Chapter Text
At first, he almost didn't feel it.
It was barely there, a little pop of something pushing weakly against his shields. Something that he could easily bat away with his hand had he the thought to do so.
But, staring into those truly beautiful green eyes, seeing the intensity of his gaze, the way that now, kneeling this close to him, so they were mere a few centimetres away, so close that he could see the sunlight yellows and earthy browns that crisscrossed pleasantly over his gaze. He knew what it was.
It was pathetic really, how the Great Harry Potter thought he could get through his occlumency shields with something so pithy as a gnat of a legilimens. Draco had spent the last three years turning his mind into a fortress, learning to protect his thoughts from any invasion that was not welcome. He had to, living in the same home as the Dark Lord, and his deranged aunt and their entourage of fucked up Death Eaters.
They were there now, watching him. His aunt with that crazy look as she pushed Potters' face closer to him, stretching that stung up and bulbous visage all the closer, in hopes to straighten his face out enough for Draco to recognise who it was.
Of course, he knew it was Potter, he had spent the last six years watching the stupid saviour strut around the school, watched those eyes fill with emotions, watched those lips stretch into a smile, a smirk, a snarl, that nose bent a little to the side from last year, his smaller body and clothes that finally fit him, though they were drab and tacky still from wherever he had been these past few months. And his stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid need to save everyone.
He didn't need to think twice, as soon as he saw the Weasel and Granger, he knew Potter wouldn't be far behind. They wouldn't leave his side after all.
Idiots, the lot of them.
But they were going to save the world, they were the only hope anyone had left.
This poor excuse for a boy before him, with his reddened eyes under the stinging hex, the way his darker skin had stretched to accommodate the bruises pulsing on his cheek, covering his eyes, his nose and most of his mouth, distorting his features. Granger was very clever. He had to give her that. She was top of the school after all, and wasn't that a sting to him.
But she forgot the one major thing that made Potter, Potter. That god damn scar. It was prominent even under all that flushed flesh.
He had heard about Horcruxes. It was hard not to overhear when the Dark Lord was being his usual intimidating self, lording over what was once his childhood home, boasting about his conquests in a graceful manner, lilting tales of his brilliance as they watched his pet snake tear away at yet another innocent person.
It made Draco sick to his stomach at the thought of it. He hadn't been able to eat, to sleep, to breathe without thinking about the way that God damn snake slithered around the house, keeping so close to her master's side, the way her fangs slicked out of her mouth, the way she hissed in that high pitched ophidian voice, the way she'd pounce, again and again and again on her victims.
Many of the victims were killed straight away. The Dark Lord always liked to cast the final spell to kill them. Which was so fucking stupid, Draco would think to himself when he stayed awake at night, listening to the Dark Lord kill yet another muggle or muggle-born. It would be so easy to kill Potter, to get on his good side and dispel him in his sleep. But he was so vain in his need to kill him himself that he didn't see the big picture.
But there were times when the Dark Lord didn't kill them. Wanting to watch them suffer, watch as they writhed in pain.
They were always so loud, those screams, those whimpers, those...sickening slurps and crunches of being eaten alive as they were spelled still, helpless to move except to feel those fangs tear into them and the venom within them course through their bodies.
He despised it. But after every death, once all the blood and guts and gore on the very dining table he had had breakfast, lunch and dinner on, was either devoured or spelled away. One by one, they would all leave, disapperating through the wards that once kept Malfoy Manor one of the safest places for him. The Dark Lord would call his closest to him, the simpering ratty man Wormtail by his feet, his auntie Bela draped over is arm, and his father at his other side. His mother would stand up gracefully, holding a hand to Draco's back, waiting and wishing for the Dark Lord to let them leave without any consequences.
This was when he would hear everything. The future plans, the past subjugations, and the stories.
That's where the Dark Lord fucked up.
The stories.
Draco knew all about it, how he had sickeningly split himself up into so many pieces, horcruxes. And how...that scar, the one on Potters forehead, the one that had always been there, the bane of his existence. That was a fucking horcrux.
And the only way to kill the Dark Lord once and for all was to destroy these horcruxes.
Which meant.... Harry Potter would have to die. Or at least that part of him. The part that made him a horcrux.
There it was again, the little poke of something trying to niggle its way through his occlumency shields. Pathetic Potter. Still the saviour even when he was this close to death. Did he not know that Draco held his life in his hands right now? He could easily squeeze it until it bled, until he begged. But...that would mean this darkness, this hell, would spread all over. And... Draco didn't want that. He didn't...he...didn't want this. None of this.
