field against his will and a wand landed on his temple, Draco immediately recognised what was going on. Memories assailing him, and Potter's magic intoxicating his every sense. 

“Potter," he spat, as usual.

He heard him snort, almost laughing. He wasn't there, though. Draco assumed he was under the invisibility cloak.

“Draco," Theo said, stepping into his field of vision.

Draco scowled at him, ready to claim what a brute he was for leading him on like that, but the look on his face stopped him. Theo looked... distressed, to say the least, and was beginning to drag him towards the entrance of McGonagall Manor as if he feared Draco's reaction to something.

“Did something happen?” he asked, quietly, though he assumed Potter heard anyway.

Theo pursed his lips, stopping in front of the gate and turning to him, holding him by the arms.

Draco felt his insides tighten.

“They caught one of your mother's guards," he said, not trying to soften the news. “One of the ones 'guarding' her.”

Excitement and adrenaline surged through his bloodstream as he heard it, excited to know more. To make them pay and unravel what had just happened. To exact revenge.

“All right," he replied, more animated. “Take me to him.”

Theo didn't move, the grip on his shoulders tightening.

“Draco.”

Draco watched him, feeling like he was missing something important. Theo's gaze was heavy with worry.

Why?

“What?”

His heart was pounding. There was something vile twisting in the pit of his stomach. Draco was clinging to the fact that it was his imagination. That nothing bad had happened.

But Theo pursed his lips, averting his gaze.

“Theo, what — ”

“It's Gregory," he said, interrupting him.

And Draco felt himself turn pale, beginning to shake his head over and over.

Things can always get worse, don't you remember? It can always, always, get much, much worse.

Theo held him in place, looking him in the eye.

“The guard is Gregory Goyle.”

Chapter Text

Draco stumbled, and arms caught him before he could fall.

Potter was still under the stupid invisibility cloak. Theo was in front of him, and the only person who could have caught him was the idiot hiding in the shadows. Draco wanted to pull away from Potter's hands as soon as he felt him, disgusted, but the touch was gone as quickly as it came. Perhaps, it hadn't even been incidental.

A reflex.

He saves anyone who needs help, even if it's a Malfoy.

"We should go in," Theo said, taking him by the arm.

Draco let himself be guided as his mind wandered back to Gregory. Hadn't he tried to talk to him, after what had happened? Hadn't he sent Draco a letter, offering his condolences? Draco paid little heed to any of them, but he knew they were there. As they always had been.

But the very thought, the very possibility that Goyle could be involved — it was... implausible. It was absurd.

“No," he said, noticing how he stopped in the middle of the maze that led to the manor.

He felt the men's gazes on him, yet his grey eyes were fixed on the grass; the pain in his temples was beginning to increase.

Goyle.

Gregory Goyle .

How? How ? He must have misheard. He must have. It was impossible.

Crabbe and Goyle were stupid. It wasn't even a cruel remark, it was a fact. Draco was clear on that, and he accepted them that way. He'd accepted their friendship that way from day one, and he'd had to watch as they mostly made it through the school year thanks to Snape's favour. After the war, Gregory hadn't done much. Mr. Goyle put him in charge of some business in the public eye, but he took care of it himself behind his back. It made no sense for the Dark Lord to trust Gregory's ability when even his own father didn’t.

And why?

Why his mother?

“Draco…” Theo advanced towards him, but Draco stepped back.

“No, there must be a mistake," he repeated, shaking his head. “Gregory doesn't even know how to spell his name right.”

Another time, and Theo would have laughed. Draco was on the verge of doing so, at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation, but he didn't. Perhaps he was about to lose his mind. 

“Malfoy — ” Potter tried to say, finally taking off his stupid cloak. Draco stopped him.

“Shut up, Potter. The adults are talking.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fuck you.”

Draco had a lot of retorts to that sentence, but all he did was ignore it, his mind racing. By this point, he didn't know if he didn't want to believe the obvious truth —that Goyle was there being partly responsible for what had happened— or if he truly didn't think he was capable of it. Draco didn't know anything.

He was becoming more convinced of it every day.

“Draco, it's him.” Theo took his arm again, making him look at him. “He was one of the guards.”

Gregory had money and status. Gregory didn't need to work in a prison, let alone one like Azkaban. What reason would he have? What was he doing there?

“ Why?”

Theo sighed, opening his mouth to answer his question. “We don't know — ”

“If you'd stop crying like an idiot for two seconds," Potter interrupted him, "we could find out.”

Theo sighed once more.

Draco turned to him, detailing his dirt-covered face. Surely he'd just come from kidnapping Goyle, and waited for Draco outside to bring back his memories. A part of his brain registered how that made him feel: to be thought of so quickly. To be called as soon as things happened. But the rest of his attention was focused on what he'd said.

“I've just been informed that one of my best friends is involved in my mother's murder, you little shit," he grit out. “Of course, an orphan like you can't understand that.”

Potter raised his eyebrows, not at all affected by his insults. He supposed that last one hadn't been the height of creativity either.

“I had no idea you had friends.”

Draco clenched his jaw, closing his eyes. Fine. Fine . If Potter wanted him to answer him, he was going to give him a bloody good one retort.

“Few, but most of them alive," he said, looking up at him again, arching her lips into an unpleasant smile. “That's more than you can say.”

It was quick, but effective. It worked at Hogwarts, and Draco saw no reason why it shouldn't continue to do so all this time afterwards, even if they didn't know each other well enough anymore. Even if they hadn't seen each other for years.

Insulting Potter was like throwing coal on a fire. While it seemed that the years of fighting had soured him, there was still something vivid in his eyes whenever Draco angered him, when he really angered him. His whole body tensed, the green tint behind his glasses sparkled, and the wand was inches from his throat in an instant, even if Draco knew he wouldn't actually hold it against him. It was almost therapeutic to see that even though everything seemed to have changed, the old habits were not completely gone.

Draco leaned against the pressure of the wand, burying it in his neck as he stared into his eyes. The poor bastard looked as if he was actually going to curse him.

“Potter," Theo interjected, stepping between the two of them, as was becoming his habit. “Now is not the time.”

Potter turned slightly towards him as he heard, watching him for a few long seconds, analysing Theo's intentions, who didn't look away. Then he lowered his wand slowly, not losing his close or attacking stance.

Theo nodded once.

“Draco," he said then, turning to him. Draco raised an eyebrow, "Grow up , will you?

He might have been offended, if he didn't know he had a point. They weren't supposed to be there to annoy each other, despite how much they hated the other.

They were allies, after all.

“Both of you. Grow up," Theo continued, with a hint of irritation. “Do whatever it is you have to do, but save these discussions for when you're alone. Not even Weasley or Granger have said anything to him, and they seemed far more opposed to accepting Draco than you.”

The last was clearly directed at Potter, who again tensed, putting his wand away at last. Draco snorted.

“Yet," was all he replied.

Draco knew Theo was right. All of them, the Order, had reason to hate him. Draco had turned his comrades in. Tortured them, and witnessed their deaths for years. All without stopping to think about who they were, or caring in the slightest how many there had been. Under that regime of which he’d been a part, two of the Weasleys died —though Draco didn't understand how that was such a loss to the world. After all, there were still seven more to go— and each and every one of them had scars. Things that could not be remedied. Scars fighting against what was his side not so long ago.

So yes, he understood Potter wanting to murder him every time he saw him — he wouldn't be the first. But one thing was certain: there was no point in saying childish things over and over again. If they were going to fight, better to really swear at each other than to look like two fifteen year olds.

Theo led the way that time, and Draco followed, with Potter being last in line. He didn't feel entirely safe that way, with him at his back, especially knowing that people were watching them through the windows. When they entered the manor, several of them —some he'd never seen in his life— glared at him as if they were smelling shit.

But hey, it was what it was.

Not like he should care.

As they approached the back of the manor where the stairs leading to the dungeons were — Draco couldn't help but notice that he was in shock.

It had happened to him right after Crabbe's death and the end of the Battle. The same sense of unreality. The depersonalisation, the numbness. And as the days passed, the dissociative amnesia and the anxiety. The dreams where everything went up in flames.

The wizards who’d been imprisoned at Malfoy Manor had told him that it was common, a state of psychological shock in the face of such events. That perhaps it was his method of defence, and that it would probably trigger "post-traumatic stress disorder". But unfortunately most healers at St. Mungo's suffered terrible fates after the war. Or what he had believed to be the "after", not knowing that the war continued to be fought in the dark. Most had made public statements more than once that they disapproved of violence of any kind. That they had seen horrible things, and saved people from the most dreadful spells.

Voldemort saw to it that none of them spoke again.

So Draco never treated himself again. And until that moment, he didn't notice that perhaps, that was how he had lived his whole life since then: walking from day to day, not really being there.

But if things as gross as his mother dying after years in Azkaban because her magic had been taken away from her, or Potter being alive, or one of his childhood best friends being involved in his mum's murder, were happening to him.... Well, they couldn't ask too much of him.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Theo turned abruptly backwards, stopping Draco in the process. He frowned, turning his head, only to find Luna Lovegood standing a few feet behind them. Apparently, she had spoken to him, and Draco hadn't even heard her.

Theo stepped between him and Potter walking in Lovegood's direction, and Draco felt that he and the rest of the world were left out of the scene. Theo reached her, tucking a short strand of hair behind her ear instinctively, and Lovegood grabbed his hand, giving him a smile that clearly showed how lost she was for him.

Draco looked away, directing his gaze to the bottom of the stairs.

It was strange, to say the least, to see two people in love. Draco had thought that was no longer possible, not in this world. But it was even worse when he thought of Theo being in love. Being so in love with someone that he'd rather not succumb to his selfish instinct to be with her, lest he cause her harm. Because he knew she deserved more. Draco found it uncomfortable; even worse when he thought about sleeping with him all those years, knowing that Theo probably wished he was doing it with someone else.

Well, if they were being fair, it wasn't as if Draco explicitly desired Theo . They just kept each other company, and used the other as a release. It was never anything more.

He felt Potter's eyes on him the few seconds that the interaction between Lovegood and his friend lasted, though Draco didn't look up. Surely they would end up arguing once more, because they didn't know how to do anything else. And if he was honest he wasn't in the mood. He needed to prepare himself for what he was going to see next.

They started down the steps, and Draco saw, in the dim light, that there was indeed more than one cell. He wondered for a moment if Yaxley was still in one, convalescing, or if he had been killed because he was no longer useful. He didn't know, and he didn't care. He could’ve been cut to pieces for all he mind.

When they finally reached the appropriate door, the first thing Draco noticed as he entered was the two women standing to the left. Granger and Greengrass, conversing quietly and without the mask he’d seen them with the previous times he’d encountered them.

Draco took a few seconds to detail both. Granger was thinner than he remembered, and the extravagant hair that was her most distinguishable feature was short, just above her shoulders and tied in a low ponytail. She was never an agreeable person, like most of the Gryffindors Draco had known, but the face that once represented a certain naivety was now tinged with shadows, making her look somewhat intimidating. Draco could admit that she looked more interesting this way compared to the shoddy attempt at a person she’d been at Hogwarts.

Astoria Greengrass was another story. He supposed she wasn't a participant in the battles and plans the Order carried out, probably because her usefulness had nothing to do with being a good fighter. And it showed. Her face was irredeemably beautiful, without any scars adorning it. Draco had seen her several times over the years, always wearing her hair long and voluminous, reaching down to her hips. At the moment, it was in a braid that trailed down from her forehead and clung to her skull, further accentuating her features. The blue eyes were mesmerising and emotive, probably because she was an innate Legillimens. Her pose denoted boredom. As if no one was good enough to grace them with her presence.

When the door closed, and as Draco avoided looking away from the man behind the bars, the women's gazes focused on them. Specifically on him.

Astoria remained expressionless, almost entertained by the situation, as Granger's expression curved into one of disgust. Disgust. Draco couldn't care less, he'd looked at her like that since he'd met her and had always been amused at how she thought she was better than him.

They all stepped forward.

And when Draco could delay no longer, he turned around.

Goyle was tied up at the end of the cell.

Draco let out a shaky sigh, having to face the reality before him.

Gregory's eyes filled with panic at the sight of him, and a thin layer of sweat began to run down his forehead. During school, he and Crabbe used to look at him the same way, as if Draco could crush their heads just by wanting to; that lasted until they noticed how weak he became at the beginning of seventh year, at the start of the war. But when he became part of the Nobilium that respect returned, even though he… Draco never stopped considering them his friends. They had grown up together. They had been together practically every hour of every day for as long as he could remember, and he had helped them with every task they ever had. He had taken care of them, while receiving the same in return. Draco believed that after all, after Crabbe's death — Goyle would be one of the few people who wouldn't betray him.

He was wrong.

Draco, his face a mask of indifference, advanced towards him, thinking how it all connected to his mother. Trying not to pay attention to the pang of pain that assaulted his side. Wondering the whys: why she’d done it, why she hadn't told him. If the situation were reversed, Draco could never have looked him in the eye, and lied to him. No, because Gregory's mother treated him well, as Narcissa did. And if Slytherins valued anything, it was family. Family always came first. Draco would never have let that change, let his interests come before the mother of one of his best friends.

But then, some time ago, he’d learned not to expect anything from anyone. He wasn't even disappointed anymore. Just... hurt.

Potter beat him to it before Draco could get to him. He stepped into the prisoner's field of vision, grabbing one of the bars.

“Hello, Goyle.".

Goyle's gaze focused on him then, and his mouth fell open as his eyes widened as wide as they could go. Draco might have scoffed at how ridiculously transparent his reaction was, were it not for the fact that he wasn't feeling much at the moment.

“Oh," Potter commented back mockingly, "this one is surprised.”

Draco realised then that Yaxley hadn't acted surprised when Potter had shown himself alive and kicking to him, so only a few knew the truth about his death. Probably those closest to the Lord. Or at least, they supposed it.

“Ha- Harry Potter," said Goyle, fear creeping into his tone.

“Good, you learned how to say coherent sentences and everything.”

Draco didn't know how to feel. In another moment, he would’ve cursed anyone who said something like that to Goyle.