He didn't want his home, the place he grew up, the place he felt safest, the place filled with his mother's laughter and his father's proudness to be tainted.
His home.
This was his home!
And that evil, evil, evil man had taken it, and moulded it into this dark, bleak house, barren of the good times, of the laughter, of the hopes and dreams he had built here.
They were there now, his aunt looming over them as she pushed Potter down to the floor. His father's grip tight on the back of hiss neck, squeezing tightly as he muttered to him, on how they would be forgiven, how they would be in the Dark Lords favour if Draco could identify Potter. His mother stood far back, watching, waiting on bated breath. She had always coddled him, and he had loved her so dearly for it. Her hand immediately on his back as she calmed his father down from his outrage. His father was the Lord of Malfoy Manor no longer, but he still played as if he were, as if he had any sense of power here.
No one did, no one...but him...and Potter.
His aunt took his hand, forcing him to kneel down in front of Potter, "don't be shy sweetie, come over,"
He remembered the last time she had said that to him, a toddler in his best suit, bringing him over to their albino peacocks, he had been scared of them then, frightened at those majestic white birds. She had taken his hand then too, grasping lightly as she ushered him closer, made him stand up straight and slowly guided him to place a hand on the creature.
It had bitten him. He still had a faint scar of it on his palm.
Her voice was a mess now, not the sweet and calming voice she had before when she would bring him sweets and trinkets when he was unwell, telling him stories about their family, their lineage. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He understood now, this was all a ploy, a play to get him into their side. Even from an early age they wanted him to know all about blood purity, all about how those who were pure, those who were strong, were the ones who would prevail.
And look where he was now. Knelt before the disfigured Potter, his home riddled with darkness, with hopelessness. They weren't strong here. They were nothing compared to the awe of Potter's brightness, his magical core -- the one that shone just as bright, if not brighter than when Draco had first all those years ago when he had first met him in Madam Malkin's.
Life was easier then.
"If this isn't who you think it is Draco, and we call him; he'll kill us all." The fear of death wasn't as daunting as he had first thought it would be.
Draco was a coward, he knew this. He would always be a coward, hiding away in silence, letting the world burn around him.
But...
But.
Look at Potter, still here, still strong, still fighting. Draco was always jealous, so jealous, of the incredible goodness in this stupid saviour. Why was he here now? Didn't he understand that Draco didn't want this anymore? That he wanted to take his family and run, leave the mess of Potter and the Dark Lord behind.
Stop giving me hope.
But he knew he couldn't he was stuck in the middle of this whole thing, stuck here, drowning as the Dark Lords miasmic magic pilfered through his home, his home.
What he wouldn't do. What he wouldn't give. He wanted his life back. He wanted the ostentatious beauty of Malfoy Manor to return to the way it had been not a few years ago. Where the wood was polished and bright, the trinkets colourfully gleaming, the scent of magic and flowers and beauty. He wanted the gardens to be greener and filled with life as they once had been.
The Manor was a hell now. Dark, poisoned. Cursed. No. He couldn't do anything. Not alone.
That niggle again.
Curiosity got the better of him and he lowered his shields by a smidgen, enough to allow that pathetic excuse of a spell into his fortress.
"...me help you...why are you doing this?"
Ever the saviour. Dumbledore's only hope. There is no other way.
They were opposites in everything. Every. Single. Thing. He was darkness, where Potter was light, Potter was the embodiment of everything good in the world, full of hope and kindness and love, and Draco was everything bad, filled and fuelled by fear and hate, his family may love him, but that was an obligation, he was the Malfoy heir, he had duties to uphold and none of them were inherently what he wanted -- he had the scars to prove it. Even the way they looked. Potter's skin was a lovely coffee brown whereas his was alabaster white. His hair an unruly mess of black curls, whereas his own was platinum blonde. His eyes filled with fire, whereas Draco's were a dull, lifeless grey.
He was stuck here.
"You don't have to be."
Draco wanted to scoff. That was a joke. As if he hadn't thought of many ways to get away from here. He couldn't apparate with all the Death Eaters everywhere, and anyway, he would never leave his mother alone in such a dark and evil house. He couldn't sneak out either. He had tried once. Packed his bags with essentials, his wand, some food, a set of clothing and books, and he had headed out of his window in the middle of the night, hellbent to get away. He had tried to coax his mother with him, but she had reprimanded him, telling him that a life on his own, a life on the run, a life away, would be dangerous. They were not cowards, they were pure bloods, they would hold their heads up high and take any punishment that came to them because of who his father had chosen to follow.