Right now — right now he didn't know if he agreed or not. Him being treated like that.

“How — ”

“We ask the questions, Goyle," Granger cut him off, walking towards the front of the cell. The man's eyes widened again, "I suppose you know why you're here.”

Gregory's gaze flew straight to Draco, making his heart sink in his chest. For a moment, it seemed as if Goyle was seeking his approval, asking with his eyes what was going on and if he was allowed to speak, just as he did at Hogwarts.

But it couldn't be like that.

Goyle was probably looking at him because he knew what he'd done, and that it was clear to him that Draco knew it too.

He held his gaze.

“Draco," he started to say, and it was enough for fury to start coursing through his veins.

How dare he sound so helpless?

“Don't call me that," Draco spat, stopping him from continuing. Goyle swallowed dryly.

“Astaroth.”

Draco closed his eyes, and a bucket of cold water was poured over his head. He thought that was addressing him with respect.

It only made him more angry.

“What's going on?” Gregory continued, the fear palpable once more. “Astaroth?”

Draco finally walked to stand beside Potter. He had to do this.

“What do you know about my mother, Goyle?”

Once again, Gregory's countenance changed. He looked like a child who’d been caught in a lie. Like when Draco used to ration out the sweets his mother sent to Hogwarts for the week, and he and Crabbe would take out more than enough, trying not to let Draco notice, when he himself left the sweets without spells. That was how Goyle looked now, lost, someone who knew there was no escape.

Draco clenched his jaw, as the man lowered his head. The rest of the room was silent.

“Draco — ”

“I told you not to call me that," he whispered. He knew the threat was palpable in his tone.

Goyle shook his head, panic taking over his body. Draco on the other hand was simply a flood of emotions that made no sense. He looked at him and thought that they shouldn't be there, in that situation. That shouldn't be happening.

“What did you do to her?” he whispered once more. Gregory closed his eyes, shaking his head again. “Goyle. What the fuck did you do.”

“Nothing…”

They stared at each other for a few minutes. The rest of the room stood expectantly, witnessing the talk as if it were entertainment. Draco turned away, disgusted, and let the others take over.

He couldn't bear to look him in the face any longer.

Granger sighed loudly, walking away as well and approaching one of the shelves.

“Well," she began, "there's no Veritaserum left, but I suppose he won't speak on his own free will.”

Draco made a mental note to get Veritaserum, even though no one had asked him to. It wasn't his responsibility, it wasn't in the deal, but the Order needed it.

Draco wondered what other things they needed as well.

“Well…” Granger continued when she saw that no one had said anything. “Theo. The Imperius. ”

Theo pulled out his wand, and the cell door was opened.

Draco noticed how he wasn't chosen this time to torture, and looked around without saying a word.

He couldn't remember if Gregory had ever been under Imperius , but he supposed he couldn't resist it very well. In fact, there were very few people who could, even worse when it was being conjured by a powerful wizard. Getting rid of it could shatter your mind and hurt like hell. Draco couldn't do it, for example, despite being good at Occlumency.

The curse, however, didn't tell them anything. It didn't force Goyle to talk, because there wasn't much to tell either. Besides, there were clear gaps in his memory from some spell like Obliviate . Or maybe even a confidentiality spell.

Draco stood as far away from the spectacle as possible, trying to focus. To see everything from an objective point of view, as an outsider.

“Astoria," Potter said suddenly, when they saw that the Imperius wasn't really working. Astoria raised an eyebrow when she heard that. “You'll have to go in and try to undo whatever spell is protecting his memories.”

The woman, who’d been outside the cell until then, walked towards them. Goyle looked lost, no longer even bothering to be surprised at having Astoria Greengrass herself in front of him.

She took him by the chin, turning his face from side to side. “It's going to hurt," she announced, looking back and focusing on Draco.

It was an implied question.

He nodded.

“Let it hurt.”

He hoped he wouldn't regret it.

Astoria nodded back, and focused on Goyle once more, entering his mind. Draco could feel the gaze of the rest; not on the prisoner, but on him. He could almost hear what they were thinking, what they were wondering: What he must be feeling. Why he was acting the way he was acting. What his actions meant. His words.

He didn't know himself.

It wasn't long before Gregory began to whine, let alone before he began to scream. Draco had always thought that physical pain was somewhat milder than mental pain, to know that your mind was being corrupted. Shattered. Ironically, one of the worst pains he’d ever felt was when his Aunt Bellatrix taught him Occlumency. It was like having razor blades driven into your brain.

Not being able to tell what was part of your imagination and what wasn’t.

Having someone in your head who couldn't be bothered to keep your sanity, who couldn't be bothered to make it not hurt, and who certainly wasn't there with your consent, was some of the worst shit a human being could experience.

And he was witnessing it.

Goyle began to sob, as Astoria moved through his mind. Draco felt a churning in his stomach.

“His Occlumency barriers are absolute rubbish. But there they are," she commented, not missing the connection. “I think if I try to undo this poorly done Obliviate , he might go mad.”

Draco didn't want to feel anything about the fact that it was an Obliviate that Goyle had. A corner of his head was telling him that maybe his part in this mess was unintentional. That maybe he'd been used, and then had his memories erased.

But he didn't know. He had no idea of anything.

So he didn't say a word about it.

Potter shrugged then, indifferent to the prospect. “No one would miss him."

Draco remained silent.

The sentence settled into his system.

Astoria turned again, and Granger took this as a signal to reinforce the spells holding Goyle captive. It was only a few seconds of preparation, before a piercing scream cut through the air.

And he began to jerk in place.

Gregory's face was a mess; red, and veins stood out under his skin from the strain. He exuded suffering and pain, crying out for his mother and begging for help. Crying out to anyone for help.

Crying out to Draco for help.

He felt overwhelmed, as he usually did when harsh reality caught up with him like that. It had happened to him with Yaxley and his words, and hearing Goyle ask him for help as if nothing had happened — the boy who brought him food from the dining room to the Slytherin rooms when Draco was feeling unwell.

Draco left the room.

He walked down the corridor to where the staircase was, and leaned against the wall. He couldn't hear the screams from that distance, but even if he could, Draco was sure he wasn’t able to. The ragged breathing and pulse echoed in his ears, and the blood seemed to have been drained from his face. He pressed the back of his neck against the bricks, closing his eyes and trying to — breathe .

Wake up.

Please.

Just — wake up.

“Draco?”

Draco didn't open his eyes at the sound of Theo's voice. He needed to calm down. He needed to be left alone.

“Just a second.”

He felt Theo stand in front of him and look him openly in the face. Draco could almost see him bite his lip. “I shouldn't have said anything to you. I shouldn't have brought you.”

Draco hated to hear the hint of pity in his voice, to hear him see him as weak. He gritted his teeth, opening his eyelids at last, feeling the pleasant anger returning.

“And keep what happened to my mother from me as well?” he spat, pursing his lips.

Theo sighed, taking a step back, and Draco tried to calm himself once more, emptying his head of Goyle's shouting. For a few long minutes, neither spoke again.

“How are you feeling?” Theo asked then.

“I couldn't care less.”

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“He's a filthy traitor and deserves everything he gets," Draco replied maliciously. “And worse.”

“He was your best friend.”

“Was.”

“It's completely understandable that you can't see how — ”

“Theodore," Draco cut him off, fed up, "stop treating me like I'm some fragile piece of shite, for fuck's sake.”

The man sighed loudly. “I'm just trying to — ”

“What, protect me?” he said with a cruel, booming laugh “I don't need your fucking protection, we already know you're not good at protecting the people you love.”

He knew he was saying it to vent his frustration, to make it hurt. To make him think for a few seconds about the mothers he couldn't save, and his precious Loony girl.

And also, because Draco was a terrible person.

Theo didn't react to his comment in the slightest, though.

“All right," he said instead, pointing his chin down the corridor. “Let's go back, then.”

Draco waited for his heart to calm down, but it didn't work, so he had no choice but to listen to him and face what was happening. He made his way, Theo at his side, thinking he saw something moving in the shadows of the corridor.

And they entered once more.

The sights and sounds were not dissimilar to what Draco had witnessed minutes before, and the atmosphere felt no less stifling than it had before he'd left. Though at least this time, no one was looking at him. Granger and Potter were more focused on what Astoria was doing.

“Nothing yet?” Theo questioned, closing the door.

They all shook their heads without looking.

“Not much," Astoria said. “Although I don't know if it's because of the missing memories, or because he doesn't know. After all, he was just a guard.”

Goyle's cry grew sharper.

“He probably doesn't know much," Draco said, trying to remain calm.

They looked at him now.

Their features were riddled with distrust.

“It's Goyle," he explained, trying to make his point. “He wasn't even able to pass half of his OWLs. I'm sure he couldn't tell the difference between a piece of shit and his brain if you put it in front of him.”

Potter waved his hand. “Explain yourself?”

“The Dark Lord would never trust him with something so important," Draco said, trying not to roll his eyes at the obviousness, "as to have any substantial memories.”

Potter nodded, unbelievably agreeing with his words, and turned to Goyle again.

“Well, then there's nothing important here that we don't already know," Astoria said at that point, snapping out of his mind. She looked at everyone, exchanging glances between their faces. “His mother, Marisa Goyle, is a mediwitch  — everyone knows that, don't you?”

Draco felt his breathing stop as he listened to her, standing very still in his place.

And he just knew where that was going. Fuck. He knew. It was clear to him.

He just didn't want to hear it.

“She," Astoria continued anyway, oblivious to his thoughts, "was in charge of keeping Narcissa Malfoy alive.”

The truth hit Draco like a block of cement. The words were embedded in his mind. His heart was in the pit of his stomach.

He couldn't remember ever feeling so upset before; not for many years, at least. To know that Marisa was not only involved in his mother's death, but that she was in charge of prolonging her suffering?

He wanted to think that it was a compulsion. That Mr. Goyle made her do it, or that Voldemort did it, that she had no choice but to bow her head and obey. He could forgive her then. He could understand her then.

But he knew that she and her husband had most likely volunteered.

And Draco was going to make them pay.

”Gregory Goyle was escorting her, and at the same time seeing to it that her parents did their duty, while he kept watch outside," she explained, giving the man a sidelong glance. “I suppose it was an advantage to have such a strong son. And besides, it was further proof that as a family they were all completely useful to the Lord.”

Did that mean he was there, out of obligation?

Or not.

Surely not.

Draco averted his gaze to Goyle, who’d fallen unconscious as soon as Astoria left his head.

“He didn't know what was going on inside the cell, he only knew that Narcissa was involved and that her mother was looking after her," Astoria continued, her eyes fixed on him. “Nothing more.”

But still, Goyle hadn't told Draco.

If he remembered, if he knew that his mother was having irregular visits, and that he was monitoring them, he hadn't told him. No one had told him. Draco had asked Narcissa countless times if she was all right. If the special section was comfortable. And she had lied to him, and he had believed her, and now nothing would ever change that fact.

Goyle deserved to be there.

“And, well, if he'd ever heard anything else, those memories weren't here. The one thing he did know, Obliviate or not, was that Narcissa was being tortured. His father was in charge of erasing the rest of her memories, in a very poor way, if I do say so myself.” Astoria stepped away from Goyles’ limp body. “It was easy enough to undo" 

Draco felt like he was falling, had been falling since the day Hannah showed up spying on his house.

Or even before.

“I think the one we need to catch is his mother," Astoria continued, sure of what she was saying. “She knows everything. From what Goyle overheard her talking to her husband, she was also very involved in finding out what Narcissa was hiding.” Astoria closed the cell door, taking a seat in the chair at her side. “And, how Narcissa had an — ”

Astoria stopped speaking abruptly, and her eyebrows drew together as her eyes dropped to the floor and her gaze began to flick from side to side. The rest of the world watched her with apprehension and confusion. Potter approached, resting his hand on her shoulder.

“Astoria?” he said cautiously.

Astoria took a deep breath.

“I just realised something.”

“Now? Potter asked quizzically. She nodded.

“Recapitulating. I…” She began to explain. Draco's nerves were on edge. “Marisa mentioned in a conversation with Goyle's father that with Narcissa's Occlumency barriers and the Obliviate in her mind, it was practically impossible to find out what she knew.”

“What?” Draco interrupted her, catching the oddity of that sentence.

The Obliviate in her mind.

Obliviate.

Astoria nodded solemnly.

“Yes, Malfoy," she said. “Someone Obliviated your mother, that's why they wanted to take away her Occlumency barriers. Someone knows her secret. That's... that's something we can't overlook. Fuck, and I almost took it for granted. I…”

But Draco wasn't paying attention to her anymore.

Who could know the secret his mother was keeping, who out there was still alive, while his mum had been suffering torture because she'd been given an Obliviate ?

It made sense now, that Voldemort would want to leave her without magic; not only would the barriers fall, but it would be much easier to undo the spell and retrieve her memories. The rest of it, however, was illogical.

Why, how could someone know what his mother knew, and still be alive, how could Voldemort haven’t found them?

Draco thought back. He remembered the last day he saw her free. He remembered what those moments were like, etched in his mind. What happened when chaos took over Hogwarts.

No, no.

Astoria was wrong.

“No," he said, voicing her thoughts aloud.

The woman, still sharing her theories, stopped abruptly, and the rest of the world focused on him again, distrustful.

Would they ever stop?

“Pardon me?” she asked.

Draco leaned his head against the wall, and looked up at the ceiling, exposing his throat to them. Astoria was still sitting in a chair, Potter's hand on her shoulder, Granger on her other side, and Theo on the other wall. They were all watching him.

“You're wrong. There isn’t a person who obliviated my mother.”

“I'm telling you what I saw," she snorted, bordering on condescension. “Besides, it makes more sense that they planned the ritual. Without their magic, they could reverse the spell.”

“I didn't say that wasn't true," Draco interrupted, not looking at her.

“Malfoy, for fuck's sake, speak plainly, will you?”

Draco looked sideways at Granger, who had spoken with as much annoyance as her face showed. It was odd to hear her curse.

“My mother obliviated herself," he said, not taking his eyes off the woman.

The reactions weren't long in coming.

Astoria clicked her tongue, as if the possibility had never crossed her mind, but now it made much more sense. After all, there were few things more difficult than undoing a self-obliviate; what better person to know what memories you want to erase than yourself?

Potter, for his part, maintained his nonchalant demeanour, but his eyes told a different story. Come to think of it, he almost always looked at him like that. As if he wanted to see beyond what Draco was showing, as if he could see right through him.

He didn't know shit.

“How can you be so sure?” Granger spat, narrowing her eyes.

“Because I saw her," he answered simply. “At the Battle of Hogwarts. Shortly before you began to retreat.”

He averted his gaze to Potter when he said the last, and much to his chagrin, Potter barely reacted. How boring. Draco would have preferred him to be ashamed of himself for running away like a coward.

“She raised her wand to her head, and uttered some words I didn't catch," he continued, raised a hand to his temple, and squeezed his eyelids tightly shut. The image of his mother at one point in the battle, aiming at herself as Draco watched, had abounded in his mind for years. “I always thought — I don't know. I didn't... I didn't think she'd ever — ”

Draco hadn't opened his eyes, but he knew Granger's expression didn't change in the slightest as he spoke.

“How do you remember that?” She questioned, once again with that accusing tone.

“Because it was the last day I saw her free.”

He didn't know what caused those words in others, but he didn't give a damn. He didn't care about looking vulnerable, or talking out of turn, at that moment he didn't care about looking weak. He knew they must be fools to see him that way. Draco was more concerned about other things. More concerned with unravelling it all, with understanding. He needed to know what had really happened.

Draco lowered his hand at last. His mother had seen something at the Battle, something that caused her to erase any memory of it. Maybe she saw something of the Order, someone taking Nagini, and that was why she knew where she was?

Maybe someone who ran away was carrying her, and she saw it, and to avoid saying it in a forced way she obliviated herself. Draco didn't know. He had no idea. Maybe he had even seen it too, but didn't pay attention to it.

Or you don’t remember?

The thought made him open his eyes again.

If his mother had seen something in the battle, if she knew something, what was to assure Voldemort that Draco didn't know about it too — or Lucius. Why weren't they ever tortured, why only his mother?

And what assures you that hadn’t happened?

His breath caught in his throat.

How, in almost eight years, had Voldemort never used him to get to Narcissa? If she betrayed him by lying for Potter during the battle, it was only thanks to the fact that she needed to see Draco. Narcissa needed to give him a chance at a world other than the one they lived in, in her own words.

So how come the Dark Lord never did anything to him? How come he never threatened to kill him, or worse, if she wouldn't let him inspect her memories? It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense that in years, Draco had never been in any real danger. Especially since his mother would’ve done anything to keep him safe. If Voldemort was threatening to do something to him, Narcissa would have confessed. Or she would've been more willing to cooperate.

Then why did he have no memory of such a thing happening?

It was impossible. It was stupid . The Dark Lord didn't respect him enough to keep him out of it, especially considering that his mother might have information on where Nagini was, which was apparently crucial to defeating him. Voldemort would’ve done anything .

Anything in his power.

No, it was impossible.

“Greengrass," he spoke suddenly, feeling completely dizzy. The woman looked up at him. “I think I may be under an Obliviate too.”

And before another soul could react to that, Draco began to explain his thoughts.

Astoria and the rest listened attentively, and when he finished, they began to discuss the possibilities, and whether or not Draco was telling the truth. But he couldn't hear them anymore. His eyes flew from the faces of the people present to the back of the cell, where Goyle was still half unconscious.

He had certainly suffered less than Yaxley, but the difference was that he didn't know as much, nor had he been as reluctant to cooperate. Still, the damage Greengrass had perhaps done to his mind was irreparable and equally painful.

And Draco didn't know what to feel.

He had no idea whether to think he deserved it, and to be glad that he was paying. It was just hard for him to feel that way. But he didn't feel sorry for him either. Not entirely. It was so clear in part of his brain that, forced or not, Goyle would’ve done that and worse anyway.

He couldn't think of leaving him there at the mercy of the Order, though. He couldn't think of a world where one of his best friends was murdered. Because that was what was going to happen.

Draco didn't know what to do.

“Alright.” Potter's voice brought Draco back to his senses, pulling his eyes away from Gregory. “We should try it right now.”

Astoria moved into position to enter his head, wand held high, strands of hair falling across her forehead.

Draco spoke without thinking. “Potter. Wait.”

Potter, who wasn't looking at him, who hadn't addressed him, turned squarely in his direction, waiting for him to continue.

“I need to talk to you.”

Granger tried to intervene at once, stepping to Potter's side, almost as if to protect him, but Draco stopped her before she spoke.

“Alone," he remarked, to make it clear. It was one thing to try to be honest with a Gryffindor, at least for Potter he felt some respect. It was another thing to talk in front of a mudblood of Hermione Granger's ilk.

Potter put a gentle hand on his friend's arm and stepped forward. Granger looked at him, and for a few seconds, they seemed to communicate in that way, only for Potter to finally nod, slightly. She stepped aside.

“All right," he murmured, turning to the woman. Then his emerald eyes settled on Draco. “Follow me.”

Just because he didn't feel like arguing over something as absurd as the fact that he wasn't in charge, Draco did so without objection.

They both left the room, and Draco didn't so much as glance at Theo, who was almost questioning him from a distance. They passed through the corridor and up the stairs to the first floor. It was smaller than the front of the manor, but had several rooms nonetheless. Potter opened one, and waited for him to pass before closing the door.

It was a large room, quite large. Mattresses surrounded both the walls and the floor, and the magic spells that protected and aided the purpose for which the room was used vibrated around it, betraying that it was a training room. Perhaps they had dummies hidden in the folds of the walls or floor. Draco stepped forward, taking a brief look around the room; the only two windows provided minimal light inside, making it almost dark.

“What do you want?” Potter spat, after a few seconds of silence.

Draco turned briefly from the window so that he could look at him. Potter's expression gave away absolutely nothing; his arms were folded across his chest, and he was facing him, blocking the exit in case Draco tried anything strange. Something he obviously wouldn't do.

“What's going to happen to Goyle?” he asked bluntly.

Potter put a hand to his chin and stroked it. Draco remembered that he'd seen him do that a few times. Maybe it was a tic. Or a habit.

“We'll probably get rid of him.”

At least he was honest.

Draco curved his lips, moving away from the window and towards him.

“Don't say it with pretty words, Potter. You're going to murder him, now that he's of no use to you. That's the truth.”

Potter smiled.

“Yes," he replied, "We're going to murder him now that he's of no use to us.”

It sounded dramatic, Draco knew, but the words echoed in his head. He tried to imagine a world where Goyle was murdered in front of him, and Draco did nothing and — it was inconceivable to him.

Now that he knew, he couldn't allow it. It didn't matter how much damage Goyle had done to him —

No.

It did matter.

But he'd already lost so much .

Draco had lost too much, and selfishly he didn't want to lose any more, even if Goyle had betrayed him.

“Don't do it," he blurted out abruptly. Potter raised his eyebrows.

“You're not one to give order — ”

“It's... it's not…” Draco took a deep breath, interrupting him. “It's not an order. Please.”

This was one of the few times a human emotion other than anger managed to break through Potter's usually cold countenance. He looked shocked, as if he couldn't believe Draco had any decency at all, or as if he couldn't believe his audacity.

“Please," he asked once more, his voice hard, "let him live.”

Draco didn't have much. The most important thing he had, before all this happened, was his family. But now he’d lost his mother and father. And his friends were only three, only one of whom he trusted. Blaise was out of the country, and Crabbe was dead. Now Goyle had betrayed him. Draco refused to lose any more people.

He wasn't even doing it because it was the right thing to do.

He was doing it because he was tired of feeling like this.

“We don't have the resources to keep him," Potter said, still analysing him. “And he's not an important prisoner.”

“I'll — I'll — bring food. Whatever it takes — but don't kill him.”

“Why?”

Draco looked him in the eye, shaking his head. Did he really have to explain?

He doesn't know who you are. In his eyes, you're nothing but a smear. In his eyes, you could be saying this to deceive them. To betray them. Because he thinks you're a piece of shit.

And he's not wrong.

“If the weasel…” he started to say.

“Don't call him that.”

“...were sitting in that chair," Draco continued, paying no attention to his deadly tone. “If he was in that position. If you knew I'd kill him, would you let it happen?”

Potter didn't respond immediately, as he took a long, hard look at Draco's features, who did his best to remain neutral. In turn, he promised himself that this would be the last time he cared about someone — this would be the last time he seriously cared enough to take that kind of risk. Loving someone was a weakness, it was hurting yourself for free. Draco couldn't bear to lose any more. Draco couldn't bear to be afraid again.

Everything would be so much easier if he had nothing to lose.

“Ron would never be in that situation," Potter finally replied. “Ron would rather cut off his own leg than betray me like that.”

Draco weighed his words, and concluded that perhaps he was right. Perhaps Potter was fortunate to have the loyalty of someone as petty as Weasley, but he didn't comment on the matter. Instead, Draco began to walk around the room, noting that it was big enough for at least seventy people, and that for some reason, still didn't feel spacious enough to be talking to Potter. He felt, with a couple of steps, that he could reach him, that he could raise his wand and bump into his chest without too much effort, despite being metres away.

Draco continued to look around the room, pacing away from Potter, who was still standing in the doorway. Thanks to the darkness, he couldn't make out much more than the mats on the walls and floor.

“If your suspicion is that I'm doing this to harm you," Draco said then, after a few minutes in which Potter's eyes never left his, "I think we both know it's a stupid way.”

It didn't take long for the answer to come.

“I've never thought of you as very clever.”

Draco smiled, almost genuinely. Potter was trying so hard to insult him. It was hilarious. He turned to him, the small smile still on his face, and watched him. Potter, for the second time, seemed a little surprised by that reaction.

“You're right," he conceded, the sentence laden with irony. “I've joined the side least likely to survive for a reason.”

Potter was neutral once more, walking slowly towards Draco at the back of the room. “You have a knack for picking the wrong side.”

Draco unconsciously moved towards him as well, separating his body from the mat behind him. They were at least fifteen feet apart at that point. Again they felt less.

“I had chosen the right one. They won the war, after all.”

“The war isn't over.”

“Potter," he said, plaintively. As if speaking to a child. Potter gritted his teeth. “You're naive if you don't know that the war has already been won.”

Potter stopped a little past the middle of the room and cocked his head to one side. At no point did either of them look away.

“Why are you here, then?”

Potter's eyes, unbelievably, glowed even brighter in the darkness. As if someone had decided that the jade colour that lived there were two lanterns. They had always been so transparent.

Draco had always hated his eyes.

“Answers," he said simply.

I want to know the truth.

Potter nodded a couple of times. The strands of hair fell over his face. He looked as if he was really considering the answer.

“I think you're lying," Potter finally said, confident. Draco hadn't stopped walking in his direction. “When you were under the Veritaserum, you said you were here for revenge. How do you intend revenge, when we are such a weak side?”

Draco stopped. They were still far away, but Potter had started to walk around the room, heading for the walls and touching them. Almost surrounding him. As if Draco was nothing more than prey.

“If we're good for nothing except delivering answers to the great Astaroth," he continued, and Draco had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat at the nickname. “How are you going to use us for revenge, then?”

He clenched his jaw, sensing that Potter was annoying him. And he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

“I can do it myself," he said with a chuckle.

Potter walked along the wall to his left, and finally came to stand on the same level as Draco, who craned his neck to look at him.

“No, Malfoy," he said, slipping his surname slowly, his voice getting lower and lower. “I think you're saying this to piss me off.”

“Potter, I don't know what gave you the impression,” he replied with a sneer of disgust. “that you're more important to me than the cockroaches on the floor.”

Potter smiled. It wasn't friendly. They were never friendly. Draco felt shivers at the sight of it. There was a sinister edge to it, reminding him that Potter was now a dangerous person, to say the least.

“I didn't say that," he conceded, stepping in her direction. “I think you know it's effective to anger me, to distract the conversation from its initial point.”

Draco turned to the front, ignoring the sound of approaching shoes.

“Either that, or I really think they're going to lose the war," he said dismissively. “That they're all going to end up dead, like your precious little weasel.”

He didn't know if the comment had caused the sting he wanted. He hoped it had.

“You haven't seen what we're capable of. I can take twenty like you, and still come out without a scratch.”

Draco almost laughed at that, and merely rolled his eyes, instead of telling him that they both knew that wasn't true. “They're still less than us.”

Potter finally reached him, and began to walk around him in a circle, staring at him. Draco saw out of the corner of his eye how he had one hand on his chin, and his other fingers were clutching the wand that had once been his. Draco kept his gaze straight ahead, trying to look as relaxed as possible.

" We ? Who's 'we', Malfoy?” asked Potter so low, it came out as a whisper. “The Death Eaters? The Nobilium? The people who murdered your mother?” Potter was moving behind his back, saying all this to test his loyalty. If Draco concentrated, he could feel his magic, rising and dancing around him, waking from a long nap and crashing against the back of his neck. “The Order? Theo?”

Potter brushed past him, leaning ever so slightly into his ear. Imperceptible. Draco was sure he hadn't even noticed it himself. His body emanated warmth even though he wasn't even touching him.

“Who?” Potter hissed, and the breath hit his earlobe for a millisecond.

Draco ignored the current that ran up his back as he stepped in front of him, a few paces away. Only there did Draco notice that Potter was a little shorter, and that the singular lightning bolt-shaped scar that had once been bright red had faded to white against the skin, almost silver.

Draco realised that he’d been staring at it too hard, and looked away.

“Where are your loyalties?” Potter continued, rolling his eyes up and down. “What are your true motives?”

“I've told you everything. I hide nothing.”

As he finished the sentence, he connected their eyes.

Potter examined him, cocking his head to one side again. Draco held his eye contact as if on a dare. They were closer than he expected, but he made no move to separate or create distance, not when it meant weakness or fear. Draco wasn't afraid. Draco wasn't hiding anything.

Potter's eyes looked so obnoxiously clear.

Finally, it was he who looked away.

“All right," Potter said, clearing his throat, "Why shouldn't I cut Gregory Goyle's throat?”

Draco let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

He had to tell him the truth. As fucked up as it is, he had to speak honestly to the piece of shit that Potter was. Because he knew that otherwise, it would give him more room for doubts and absurd suspicions that shouldn't exist anymore.

“Maybe you have twenty friends, Potter," he retorted, poison permeating the sentence. “If one dies, you have many more to spare.”

Her nostrils flared, and Draco knew that, though he didn't show it, the comment had stung. He knew his mannerisms well enough to know that. And he was glad.

“But Gregory was — is — is... I've known him since we were children.”

The fleeting image of Goyle trying to capture a peacock at the Manor, just because Draco had asked him to, crossed his mind.

“I'm not taking his death upon myself.”

“You wouldn't be killing him. We would.”

“I'll know that I could have changed his fate, and I didn't.” Draco clasped his hands together in front of him, watching as Potter followed his movements with his eyes. “Isn't that the same thing?”

“I find it interesting, that you think you're important enough to change people's fates.”

“We all have choices, and we all make choices that affect our destinies," Draco snorted, more sharply than he intended. Potter watched him with open curiosity. “I chose to be who I am, and you chose to be who you are.”

Draco could have left England during the short time that quarantine was not yet in effect. Draco might not have become a Death Eater in the first place. Draco could have refused to be part of the Nobilium. Draco might not have been an accomplice in Eric's death. Draco could have chosen death. An honourable and good man would have done so, before becoming a torturer.

He wasn’t.

“I didn’t — ”

Potter interrupted himself, shaking his head, then glared at him from under his eyebrows.

They stared at each other for what seemed like a full minute, not saying a word.

“You have no fucking idea what you're talking about.”

Maybe. 

Maybe there really was no choice in some situations, or with some people.

It wasn't his case.

“It's not very likely, but I know it's in my power to ask you to please," Draco closed his eyes as he begged again, feeling somewhat humiliated, "not kill him.”

Potter didn't respond to that either, he just didn't say anything about his words. After a few seconds, he decided to change the subject. “We should go back to the others to look at your memories.”

Draco nodded, knowing that sentence to be the equivalent of, "I'll think about it," and began to walk away, circling him without devoting any more attention to him than he'd already gotten as he headed for the door.

He stepped out into the hallway, feeling again the sensation he experienced the first day he arrived there, as if someone was watching him. But the more he tried to see the source of it, the less he perceived it.

After hearing him close the door and protect it with spells, Potter's footsteps sounded behind him as he followed him back to the dungeons. He was close, though it wasn't until halfway up the stairs that Draco turned to watch him.

“Potter," he said, looking up.

Potter was two steps behind him, and he slowed the instant he heard him. The light from upstairs was shining directly into Draco's face, and he couldn't quite make out what Potter looked like when he saw him so close. Draco also noticed that he was quite thin; Potter's body had been pulled up to his face; the scent of blood and perfume wafted over him.

He licked his lips.

“You could never take on twenty like me," Draco told him.

Potter sighed, but he sounded more amused than annoyed.

“I know," he replied, slowly. “Only ten.”

Draco thought he saw the corners of his lips lift as he said that.

But it was probably just his idea.

•••

The atmosphere in the room hadn't changed at all when Draco re-entered. For some reason, he had felt so different outside, during the conversation with Potter, that he had forgotten that there was no reason why things should be different in there. For the rest of the world to be different.

Astoria broke away from Theo as soon as she saw them enter, looking even... excited at their arrival.

“Malfoy," she said, standing in front of him. “May I?”

Draco knew what she meant, and he understood then that this was the reason Astoria was so excited: she wanted to test her theory. Maybe she even found it enjoyable.

“All right," he replied, and no sooner had he finished the sentence than Astoria had already entered his brain.

Surprised though he was, Draco let her get past his barriers.

She wasn't brusque, or imposing, which gave away once again how good she was at it. A good Legillimens didn't make herself noticeable unless she wanted to be, and only a good Occlumenst could sense that. Astoria was gentle in what she did, navigating his mind and memories with a delicacy Draco had never felt during a Legillimancy session.

The first thing that jumped into his head, was the scene of Potter refusing his hand, all those years ago.

Draco remembered that the first thing your head showed was what you didn't want the other person to see.

From then on the memories went from present to past, moving further and further away from that day. She briefly saw his and Potter's conversation from minutes before; she saw Theo, and Voldemort, and Greyback. Astoria went back weeks, watching the argument he had with Pansy, and going all the way back to the moment his mother died, making him relive it in a way Draco had not wanted to do: her limp, frail body in an Azkaban cell. Astoria saw Hannah, and also noticed, more than obviously, the nightmare he had woken up with that day, even after taking a non-dreaming potion. 

He didn't want that, he didn't want Astoria to be witnessing all those things at all. But there was no stopping her.

And so it went on, and on, and on. Until she let out an audible gasp, and took a step back, touching her face, leaving his mind.

Draco and the rest waited for her verdict with their hearts in their hands.

And then —

“You're right, Draco Malfoy," said Astoria, looking almost delighted at the prospect. “Someone has Obliviated you.”

Chapter Text

Kidnapping Goyle wasn't very difficult.

Harry didn't expect it to be either.

Thanks to Leice and Hannah's notes, and the chats the former had during the time they were out of contact, they managed to determine Goyle's routine —which, they had no idea who he was to begin with— and after discovering that he took the floo to the Azkaban offices to carry out his duties as a guard while Narcissa was alive, the list of suspects was narrowed considerably, as they knew more or less his physical build when he wasn't using polyjuice.

And then they found his identity.

Harry might’ve been surprised, if he didn't already believe that all Death Eaters were absolute shite, and that it was to be expected that Goyle, being the son of one, would be involved in something as nasty as Narcissa's murder and torture. His best friend's mother. So — he wasn't in any way shocked by it, nor that when they found the perfect moment when he was alone, they successfully and stealthily captured him. No trouble at all.

What did surprise him was Malfoy.

Harry had started that day pretty sure about what he thought of Draco Malfoy and where he could shove every single thing he said.

And now—

Now he couldn't understand him in the slightest.

When they were at school, Harry reached a point where he could almost empathise with Draco Malfoy. He understood that they were kids, and that Malfoy didn't really want any of it. The visions he’d of him while they were searching for the Horcruxes, the ones where Voldemort was forcing him to torture, assured him that knowledge. Not to mention what Harry had heard and seen him in the Astronomy tower, when he was supposed to kill Dumbledore. Harry even came to feel pity for what Tom might be doing to him and his family.

But then the war was over, at least in the public eye, and Malfoy ended up proving that he was exactly the same piece of rubbish he'd proved himself to be all his life. That he had his mother in Azkaban being tortured without giving a damn, and that he himself was responsible for many deaths, like all the murderers of the Nobilium and Electis. Though those two things were not entirely true— Harry thought there was not a shred of humanity left in him. And he half proved it during Yaxley's interrogation, where Malfoy was torn between looking delighted to make him suffer, and indifferent, using curses Harry had no idea existed.

But then Goyle happened.

It didn't make sense, it didn't make a pinch of sense that Malfoy would ask him to save him, to not let him die. Someone who’d left another person legless, who’d nearly driven a man he'd shared day in and day out with for almost eight years insane... someone who didn't waver in the flick of his wand when he tortured people, who didn't move a muscle in his face when he saw a woman being fed the remains of her husband's body— 

Should have no mercy for a traitor.

Harry certainly wouldn't have. Not to a person who was supposed to be his friend ; who’d kept things from him, and who was responsible for wiping out what little he’d left. Malfoy should’ve asked Harry to kill him slowly while he watched.

But no.

Malfoy instead asked not to kill him.

It made him think that maybe he was up to something, that it was a plan, to let Goyle live. But he was risking death, because of the Unbreakable Vow, and no matter how much he thought about it he couldn't think of what plan was worth such a ridiculous risk. Then there was the fact that when Malfoy had left the room, Harry had followed him, overhearing his entire conversation with Theo. And he'd sounded genuinely affected : the laboured breathing, the worried, venomous tone....

And their own talk—

Harry hadn't known that Malfoy would ask him to do that, but he had, and he hadn't just ordered it. He asked him to please not kill Goyle. For a few moments, he hadn't even seemed as detestable as Harry knew him to be. Just a simple human being who wanted to see his best friend well, because he couldn't bear the burden of his death.

It just didn't make sense .

Harry didn't want to focus too much on that. He had plenty of things to worry about and think about, but if Malfoy went and did such incoherent things, his brain inevitably wanted to figure it out, to find a reason for it. Trying to connect the torturer with the man desperate to save a traitor.

Malfoy left quickly after that, on the explanation that if he spent any more time there and they found out that Goyle had been kidnapped, they might go looking for him. Voldemort might distrust him even more. But he agreed that every day Astoria went to the base, Theo would take him too, and so they would work to undo the unexpected Obliviate that had been done to him.

As soon as Harry had erased his memories and Theo had stunned him, he returned to the manor again, where Hermione and Astoria had already locked down the cell and dungeon area, as they chatted on the edge of the staircase. When he approached them both, Hermione turned to Harry.

“I don't trust him," she told him bluntly, as she did every chance she got to remind him. Her face was like stone.

Harry sighed when he heard her, and gestured to one of the rooms nearby. He opened the door, letting the two women in, and briefly looked around. Obviously in almost eight years every room in the Manor had been explored, but not all of them were in use, considering there were still people left at the base beneath the Forbidden Forest. Few, but there were. So that was one of those unoccupied rooms.

“I think we'd be idiots to trust him completely," Harry replied then, leaning against one of the chairs scattered around the place. “But looking at it objectively, Hermione, do you really think he wants to betray us, that he's here as an infiltrator…?” His voice tried to convey the scepticism he felt at the possibility. At least for now. Yes, Draco Malfoy could be a son of a bitch, but he had also proven that when he cared about someone, he was loyal enough to ask that they not be killed. And Narcissa...

Narcissa was his mum . Harry had seen them, years ago. They were genuinely fond of each other.

“I mean," he continued in her silence, "he's part of the Nobilium and all, but they killed his mother .”

Hermione was adamant. “I doubt Draco Malfoy thinks and cares about anything but himself.”

Harry was about to tell her — tell her about Goyle and their chat, even though it might bring more suspicion. But Astoria beat him to it, placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder gently.

“I think differently.”

Hermione paid instant attention to her. In those years, her friend had learned to respect Astoria as well. They all did, in a way, and they recognised that she was someone smart. No more so than Hermione herself or McGonagall, of course, but while they tended to have a rather... ‘Gryffindoresque approach’, as Theo and Astoria had dubbed it, she and Adrian, or even Millicent, tended to look at things in a different light.

“I've been inside his mind, as you may recall," she said, waiting for Hermione to nod. When she did, Astoria continued, "I know what I saw. Hermione— Malfoy saw his mother's corpse. He held her in his arms. I could feel what he felt. I saw everything through his eyes. I don’t— ”

Harry looked at Astoria, as a lot of thoughts assaulted him. He’d seen a lot of people die, for as long as he could remember. More than he should have.

More than any human being was supposed to be able to bear.

But he didn't remember the murder of his parents. Thanks to the Universe, or whatever it was that had given him life. Thanks to whatever it was, Harry never had to experience anything like holding his dead mother in his arms.

And Malfoy had.

How the fuck was he still sane?

“At least that aspect of him is real," Astoria continued, giving her a sympathetic smile that expressed, ‘I understand your mistrust, but I know what I'm talking about.’ “He's not here as a spy. Or at least not on the orders of the Chief Death Eater. He's here because this whole thing nearly broke him and he wants to find the culprits.”

Hermione didn't respond, and Harry considered her words without speaking either. There was no point in him saying anything about Goyle anymore. After all, it wasn't as if he trusted Malfoy too much himself, or wanted to give him too much benefit of the doubt.

But he trusted Astoria.

“Anyway, it doesn't matter," Hermione replied, after those moments of silence. “The important thing at the moment is to know what we do now.”

“Well," said Harry, "we know that what Narcissa was hiding had something to do with Nagini's whereabouts.”

“Ah, ah," Hermione interrupted him, denying. “That's what we think. It really could be something else.”

Harry did his best not to roll his eyes. There were things that wouldn't change. “It's not very likely, and we've talked about it a million times. The only thing that would make Tom keep Narcissa alive for eight years, after lying to him in the Forest for me, is that . I can't think of anything else. And neither can you.” Harry folded his arms defiantly. “Sure, the first few years he could have let her live to torture her and get a bit of revenge, but to go to all that trouble and keep it confidential? It certainly wasn't out of the goodness of his heart.”

Hermione pursed her lips, knowing he was right. It always came to the same thing, no matter how much her friend wanted to think of other possibilities. It was almost entirely certain that whatever Narcissa was hiding, it had to do with that bloody snake.

“So… the only thing we've got out of this is that Narcissa got an Obliviate in full retreat, because she saw something she shouldn't have? And, well, that Malfoy is also under an Obliviate , which is probably hiding information,” Hermione said.

“Yes, basically”

“So we're in the same place as we were with Yaxley, just a bit more tired.”

Harry didn't need to nod.

He put a hand to his forehead and massaged it. He remembered seeing Malfoy do the same thing, and thought for a few brief seconds if he was getting headaches too. Harry got them all too often, but they were acceptable compared to the pain he felt from Voldemort's nightmares as a teenager.

“Let's recap," Astoria began to say when neither of them brought anything new to the table, "Narcissa had probably been hiding the secret of where Nagini is for eight years. And, well, we thought before that she was probably doing it because she didn't want Tom to win for good. But if her son's life was in danger, as the Obliviate indicates that it surely is…” She paused, thinking about the information they had gathered. “What if she just couldn't say what she knew?”

That got the attention of her friends, who looked at Astoria squarely.

“I mean, Narcissa was a perfect Occlumens. She looked the Dark Lord in the face in the Forbidden Forest and lied to him about your death.” Astoria turned to Harry as if waiting for his confirmation, when he'd told that story a million times already. “Trying to break down her Occlumency walls, without her even putting them up on purpose, had to have been practically impossible. And then there's that Obliviate . The self- Obliviate — why, why would she do it?”

The three of them were silent for a few seconds, before Hermione came up with the answer. Her face lit up. “Because she knew what would happen to her. She understood that the Chief Death Eater won once we retreated, because we were so outnumbered. And she knew that once he tortured her and found out what he wanted to find out, he would kill her. Narcissa and her whole family. It was the safest thing to do.”

Harry frowned. “But she died anyway.”

“Yes, after eight years. Eight years in which Malfoy rose to become one of the highest ranking Death Eaters, and made sure they didn't want to assassinate him so easily. He made himself useful. He made himself a weapon. Without Narcissa that wouldn't have been possible.”

He made himself a weapon.

That came as a blow to him, as he thought of Malfoy again.

Malfoy, who’d spent all that time devising spells and potions to help his Lord. He was, just as Hermione had said: useful. He’d become a tool in the battles against 'the Rebels', and whether he wanted to or not, he was useful to Voldemort.

Harry didn't want to think — he really didn't want to think about how that resembled his own life. How many times he'd thought about how Dumbledore had turned him into a weapon to use when the time came.

He shook his head.

“Now," Hermione continued, thinking aloud, "what does Malfoy himself have to do with all this, with the mystery of Nagini?”

“He didn't say much," Astoria answered. “But I think he suspects that the Dark Lord may have tortured him as well to encourage Narcissa to talk, and he's erased those memories.”

Harry hated with all of his being how the taboo curse prevented them from calling that bastard by name, or the Death Eaters could find the area around the manor. It turned his stomach every time someone said "Dark Lord". Voldemort didn't deserve such pleasantries.

“It doesn't interfere with the Obliviate you guys put on him, does it, for when he leaves?” Hermione turned to him suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. Harry denied.

“That's not an Obliviate , it's a variant. It's not even halfway permanent. This one is.”

They were quiet again, trying to get their heads around what they knew, as they would probably have to lay it all out at the afternoon meeting with the rest of the Order, and prove that Malfoy was useful as well. McGonagall and Molly weren't very happy after Harry decided to include him as a member, but sharing so many years, plans and struggles, made them respect him enough to trust him.

He was no longer a child, after all.

“But do you think you can get his memories back?” Hermione asked. “I mean, the Chief Death Eater could never get Narcissa's back...”

“But it's different," Astoria replied softly. “Malfoy's mental wards aren't as resilient, which is probably because he didn't learn Occlumency from birth, like Narcissa did. It's like comparing my Legillimancy ability to Harry's— no offence," she added, looking at him. Harry shook his head, "Plus she did a self Obliviate . Do you have any idea how complicated it is to undo that, putting together all the factors I just mentioned?”

Hermione bit her lip, possibly still trying to find ‘buts’ to the plan. Harry, on the other hand, accepted the words and felt grateful. Grateful that it meant it was possible to undo the Obliviate .

“So… we need to just wait for Malfoy to remember, when that could take months?” Hermione said then, with a hint of bitterness. “Years?”

Harry's optimistic mood faded as he heard her.

Hermione was right. They had waited too long, nearly a decade. They had worked too hard, and the truth was so close. Did they really have to wait any longer?

It was a sacrifice, and he wasn't sure he or the rest of them were willing to make any more.

But something occurred to him.

“There is another option," he said, his voice calm.

Hermione and Astoria turned to him, questioning expressions on their faces. Harry cleared his throat, looking away for a few seconds and trying to put his chaotic thoughts into words. “We said we were supposed to kidnap Goyle's mum, didn't we?” He began to explain, hoping for a nod, though none of them looked thrilled at the prospect. “But we know that not everyone is fully aware of what was going on with Narcissa. Probably Marisa just did what she was told to do, and that was it. Mr. Goyle is just part of the Electis, and we already know from Theo that, in general, they don't know much. Not really. I doubt they'd trust them with truly valuable information.”

Harry took a deep breath, watching the expressions on their faces change, understanding the futility of kidnapping Marisa.

“Yaxley himself didn't have the full story. Malfoy, for obvious reasons, knew nothing, which only leaves us with five more options. The members of the Nobilium: Rodolphus, Mulciber, Macnair, Greyback…”

“And Rookwood," Hermione whispered. Harry gave a small smile.

“Exactly.” He rose from his chair, beginning to pace around the room. “What other person, other than the Minister of Magic himself, would be more aware of what was going on?”

They both considered his words carefully.

Harry knew that among Voldemort's reasons for not telling the public that he was still alive —apart from having people searching for him everywhere— was that, if Harry was shown to be alive, it might fan a spark of revolution that was not convenient for him now that he had the power. And that, on top of everything else, would make him look weak.

On the other hand, if Harry exposed Nagini's secret, as he had tried to do repeatedly, (ending up with people being executed), nothing assured Voldemort that the people who secretly hated him would not try to track down the snake on their own. So the number of persons who should know the truth behind Narcissa, the Horcrux, and his ‘death’ was getting smaller and smaller, to the point where Harry doubted that even Rookwood knew everything.

More than the rest, yes.

“So you're suggesting we kidnap him," Hermione said. “You want us to kidnap their minister.”

“I'd be happier to kill him," said Harry, as Hermione gave him a disapproving look, "but yes, I think it's a good alternative.”

And they began to discuss the possibility, trying to shape it.

It was difficult. They couldn't afford to lose people, not many. And it was risky, as they could never capture a member of the Nobilium before. The only reason Yaxley was there was because Malfoy took him. Normally, they were so bloody well protected. How would they do it? How could they do it?

Malfoy may be the answer.

So, days later, after he'd had a Legillimancy session with Astoria, Harry had approached him at the entrance to the manor, getting straight to the point and asking him about Rookwood. And, despite what Harry thought, Malfoy understood much quicker than he expected. As if the simple question about Rookwood and how protected he was, had made a few clicks in his head

Pretty quick and impressive for someone whose brain was no bigger than a peanut.

Well — Harry wasn't being very fair.

“Rookwood must know a lot of the truth, right?” he’d asked, his jaw tensing. Harry shrugged.

“That's what we think.”

And for the first time since Malfoy had reappeared in his life, they spoke without so much as a nasty grimace. No insults left each other's lips, and they discussed how likely it was that Rookwood would be kidnapped in the future. Malfoy explained that this year's Victory Day ceremony would be held outside for the first time.

Every May 2nd before that, Voldemort celebrated his supposed victory inside Hogwarts. In the dining hall, because that part of it was still intact, just as destroyed as it had been eight years earlier. As a reminder of who’d won, and of what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts.

That was Tom's constant weapon: not allowing people to forget.

But, whether he wanted to or not, the Great Hall had begun to crumble, the infrastructure had begun to fall apart, and while the son of a bitch would survive that, the rest of the people would not. So the rebuilding of the dining hall was underway. And anyway, the place where Neville had died was still just as iconic, only on the outside.

It was a good choice. It was an excellent option. If they got in through the base under the Forbidden Forest, or by flying in unseen... they could do something with it, take advantage of the opportunity. They could kidnap Rookwood in front of all those people.

Voldemort would have no way of denying that Harry was still alive, in that case.

But they also risked an unfair fight, in which innocent people would continue to die. That the Death Eaters would capture them.

Unfortunately, it was up to Malfoy. He had to tell them beforehand how the ceremony was going to be organised, everyone's positions, weaknesses. Malfoy would know.

When they finally fell silent, Harry watched him for a few seconds, noticing how, every so often, Malfoy would bring his hand to his face and trace the scar that crossed his face. It reminded him a little of Remus, except that Professor Lupin's wounds were much more, and less precise. Malfoy's seemed to be there as if it had been caused specifically to hurt him.

Harry sighed, and turned away, willing himself not to think about it. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't see the point.

“Potter," Malfoy said in a strained voice as Harry was leaving. He turned to look at him, "Can I speak to Goyle?”

Harry hesitated in his tracks, somewhat perplexed — why would Malfoy want such a thing, had he thought things through and now wished to torture him, or kill him? Harry nodded cautiously, and began to walk towards the back of the manor. He wasn't about to leave them alone.

“Let's go.”

He felt Malfoy follow behind him without another word as Harry passed through the corridors, nodding to the people he came across. The Weasleys, for the most part, decided to stand in the other wing of the manor when Malfoy went, to avoid direct confrontations that might backfire. But it was clear that this could not last forever. At some point they would meet, and Harry knew it wouldn't be pretty. Not after the death of two of his own.

Ginny.

“He hasn't been fully conscious since what happened," Harry reported, as they entered the cell.

It smelt awful, and he hadn't been there since Goyle had been taken to the base. Other people, mostly refugees, had been feeding him and applying cleansing spells. But that didn't disguise the smell that indicated he hadn't had a bath, plus the small holes in the floor for the prisoner to relieve himself didn't help.

Harry wrinkled his nose, watching as Goyle stood on the far wall of the bars.

“We have no idea what aftermath Astoria's meddling left," Harry warned, closing the dungeon door and casting a cooling spell in the air.

Malfoy moved forward without a single gesture or reply, while Harry leaned against the door and glared at him in irritation.

That was another thing that annoyed him, that he was so bloody expressionless, and he didn't know what the fuck was going on in his head. During Hogwarts, Harry had been able to decipher his moods so easily. He would blush slightly when he was upset or embarrassed, squint his eyes when he was angry, or fidget his hands if he was in high spirits. Harry remembered him.

But this Malfoy barely existed. He barely seemed alive.

If it hadn't been for the fact that Harry had heard him agitated twice, he would have thought he had no real emotions.

“Gregory," he said in a hard, high voice as he reached the edge of the cell.

Goyle gasped when he heard it, glancing to either side, half disoriented, until he focused on Draco and smiled a somewhat relieved smile.

And then he seemed to remember, more or less, what had happened.

“Draco…”

Malfoy gritted his teeth as he heard him say his name, but this time he didn't correct him. Harry, after seeing him react to his most acclaimed pseudonym —’Astaroth’— doubted that Malfoy would prefer to be called that either.

Perhaps he was wrong.

“Why did you do it?” Malfoy asked bluntly, his voice trembling with anger. “I know all about it.”

Goyle didn't answer. He pursed his lips and lowered his head, as if Malfoy were a father scolding a child who had committed a mischief. Harry didn't understand the dynamic between the two.

“Goyle," Malfoy began to say threateningly, but was interrupted.

“Mother asked me to," he blurted out, desperate tears beginning to fill his eyes. “She and father wanted to do it, and then they told me. I thought... I thought — I did it because it was a good opportunity.”

Malfoy slapped the bars. “She’s my mother .”

Goyle lowered his head again as he shook his head. He was certainly more broken than Yaxley had been, and the torture had been much, much less.

“I'm sorry," he muttered, hiccupping.

Harry could almost see Malfoy spit at him, but he restrained himself, straightening up and straightening his robes, that despicable droplet-shaped brooch on his chest glinting in the light.

“I have no use for your apologies.”

Goyle's hiccups didn't inspire Harry's pity one bit. If it were up to Harry, he could suffer and feel guilty until the last day of his life; to think of the things he’d done and those he had harmed. Malfoy, for his part, did look a little shaken. He was trying to mask it very well, though.

“I should have told you," said Goyle, in the midst of his pathetic crying. “I— ”

But he never got to finish that sentence.

Suddenly, Goyle began to shake.

Harry recognised it as a seizure, probably the aftermath of what Astoria had done to his head. Whatever, he still had plenty of sanity and it was more than he deserved.

Harry watched as Malfoy backed away from the cell, taking steps backwards, while he watched as Goyle showed signs of slipping into unconsciousness, foam starting to come out of his mouth.

“Yes," Malfoy replied to his previous sentence, in a neutral tone. “You should have.”

Harry moved out of the way of the door to let him pass, and stared at Goyle for a few seconds. He thought about leaving him there, letting the guy deal with what was happening to him on his own. But until it was clear what was going to be his fate, until he could talk to the Order about whether or not they would kill him, he had to help him.

Letting out a tired breath, Harry sent a Patronus to Madam Pomfrey to send one of her apprentices to take care of Goyle. The stag was lost, heading upstairs, and Harry hoped that the few people who were learning Medicraft would have time to care for a useless prisoner.

Cautiously, he stepped out of the dungeon, only to hear, as he had weeks ago, Theo and Malfoy talking in the same spot on the side of the staircase, on a wall where they couldn't see into the corridor.

Harry slowed his steps so that he could hear better, though he could only hear muffled phrases.

“No one forced him…” That was Malfoy's voice, all right.

Harry drew his eyebrows together as he identified the hollow tone of his voice, as if he was under the influence of Veritaserum. He cursed a little at not having his invisibility cloak on him so he could spy on them, and he knew that summoning it would alert the men that he was eavesdropping.

“... I've got nothing left…”

Harry clung to the wall of the corridor, still metres behind, so that he could hear more accurately. But all he could make out were those confused sentences.

“There's no one left…” He heard Malfoy whisper, in that extremely calm voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Everyone — ”

Harry noticed how Theo interrupted him, his low, resonant voice cutting through the air, even if he couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

“... You've got me.”

And from then on, he could hear no more.

Harry didn't know how long he stood leaning against the wall in the darkness of the corridor where the torches hadn't been lit, while Malfoy was comforted by Theo. Wondering truly, who Draco Malfoy was, and why he was acting the way he was acting.

And then, in the midst of his contradictions, in the midst of replaying the Death Eater's words in his head, a thought crossed his mind.

Andromeda.

Whether they wanted to or not, Malfoy was not alone. Not all of his family was missing.

Andromeda was there. She was with them. She had been hit by a curse they hadn't been able to identify during the Battle of Hogwarts, which had deteriorated her mental sanity quite a bit, but she was still alive.

Harry thought about it, even when Malfoy left that day. He’d no idea what relationship the two of them had had before all this happened. Harry guessed not very good, or practically non-existent. But it seemed to him that it was out of his hands to hide from both of them that the other existed, that they were still alive, and that they were in fact under the same roof.

But it wasn't until a week later, when Hermione, Harry and Ron were returning from the Forbidden Forest, having collected ingredients for the potions they were brewing, that he’d a chance to tell Malfoy.

There wasn't much progress regarding Astoria, as she explained it to him. She couldn't penetrate Malfoy's Occlumency barriers for long, so they had to wait for his mind to get used to having her inside and stop seeing her as a threat. At least they had seen the gaps in his missing memories, and even though there were quite a few, it wasn't going to be that difficult to retrieve them.

“Malfoy," Harry called as he was ready to leave.

Malfoy turned at the sound of it, giving him a look with his eyebrow up, and the corners of his mouth down. It was an expression of disgust.

“Your aunt is here," Harry said without preamble, causing him, for a few seconds, to hear the man's breath catch.

Harry detailed the change in his face, how a slight panic flashed through his grey eyes, before he relaxed and understood what he was referring to.

And he just knew, that Malfoy for a few milliseconds didn't think about Andromeda. That perhaps in eight years it hadn't crossed his mind.

Malfoy had thought of Bellatrix.

“So...?” he asked disdainfully. Harry put his hands in his pockets, already irritated.

“I thought you should know.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes sceptically, turning away from the doorway as he held a hand to his chest.

“Are you going to let me see her?” he asked scornfully. “Aren't you afraid these filthy Death Eater hands will do something to her?”

Harry gave him a humourless half-smile.

“It's her decision if she wants to see you and," he paused, looking him up and down. Malfoy stood very still, "How much harm could you do?”

The man didn't react for a few seconds before he laughed at his contempt.

“You have no idea what I'm capable of either," Malfoy replied boredly. “In fact, before I came here today, I drank a litre of newborn blood for breakfast.”

Harry wondered if he should be shocked, or at least suspicious that this sentence was true. After the atrocities the Death Eaters had proven themselves capable of over the years, drinking the blood of newborns was one of the gentler things to do. But instead, all his comment caused him to do, was let out a laugh, which he quickly disguised with a cough. Malfoy seemed mildly surprised at that, though he didn't comment.

“I don't think Andromeda wants to see me, Potter," was his reply, returning to the subject. Harry noticed that he hadn't called her Aunt.

But he also noticed that he hadn't said that he had no interest in seeing her. Harry really didn't know if he was that indifferent to her.

“I can ask her.”

Malfoy stared at him, his grey eyes roaming over every faction of his face. Harry endured the scrutiny without a word, recognising that, whether he wanted to or not, Malfoy's gaze was too intense. He couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. Analysed.

These were feelings he didn't like in the slightest.

Malfoy nodded finally.

“All right.”

Harry nodded back, before turning and walking towards the main stairs of the manor, as Malfoy followed. It was becoming too much of a recurring scene. And it wasn't what he’d originally expected.

Harry was doing this, because he thought it wasn't fair to Andromeda to believe that absolutely all of her family was dead. While she’d never mentioned Narcissa or his nephew during those years, it didn't mean anything. Andromeda hadn't spoken on more than ten occasions in all that time.

Harry reached the first floor, and turned left, going to the wing where the woman spent almost every waking minute of the day. Alone in a room, coming out only when she asked— or begged. Harry felt genuinely bad for her at times, until he remembered all her suicide attempts, and attempted escapes to ‘get revenge’. Andromeda even refused to receive care from Madam Pomfrey, and since the mediwitch couldn't force her to be cured unless it was an emergency, she’d only checked on her on a few occasions, discovering that Andromeda had very irregular vital signs thanks to the trauma and the unknown spell, which even altered her magic. Madam Pomfrey had explained to them that it could happen, that a witch would suffer such a traumatic event that it would end up affecting their magic and their physique, and that it was also increased by the curse.

Harry remembered that, and knew it was best to leave her where she was. That unless there was someone watching over her all day, Andromeda had to stay locked up.

Harry reached the womans’ room, and opened it with a flick of his wand.

Andromeda was as usual, at the window.

He detailed her, noting how the years had taken a deep toll on the woman. She looked ten times older than she really was, like an elder, with her hair falling out and her flesh withered. She had this psychotic look about her, pacing from place to place, and the air around her seemed stagnant, a terrible smell pervading the room thanks to the fact that the woman never left it. Harry wondered if, at that moment perhaps, she was devising plans to escape, claiming she could defeat Voldemort. Although, when she came to his senses, she didn't try anything unusual. Not when she realised that without Harry's permission, there was no way she or any living thing could get in or out of the base.

It can't have been easy to have lost your whole family in one day. Your daughter, and your grandson. To have your husband and son-in-law taken away from you by war and a foul man without being able to say goodbye. Harry understood why Andromeda didn't speak, or why she wanted to throw herself out of the window.

Perhaps he understood her better than anyone else.

“Hello, Andromeda," he said in a soft voice.

Andromeda slowly withdrew her eyes from the scenery outside to look at Harry. She looked absent, tired, as if she hadn't even realised what she was doing seconds before. The woman moved from her spot, to approach him, and he instinctively reached a hand towards his pocket. It wouldn't be the first time she’d mistaken him for someone else and started hitting him.

But before anything could happen, her gaze travelled back to Harry's shoulder.

And he realised his mistake.

He had left the door open.

“Andromeda— ”

He couldn't finish the sentence, because from one second to the next, Andromeda had rushed in his direction, and her hands were reaching for Malfoy, who, sure enough, had backed up until he hit the corridor wall.

Harry struggled with the woman, trying not to hurt her, and saw how her eyes were filled with tears; how her face was red and she was making an inhuman effort to reach Malfoy. At that moment, Harry couldn't say for sure what was going through Andromeda's head, what she was seeing, but it had never crossed his mind that maybe she would blame Malfoy. That she could blame him for what had happened to Tonks and Teddy.

Because— how?

Malfoy was just a boy when all that had happened. He wasn't responsible for absolutely everything.

That echoed in his mind for a second.

Malfoy wasn't responsible for absolutely everything, no matter how easy it would be to make him so.

Harry managed to push Andromeda back into the room, as he felt someone  —probably Malfoy— slam the door shut.

“Andromeda.”

“Traitor," she interrupted him, trembling with rage, with sadness, her eyes still fixed on the wood behind him. “ Traitor .”

Harry let out an exhalation, trying to organise his thoughts. To Andromeda, Malfoy had betrayed his family. What they had believed, before Theo had led him there, was that Malfoy allowed Narcissa to be abused. Perhaps Andromeda was stuck with that idea, and that, combined with the fact that Malfoy was literally part of the side that slaughtered her loved ones...

“Do you want me to keep him away from you?” he whispered, knowing that there was no point in trying to explain the truth to her at this point.

Andromeda finally seemed to realise that Harry was holding her, and pushed him away, releasing her grip as she turned her back to him.

He sighed.

“All right," Harry told her, recognising what an unmitigated disaster that was. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Andromeda walked away, walking to the other window, the larger one, protected from being broken, as she seemed to babble to herself, shaking her head sharply.

Harry grabbed the doorknob.

“I'm sorry," he apologised sincerely.

But the woman was no longer present.

Harry left the room wearily, only to find Malfoy leaning against the wall to his right. He was staring at the ceiling, his expression vacant, his throat exposed and his jaw set towards the sky. Harry gazed at his profile for a few seconds, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, and his eyelashes bathed his eyelids, his hair looking almost white in the light.

Neither of them commented as Harry walked back and Malfoy followed, having calmed down.

•••

Harry didn't see Malfoy again until a week later.

The progress between him and Astoria could’ve been much, much faster, if it weren't for the fact that the woman was so busy with her life in the magical world. What with the Muggleborn Registration, where she and Theo were trying to save as many as possible, and the whole thing with her sister being the editor of the Prophet, and Victory Day approaching... Astoria barely had time to breathe.

But once the Legilimency session was over —in which she said she was trying to be as careful as possible, because the mind was a delicate thing— Malfoy stayed for a few seconds in the Main Hall, arguing with Astoria, Theo and Harry, about the possibility of kidnapping Rookwood. It would’ve been far more productive if McGonagall, Kingsley, Hermione, Ron or the rest were there as well. But everyone had their own things to do.

McGonagall, meanwhile, was in charge of studying and teaching as much as possible to the new members, along with Kingsley. Both were teaching two completely different, but useful, subjects. Madam Pomfrey and Susan Bones did the same, although they focused on people who were really interested in or suited to medimagic for a portion of the day, and the other part of the day was spent teaching basic (but increasingly complex) things to the rest of the base, so that everyone could be cured of minor things in the middle of a battlefield.

Hermione and Ron did research, or kept busy with the various tasks that living there entailed, like potions, or food, or cleaning. But Harry supposed that if they weren't there at that specific time, it had more to do with the fact that they couldn't stand a certain Death Eater than anything else.

After they were done, Malfoy promised to look into the procedure that would take place on the day of the ceremony. And, when Harry accompanied him and Theo to the manor grounds to remove his memories, he couldn't stop all the doubts he'd been gathering for weeks from exploding in his face.

“Malfoy," he called out to him, pointing his wand at him. Malfoy didn't even flinch.

“What do you want now, Potter?”

Harry had to say it. Maybe it would make it clearer. After what he'd seen, if Malfoy wanted to kill Goyle, it would prove that he wasn't so different from what Harry thought he was. That would explain why it barely moved him a hair to witness how his aunt had acted upon seeing him.

Besides, he had to inform him of their decision.

“Goyle will live," he said, analysing his gesture closely. “I can't tell you for how long.”

And Malfoy just nodded, closing his eyes, waiting for him to hex him.

Harry didn't move, however, blinking in place as he watched Malfoy's face relax. Feeling more and more disgruntled by his actions.

What does he care about? What doesn't he care about? Why is he reacting like that?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry snapped out of his reverie, noticing how Malfoy had opened his eyes and was staring at him with both eyebrows raised.

“You confuse me," Harry replied, as frankly as he could, "that's why I'm looking at you.”

Malfoy blinked a couple of times, not expecting that answer.

“What?”

Harry clicked his tongue, lowering his wand and averting his gaze to the side. Well, if they were going to talk face to face...

“Why did you ask me to save Goyle, when he was implicated in what happened to Narcissa, to your mother?”

If Malfoy had looked surprised before, or anything like that, that changed the moment he heard it. As if the possibility of talking about human emotions was a disgrace.

“Why do you still care about him?” Harry insisted, unable to see it. The bond between them had never seemed so substantial.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Malfoy grit his teeth. “I've given you my reasons, and besides everything else, it's none of your business. Not really.”

Harry swallowed, more or less conceding the point. It was true that at the moment, he wasn't asking about the Order, but that didn't make it any less of his business. He could still be a possible traitor.

Or someone unpredictable enough that they didn't know at what point he would reach out to them, or turn his back on them.

“It seems strange to me, to have seen you so excited about torturing Yaxley," Harry said again, lowering his voice, "but to be so against doing the same to a person who betrayed you.”

“If you're worried about me betraying you, you can sit tight," he replied curtly, and Harry looked at him again. Every line of his face and body was tense, ready to attack. “I'd be dead by now if I thought this was harmful to the Order, and you know it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Not necessarily. This isn't definitive. You might be willing to die once he's done your bidding. Rescue him, or make sure he lives to carry out a plan, and sacrifice yourself for that cause.”

Malfoy snorted, and his lips quirked into a sour smile, almost as if he was amused. He focused his eyes on Harry's for a few long seconds before speaking.

“Look me in the eye, Potter, and tell me that you truly believe that I would be willing to give my life for someone else's.”

Harry didn't break eye contact as he replied. “Well, at least then the world would be a better place. It’d be free of a shitty person.”

Truth be told, telling him that was already more by force of habit. Old habits, perhaps, but comforting, to be able to say those things to Malfoy's face, and know they were true...

But the bastard laughed, looking genuinely amused.

“That's the best you've got? Really ? Seven, almost eight years and you think calling me a 'shitty person' is an insult, when it's the reality.” Malfoy took a step towards Harry, standing less than three feet away. “I thought the least you'd greet me with would be a Crucio . Now that would be an offence.”

A sentence echoed in the back of his mind, ignoring the rest.

When it's the reality.

Harry pulled out his wand again.

“We're not too late yet," he said, pointing it at him, "if you're so insistent.”

Malfoy didn't wipe the grin off his face. “You couldn't get within three feet of me before you'd regret trying.”

“Do you want to bet?” Harry replied with the same degree of slyness with which Malfoy had spoken. “I know very effective ways to make you scream in pain.”

Malfoy ran his tongue over his front teeth, before nodding a couple of times and cocking his head to one side, watching Harry as if it was a big joke. Considering him.

Oh, he was going to regret it.

Malfoy opened his mouth, as if he was about to accept the challenge, but then closed it, regretting it at the last second.

“One would think you'd be better than me after all.”

Malfoy sounded derisive. Harry snorted.

“I am better than you.”

Malfoy scanned him with his gaze, then denied and looked straight ahead over his shoulder, a small hint of coldness escaping his lips.

“That's not what I meant.”

Harry furrowed his brow, thinking that the conversation was suddenly no longer about who was better at duelling. And he tried to understand what he was talking about, why the man was so hopelessly complicated. But he found he didn't want to know. He didn't want to know what Malfoy meant by that sentence specifically, so he didn't answer; though he did continue to ask his questions.

“Why does it not seem to make you feel anything, knowing that the only family you have left, rejects you?” he blurted out, remembering his reaction to Andromeda. Silence and simple indifference. “You didn't say anything. You didn't react. You just…”

“And what do you want me to do? Cry about?”

Well, it certainly would have been more normal.

“The Malfoy I knew would have thrown a tantrum.”

Malfoy took another step, lowering his voice as well.

“Do you really think I'm still the 'Malfoy' you knew?” He whispered, making the cold vaguely clash against the skin of his cheek.

“ What happened to you?”

Malfoy, again, hadn't expected that question, but he gave him a pedantic gesture anyway and folded his arms, mimicking his earlier posture. “The Dark Lord. That's what happened.”

His eyes went to the scar on his face. And Harry, for the first time, began to contemplate another possibility. One that hadn't occurred to him before.

How much had Malfoy been forced to do?

And what had he done on his own?

It wasn't a justification, of course. He was a torturer, responsible for many deaths on his side, even though he apparently never said the Killing Curse. If he'd done half of what he'd done to Yaxley to other people, that meant he was partly to blame. And he was a shitty person, and he wouldn't think twice about making someone he really hated suffer. People were afraid of him. Malfoy wasn't good. He was the opposite.

But, to become that... there had to be a change, didn't there? A cause. Harry himself thought so; he couldn't connect the member of Voldemort's Nobilium with the frightened sixteen-year-old boy. And for that, quite a lot had to happen.

What had Tom done to him?

“What?” asked Harry, raising his chin. “Now he's responsible for turning you into this?”

If Malfoy was affected in any part of his rotten being by the disgust with which Harry spat that last bit, he didn't show it. “Try living with him for years, and see if you wouldn't change then.”

“What did he do to you ?”

Malfoy stared at the lightning scar on his forehead for a long moment, and Harry felt helpless. It had been a long, long time since anyone had looked at him there, or paid him any attention.

And he stepped back then, realising the closeness he had created.

“It's none of your bloody business, Potter." 

Harry ran a hand over his face, realising that once again they were falling into one of their tiresome conversations.

But they couldn't seem to stop.

He looked at him again, trying to find a rational explanation for all the doubts that plagued him once more. Malfoy didn't make sense, he just didn't make sense.

He seemed to be proud, of being the way he was. But then he would go and say things like that, and — Harry had no idea what to think. Whether to trust him or to tell him to sod off.

“Stop fucking meddling in things that don’t concern you," Malfoy suddenly snapped, watching Harry scan his person. “You've always been such a fucking pry— stop staring at me like that .”

“What do you mean, like that?”

Malfoy, his jaw clenched, made a vague gesture at Harry's face. “As if you were trying to decipher me. Thi s is all I am.”

Harry had no idea he had that look. Or that Malfoy could recognise it in the first place.

“I didn't expect more. I know this is all you are.”

For what seemed like a minute, or just a few seconds —he didn't know— Malfoy looked at him. Nothing more. Not a muscle in his face moved, his silver eyes fixed on Harry's emerald ones, telling a lot of stories in them that he clearly couldn't understand.

Harry didn't look away.

Then Theo stepped in front of them both, causing him to take a few steps back out of pure instinct. He'd almost forgotten he was there.

Malfoy shook his head.

“Goodbye, Potter," he said, his voice strangely calm.

Harry placed his wand to the blond's temple and watched as he closed his eyelids.

“Goodbye, Malfoy.”

As he took his memories from him, and Theo took him away, Harry wondered who Malfoy really was. Why he said and did such horrible things, and at the same time seemed to be compassionate. Or indifferent.

What had happened to him to transform him into this person?

He needed to know. 

Otherwise, they would never trust him.

Chapter Text

Shortly before things changed for him, Draco was on the verge of giving up.

It had been little more than a year since Voldemort had taken power, and his situation was only getting worse. Lucius was away most of the time, tending to his mother and, Draco imagined, begging Voldemort for the chance to free her from Azkaban. He, for his part, was not even allowed to see her. He wasn't allowed to move from his home, in fact. And he didn't want to, knowing that it could mean his death. Draco was considered the weakest link in the Death Eaters, and if it wasn't for the manor's protection not allowing any Malfoy by birth to be killed inside the house, or forced to leave it without tearing everything down, Draco was sure he would have been killed by now.

In the meantime, they used him to brew the potions the Dark Lord needed, as it was common knowledge that he used to be the top Slytherin in Severus Snape's class. Draco tried to keep his head down and dedicate himself to making Antidotes, Drought of the Living Death, Mopsus, Veritaserum; whatever was asked of him, flawlessly and without question. However, as time passed and Voldemort began to mould the world more and more to his liking, there were things Draco simply could not ignore. The Rebels were attempting to divert Death Eater attacks away from Muggles, which often resulted in fights that caught them off guard in the first place. However, because the Muggle Prime Minister was under Imperius, and the Rebels were far fewer in number than the Death Eaters, their diversionary battles were not always successful.

During the first year of his regime, the Dark Lord spent most of his forces destroying bridges, hospitals, releasing criminals into the Muggle world, and taking as many lives as he could. So far, no international federation had intervened, because the Muggles hadn't found anything strange, yet , but Draco knew it was stupid, he didn't understand how no one else saw it. There was a reason there was a Statute of Secrecy. There was a reason why pureblood families wanted to distance themselves from Muggles; why they believed that mudbloods didn't belong in their world and were vile traitors. 'The Time of the Bonfires’. The Muggles had already proven that wizards were outnumbered, and once their secret was out, they would prepare to defeat them.

But while Draco was aware of all that, of the indiscriminate and senseless slaughter, another fact provoked him into action.

Draco wasn't supposed to be there. He spent all day in the manor's laboratory, avoiding crossing the path of anyone who wandered into his house, because he knew they would entertain themselves with him. At least there was no longer that bloody snake that tormented him years ago, prowling the corridors and watching him; but he still wasn't free from the taunts he was subjected to when he was being tortured.

And Draco had simply felt all too quiet that day, most likely because his father was in Azkaban visiting Narcissa, and the Death Eaters on some mission; so he took the opportunity to go out — go to his room... to do something. Go to his mother's spare room, close his eyes and imagine she was there with him, playing the piano and singing to him, while giving him sweets. Draco wanted to pretend, if only for a few hours, that nothing had changed.

But no sooner had he stepped out of his laboratory, emerging into the main hall, than the doors of the manor suddenly opened, and the tumult of Electis and the six Nobilium that existed then, entered. They spoke in bizarre voices, which made him shrink in place, paralysing him, and Draco could feel magic emanating from them. Dark. It echoed through the air.

Voldemort was at the front, covered in a hood that left only his face visible, and clutching a wand in his hands. He was smiling, though Draco would've preferred never to have had to witness that, as a shiver ran down his spine from sheer fear; for it seemed that, as more time passed, the Dark Lord looked less and less like a human being. All the teeth in his mouth were fangs, thin and sharp, and his eyes no longer even had the familiar white sclera that a normal person would have, they were completely red; his eyelids seemed to have been burned shut to give him the appearance that he couldn't close them; wide open, protruding outwards. Ironically, what little was left of his nose was the most natural thing about him.

Draco could almost see the dark magic coming like a hurricane from his person.

He felt his knees tremble, and Voldemort then fixed his gaze on him, his smirk widening even further, making his face twist in a way that Draco could see each and every one of his teeth. Yellow. Rotten.

Vomit rose in his throat.

He didn't know what to do, he'd already been seen, so there was no point in going back to his hiding place. And he couldn't just stand there either, with his shoulders down and hugging himself; but he couldn't move, he couldn't.

Because the Dark Lord and his entourage weren't coming alone.

Draco had to hold back a grimace of horror when he saw that, chained and badly wounded, they were bringing children with them.

Children.

Muggles , supplied a voice in his mind, the one that wanted him not to think of them as something else.

"Oh, dear Draco, have you come to greet us?"

Draco turned his head, pale as he had never been before, to look at the woman who'd spoken to him. Maia Snyde, the last Electis to be initiated, was advancing towards him with a big smile; she reminded him of his Aunt Bellatrix. Sometimes Draco thought that was the only reason the Dark Lord had kept her by his side. But it wasn't true, Maia was smarter, less crazy, and apparently more charming. What they both had in common was nothing more than a fondness for knives, and a desire to hurt in a sadistic and cruel way.

Draco gulped, clenching his hands, which were beginning to shake.

"I-" he began to say, as Yaxley threw the boy he was carrying to the ground and the boy hit his face, beginning to cry and sob loudly.

Maia clapped her hands in delight.

"You see?" she batted her eyelashes. "We've blown that place up, don't you think it's amazing?"

Draco closed his eyes as he watched Alecto move in to kick the boy lying on the floor, screaming for his mum. He put a hand to his chest, trying to calm himself. Fuck.

"What?" he whispered, avoiding looking at the scene.

Maia grabbed another child and pulled him towards Draco, causing him to stumble and fall at her feet. The woman placed a leather boot on his back and laughed, genuinely delighted. Draco felt his eyes burn.

"The orphanage, or whatever it's called," she explained. "There, where they keep the useless muggle-borns with no parents. It exploded from the fire we set, and these mudbloods survived. We couldn't decide what to do with them, and in the end, we decided to give them a ride, don't you think that's wonderful?"

The little boy at his feet was trembling and muttering words under his breath. Draco felt sick, utterly sick . He could endure the other tortures. He could turn a deaf ear and pretend they weren't happening in his own home. But this... these were children . Children who were just starting to live, who couldn't defend themselves. They were hurting absolutely no one.

Helplessness made his throat ache, and Draco had to close his eyes again, disgusted with himself.

"What's the matter, little Malfoy?" Greyback asked mockingly, "Don't you like the surprise we've brought?"

Draco shrank in place once more, and reached into his pocket for his wand as a precaution, only to discover that it was gone, that he'd forgotten it. He let out a shaky breath as he watched Maia smirk, following the path of his hand with her eyes. Draco wanted to run, wanted to get away from this disgusting scene, where the little ones stood still, crying silently and with the hope of being helped by someone shining in their eyes.

"I think you should inaugurate, Draco," Maia said, taking her foot off the top of his back and moving it to the back of his head. She pressed it to the ground, leaving him breathless. "I'll give you this one. What do you want to do to him?"

The blond was immediately nauseated, hearing the boy whimper and her digging her boot in deeper. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Draco had the urge to tell her to stop, to take them all away and get them to safety. But he couldn't, he couldn't, and it would haunt him forever.

"No," he began, but was interrupted by Greyback, who took a step towards him.

"No? Would you rather watch then?"

Suddenly, all eyes were on him. Draco swallowed, taking a step back as he shook his head slightly. He felt paralysed, as if this was happening to someone else entirely. He was also filled with fear.

Draco hadn't even realised that he was refusing, that he wasn't taking care of his gestures to show that he wasn't terrified — even if at the time his act wasn't entirely convincing. He didn't realise that he was expressing open disgust at such actions, until he saw the Lord's face.

The Dark Lord's smile suddenly faded, and soon the air in the room grew thicker.

"What happened?" Amycus asked, his voice thick with mockery. He moved forward to stand at the front, just to one side of his Master, wiping the blood from his hand on his robes. Children's blood. "Did Greyback catch your tongue?"

Draco wanted to say something, he wanted to defend himself, and wanted to run away, but his feet seemed to be nailed to the ground, and he had begun to shiver. He was ashamed to know that he wasn't brave enough to stand up to them. They all watched him with a mixture of resentment and amusement, knowing that they could not murder him at home, but that did not stop them from harming Draco in the meantime.

Greyback, it seemed, knew it.

"I think I should start," he said, causing a few heads to turn in his direction. "Give him inspiration."

Before Draco could react, the werewolf grabbed one of the girls in the line and pulled her by the arm with exaggerated force. She was the youngest, no more than five years old, and her face was dirty, her hair long and tangled. She kicked as Greyback shoved her, pulling her to one side of Maia, who still had her foot on top of the other boy's head.

Draco watched, almost in disbelief, as Greyback grabbed her by the hair, by the nape of her neck, and began to sniff her skin like it was a fucking steak.

"No!" she screamed, rasping her throat, closing her eyes as the werewolf licked her face. "No, please!"

Draco clutched his stomach, the vomit becoming more and more present. The girl tried to pull away, and her small hands, restrained by a spell, swatted at the air.

Images of the dead children of Hogwarts came into his head.

The screams of mudbloods raped by beasts under his own roof.

Cruelty could always be more terrible and unreal.

"What do you say, little Malfoy?" asked Greyback, shaking the girl by her hair. "Wouldn't you like to kill her before I eat her?"

She let out a sob that brought tears to Draco's eyes.

"No!" she cried, as loudly as a girl her size could muster. "Help me, help me, please!"

Draco wished with all his might that someone would stun him before he had to watch the girl's eyes lose their glint of hope, becoming more and more filled with terror. Greyback was holding her in place by pulling on her hair as she screamed, calling out to someone Draco couldn't identify.

He had to close his eyes, as the man planted a slap that made her spit blood and cry even harder. The sight was grotesque. She was a bit older than a baby.She was no more than a metre tall and couldn't even pronounce words properly.

Why am I still alive? What for?

They're going to kill them. They're going to kill them all, and you're not going to save them because you're a fucking coward. They're children, little children. Why are they going to die and you're not?

Draco dug his fingernails into his palm, and without even expecting it, through the fog of his thoughts, Greyback grabbed the girl's arm and, to the raucous laughter of the other Death Eaters, bit down.

Draco gasped in horror as the man spat the infant's finger a few feet away, causing the girl's mouth to open and a scream to come out.

"No! No!"

The scream was so loud, Draco felt it scrape his vocal cords.

And Greyback didn't stop.

Soon, some of the skin on her arm had been ripped off as well. Draco watched as Greyback's fangs dangled flesh, and muscle, causing blood to fall to the marble; all the while, the infant screamed and watched as she was being eaten alive. And there was nothing Draco could do. Nothing.

There is always something you can do.

If you were a decent person, you would've helped her no matter what.

You coward. Fucking coward.

Greyback was doing all that not just to kill her, but to torture Draco. To amuse himself and his sick audience. They were all laughing, telling him to hurry up, and one was threatening to Crucio the little girl to make it more entertaining. And Voldemort watched, with a maniacal, wicked gleam in his eye.

Draco couldn't believe what was happening in front of him. Before the war, he had never thought of the cruelty a person could achieve, and yet, he should have assumed that watching people being skinned in front of him wasn't enough. No.

They were torturing children .

The little ones lay with their heads down, shivering and crying as quietly as possible, as they watched Greyback amuse himself with the child's arm, which he ate bit by bit, throwing the tendons to the ground and drinking from its blood. Maia was kicking the infant off the floor, as if joining in the spectacle and celebrating, and they all looked so small and fragile and innocent that Draco felt like the world was opening up under his feet and putting him through agony.

It had to be a nightmare. All of it had to be. Any minute now, his mother would be there to wake him up, to bring him warm milk and tell him stories. At any moment, his father would join him, and together they would make him sleep peacefully again. Because it couldn't be possible. It couldn't .

Greyback then climbed up to her face, and brought one of his claws up to the girl's eye, beginning to bury it there. Blood washed over her face, as the werewolf laughed. Draco knew he wanted to rip out her eyeball, all while she continued to breathe. The infant's scream, heartbreaking, utterly desperate , grew louder, to the point where Draco put a hand to his ears and denied, wanting to throw up again.

It became unbearable.

"Stop."

His voice came out as a whisper to his own ears, but it had to have been loud enough for Greyback to stop his movements and turn on him, with the girl still sobbing and screaming until he hit her again.

Draco was startled, both at the blow and at his own words.

What the fuck was he doing?

Take it back.

"Excuse me?" Greyback asked, his voice low and menacing.

Draco could feel all eyes on him, he knew, but he couldn't force himself to meet them. He grabbed the lapels of his robes and let out a shaky breath, ignoring the children's sobs and the way the marble was stained with blood.

"Stop. Please — please," he begged, his voice breaking with fear. "She's just a child."

The room fell silent for a few seconds, during which Draco regretted leaving the lab like never before. At least down there, he could convince himself that upstairs they were just torturing new people, other Muggles. Not innocent children. That was more than he could bear.

Then Draco felt the room vibrate with dark magic, spreading around him and causing him an instant headache. The air around Draco seemed to intoxicate and suffocate him. It made him feel weaker as the Dark Lord advanced towards him.

Draco did not take his eyes off the ground, even when he saw the robe inches away from his person. Instead, he tried to control the trembling in his body.

"Would you like to take her place then, young Malfoy?"

The voice was cruel and cold. Draco knew he was annoyed, and that he was fully capable of doing anything he threatened. A spasm ran down his back as he counted to ten.

He swallowed, trying to console himself. He can't kill you. He can't kill you. The Manor won't allow it. He can't. He can't kill you.

That doesn't mean he can't hurt you.

"They're children," he whispered, hopelessly.

Yaxley let out a laugh, grabbing one of the little ones by the hair and yanking him to the ground.

"They're Muggles ," he told him, forcefully. Draco could see out of the corner of his eye, as he pointed his wand at the boy and exclaimed, " Imperius !

He didn't hold the curse for long, because the boy couldn't resist it. No matter how much he screamed or sobbed. The boy put a finger to his eye socket, and began to bury it there, until something fell to the floor, and the room was once again filled with screams of agony. Draco didn't want to lift his head to confirm that it was what he thought.

After laughing, Maia clicked her tongue several times and moved forward until she was just behind Voldemort, who couldn't take his eyes off her face. She shook her head, as if deeply disappointed in him.

"Oh, little Draco," she said condescendingly, "don't tell me you're a fan of the foul mugg—"

The Dark Lord held up a hand with a jerk, shushing her. Draco gritted his teeth, refusing to succumb to fear, or to the unstoppable cries of the children.

"Are you questioning how I do or don't do things?" the Lord hissed, almost as if he were speaking Parseltongue.

Draco raised his head in pure shock, but without making eye contact. He took a step back, beginning to panic in earnest.

"N- no. No, I — "

"It sounds like it to me," Voldemort cut him off, deadly.

There was no point in hiding anymore. He began to shiver freely and bite his tongue to keep from telling him to have mercy on him, just because he knew it would irritate him even more. Draco squeezed his eyelids shut, expecting the Crucio that his Master would conjure upon him at any moment.

But it didn't happen.

Voldemort raised his other hand, which held his wand, and waved it in the air. Within two seconds, the grief-stricken girl Greyback had been torturing fell at his feet, and the Dark Lord grabbed her hair, causing the little girl to look up. Her face was covered in her own blood, and her arm was torn, with flesh dangling and hanging from strands of skin. The infant sobbed incessantly, and her gaze went straight into Draco's eyes.

Weeping, pleading, and fucking innocent .

"Kill her."

The command filled the entire room, making the magic Voldemort exuded grow even stronger. It seemed to have a personality of its own, bloody and eager for pain. It made Draco feel like he was being crushed.

He could only watch in horror as the girl's face began to swell from the blows, and for a brief moment, Draco thought that perhaps he could do it: clean and fast. It would spare the little girl the cruelty of watching her being eaten alive. It would spare him the spectacle. An Avada Kedavra was a quick and merciful thing compared to what they would do to others. Maybe he should do it.

But he knew he couldn't.

Draco opened and closed his mouth, watching as she muttered another ‘help me’ in his direction. He wanted to tell Voldemort that he couldn't, that he didn't have his wand. He wanted to tell them to please leave him alone, to leave his home. He wanted to say so many things, but all he was able to do was watch, as always.

"He ordered you to do something, Draco," Maia said in a dangerous tone, peering over her Master's shoulder. "Kill her."

The girl let out another sob, shaking her head.

"He's scared," muttered someone a few steps away, whom Draco didn't bother to identify.

Voldemort's gesture became even more disgusting than it already was.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, a trace of wicked amusement in his voice.

Draco noticed out of the corner of his eye, the Dark Lord made another gesture, and before he could process it, Greyback was at his side, holding him in the same way Voldemort held the girl, so that he could look at him.

Draco was forced to face the Lord's red eyes, which tried to penetrate his mental defences, which were instinctively in place.

"I see," he said then, in an extremely calm voice.

He would have preferred him to be shouting.

Draco barely managed to catch his breath before Greyback punched him, and then claws pierced his face from side to side, giving him a wound that would never go away.

He let out a scream, bringing his hands up to his face and feeling the blood trickle down his face there, along with the living flesh. It hurt. Less than other things that had been done to him before, but more shocking was the reality: he would have to carry that scar forever , for all to see. Not even Potter's Sectumsempra caused anything like that.

And worst of all, he couldn't recover enough to think about it in depth.

"After two years, I'm still amazed at your cowardice," Voldemort spat in disgust, pointing his wand in his direction and shouting, " Crucio! "

Draco felt himself fall to his knees in an instant, as an inexplicable pain shot through his body. It was like feeling all your organs explode at once, and having your skin ripped off in the process. It was something — something horrible. He could only manage to scream. It wasn't the first time he had experienced a Crucio , but it was the first time it had lasted this long.

He didn't know how much it took, but it wasn't the ten seconds they usually used on him. He could tell by the way he started to spasm, and his bladder struggled to give out. One of his ribs cracked.

The pain was blinding, overwhelming, and his head appeared to have separated from his body, with every bone in his body dissolved. Draco wanted to cry, wanted to do something to release the feelings. Relieve the blade that seemed to be cutting into his limbs.

But then, it all passed, and he was aware again of his surroundings; how he seemed to be on the verge of convulsions due to shock. Blood was almost covering his eyes by that point.

"Isn't that enough?" Voldemort asked rhetorically.

Draco didn't answer. It was physically impossible for him to do so.

If he had been given a choice at that point, he would have preferred to die than to continue enduring the agony.

You can't. Your mother is still in Azkaban.

"How about two Crucios at once, Master?" Maia asked cheerfully. "Perhaps that will teach him."

Voldemort ignored her, putting his foot over Draco's ear and stepping on him, full force. Carrying his weight in such a way that the cuts on his face opened wider and his nose began to bleed as well, as it was pressed to the floor.

"Haven't you learned your lesson yet, Malfoy?" he questioned. At the end of the day, Draco knew that saying anything would be inappropriate, but he never thought it was the right thing to do. "Good."

Because then, he heard him mutter a few words, and after Draco closed his eyes in exhaustion, and opened them again, he could only scream again.

Because it wasn't him anymore.

Voldemort had put him inside the girl's body.

A sense of panic surrounded him, like being forced to stand at a precipice, and made him jump. He tried to pull away from Voldemort's grip, who was now looking down on him, and before he could go over in his mind what was happening, or look for his own limp body in front of him, Greyback grabbed his hand and bit it off.

Draco screamed, though from his lips came the girl's high-pitched noise. He felt his wrist tear, and a sharp pain hit him, sweeping through him. Maia laughed, and Voldemort laughed, and the rest laughed too, as the woman raised her wand, pointing it at his face.

" Crucio !"

The pain, accompanied by the way Greyback was now gouging out his eye and throwing it away, caused Draco to black out for a few seconds. He felt a spell to wake him up instantly, though, because of the way he had been stripped of his arm at that precise moment, his entire body went numb and he ceased to truly feel.

He could only watch in horror as life slipped from his grasp, and he could not stop it from happening to him, nor to the body of the girl he was in.

Greyback bit into the flesh of her shoulder, and almost immediately, ripped open the girl's throat, causing Draco to try to grab her, choking on her blood. He tried to fight, tried to clear his mind beyond the terrified scream that flooded the room. His own scream. The werewolf stood up, looking down at him with a grin, then put his foot on top of his face and stamped it there.

Once.

And again.

And again.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Voldemort tricked the house, and I'm going to die.

Wouldn't that be easy?

His breathing began to grow slower and slower. The pain was already a distant thing, the despair too. A part of him just wanted to let go and escape this shitty world.

Then everything went black.

•••

When Draco regained consciousness, he was in his room, lying on the bed. He sat up on the mattress, breathing heavily as he felt himself begin to choke, bringing a hand up to his neck as he desperately searched for a scar.

He had died.

He’d been eaten. He had died.

A sob of relief, or terror — Draco didn't know which, cut his throat as he began to cry, burying his face in his hands. Because of the still open wound Greyback gave him, he immediately pulled them away as it burned.

He could've died.

And what would happen to mum then?

"I hope you've learned your lesson, Draco Malfoy."

Draco jumped at the sound of the voice coming from in front of him, and instinctively pulled away, sticking his back against the back of the bed. He grabbed the sheets, pulling them up to cover himself, and looked down, unable to meet Voldemort's eyes.

He kept his eyes fixed on one spot on the covers, only to notice that he wasn't alone. Besides him, Draco easily recognised the robes of his father, who was most likely the one who had carried him to his room instead of leaving him lying in the main hall. He could almost see Lucius with his head bowed and being part of the torture, if only as a spectator. Draco had been subjected to being eaten alive, and surviving, and now he just didn't know what the fuck was going on.

He closed his eyelids, trying to hold back tears of frustration. Of horror. With himself, with the situation, and with the way he'd been humiliated.

"... And to make sure you don't forget, and that I can be merciful, I'll give you a chance."

Draco wasn't paying attention, not really. His mind was a chaotic mess, wondering over and over again how he'd done that, and why he was still alive. He gulped, feeling the room spinning.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord snapped his fingers, and an elf materialised at Draco's bedside.

But not alone.

"In a month, we will hold a Nobilium initiation. The last one," Voldemort said, almost whispering with an air of warning. He paused, where Draco forced himself to meet his gaze, and a shiver ran down his spine, seeing how his eyes were filled with mockery. "Your initiation."

An icy weight fell on his chest, and that was when Draco turned his head to look at the elf.

Besides him, completely bound, a boy of about thirteen, with brown skin, black hair and light blue eyes, was staring at him, exuding fury and resentment. Everything connected. Draco was painfully aware of what was happening.

They wanted him to sacrifice that kid. They wanted Draco to sacrifice him for the ceremony.

And they knew he wouldn't be able to do it.

Another involuntary sob escaped Draco's mouth, causing him to cover it. He didn't want to. He didn't want any of it.

Voldemort snapped his fingers again, and the elf disappeared, taking the boy with him. The Dark Lord was pleased, in delight. He would have a show and, at the same time, he could get rid of Draco once and for all.

The Lord began to withdraw, taking with him the obscure, cold, almost painful magic that had invaded the room.

"I hope," he said, reaching for the door, "that you have enough courage to make it."

Draco stood in place for a few seconds, paralysed, before leaning over the edge and pouring out the vomit lodged in his throat.

•••

A week had passed.

Draco was barely able to eat, and he was thinner than he'd ever been. His skin was sticking to his skull, his face was swollen, bruised and scarred from torture, and he could count every one of his ribs after they healed. Draco felt so fucking fragile. Even picking up his wand was a great effort. He avoided looking in the mirror, because his hair looked dirty and dull — and his whole being just looked like an Inferi.

Besides, he couldn't find the motivation to get through the day.

The only thing that kept him going, in the most desperate moments, was the thought of his mother. Who would look after her? Who would get her out of Azkaban? Who would make sure she wasn't killed? It was true that at the moment, Draco couldn't do any of the three, but he could make sure that Lucius tried. He wasn't sure his father had the initiative to do much, he hadn't been the same since the war ended. No, if Draco died, no one would make sure his mother lived on.

And also — he was a bloody coward.

Draco knew that, above all else, his own fear of death was what kept him alive. And he didn't understand why; there was no point in clinging to the shitty life he had at the moment, and it wasn't like he was going to make it out alive after the initiation ritual either.

If he refused before he went through with it, he'd be tortured until he lost his mind. And if he failed when he was supposed to kill the boy, the same ritual would kill him.

Whichever way he looked at it, he was completely screwed. Maybe the best thing to do was to just kill himself. Throw himself off the balcony, or cut himself so that he bled to death. Take a potion. Whatever, but make it happen fast. It was the healthiest option.

And he didn't have the courage to do it.

He was going crazy. He was sure he would end up losing his mind anyway. It was a paradox, and it didn't seem so even then, Draco wanted to take control of his own destiny for the first time in his life.

Just after seven days, when Draco wished he could ignore the future that lay ahead of him, he was forced to face it.

Death Eaters were coming in and out of the Manor, and if caught, they mocked his weakness. Draco seriously wondered how they could sleep peacefully at night. He couldn't, not after what he'd seen. And the boy... the boy was in the dungeons, being fed under his orders, just because he needed to keep him alive.

Like raising an animal to slaughter.