Though he understood, he couldn't stay anymore. She didn't know to the extent of the punishments he endured to keep her safe. She was so beautiful and he was not going to taint that, not even for a moment. He had gotten so far, almost all the way through the acres of forest that surrounded the plot. He had skimmed the wards with his fingers before Greyback had yanked him away, before he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, to the Great Hall, the one where he had learned to waltz with his mother and his teacher, standing on his mother's feet as she moved him along the beautiful room. He had screamed in laughter as they had spun.
He screamed in pain then, pushed to the ground with Greyback's knee forcing him still, Auntie Bela with her wand pointed to his back, and Greyback with his fangs at his neck.
The Cruciatus curse no longer surprised him, neither did the fangs. He expected the curses at every corner he took, every time he slept, every time felt a moment of relief he had sought. Greyback had bitten him then, he still had the marks along his shoulder. He hadn't turned him, not that Draco knew. But those fangs always found purchase on his skin, always drawing blood, always bleeding and aching. But Greyback didn't turn him. Was this just punishment for his straying thoughts, or was it something more sinister?
Maybe the Dark Lord didn't want him dead. Was there a task he had wanted him to do? He wasn't sure what that meant for him.
The bites and slashes and cuts he could take. The curse was worse.
The pain was excruciating, levelling him to the ground every time, especially when he didn't know it was coming. Auntie Bela loved to curse him when his back was turned, when he least expected it. She liked to keep him on his toes, she had told him. But what was worse was the way his aunt would look at him, such abject glee as she'd curse him and curse him and curse him. Letting him have a mere moments reprieve before she cursed him again.
He couldn't leave.
And he wouldn't, not any more. Because if he were the punching bag for his auntie's entertainment, then his mother was safe. His father was safe.
Let them hurt him, let them curse him. His mother would be free of it. She would never have to feel this pain, this ache that sat in his very bones, clinging to his muscles and making it painful to breathe some times.
"Let me help you. Let me help you. Let me help you."
Why?
Why him? Why after everything he had done, why would Potter want to save him? He was lowly, he was vain, he was bad, he was a coward. He didn't have anything anymore.
"Let me help you."
If only to shut him up of his constant mantra, Draco replied in kind.
"You can't save me."
Aunt Bela was watching him, carefully and clearly, her eyes widen with lunacy. "We need to be absolutely sure,"
He darted his gaze away from her, never really being able to look into her eyes anymore. Every time he did, he'd remember the glee that flushed her face when she cast the unforgivable curses on him. He instead looked to Potter. To the bruises and pulp of skin that disfigured his once pretty face. He looked so tired, his skin paler than usual, taught and frail, as if he hadn't eaten in days, as if he barely slept, as if worry gnawed at his very being.
Just like Draco.
But his eyes, those eyes were the same. Draco would be able to recognise those eyes anywhere. He dreamed about them.
"What's wrong with his face?" he heard himself asking out loud. What had happened to him? Draco knew he hadn't stepped foot in school. But he was here now, right in front of him. How was he here? Why was he here? He should be out there, fighting the good fight, doing what he needed to do to get those horcruxes and finally finish the Dark Lord off for good.
He was...goodness, Salazar, he was still so bright, still shining beautifully. Draco's heart pattered madly, being so close to this once wondrous boy. He was looking at him, his legilimency pounding against the fortress of Draco's mind, repeating those words again, and again, and again.
Maybe he could.
...maybe there was a way?
Regardless of what happened here, Draco was sure he was going to die, by the hands of the Dark Lord, or his aunt, or Greyback, or any of the other Death Eaters. If not them, then anyone else. They'd take one look at him, one look at the mark on his arm, and they would kill him straight away.
Azkaban was too good for him.
Death would be easy.
He was being a coward again. But looking into those eyes, those beautiful greens filled with so much hope, so much good. It was blinding. His heart warmed; his body warmed. He hadn't known just how cold he had been until then.
"Let me help you."
The repetitive phrase again. He should stop being so-wait. Draco realised then. Potter was trying, he really was trying to keep their past just that, the past. He wanted to save Draco, he wanted to get them out of here. He was screaming to Draco, hoping and wishing his spell was working, that he was getting through. He was just pounding against a door without knowing if someone was inside.
Such power, such strength. Wandless, wordless.
He would be able to defeat the Dark Lord, he'd be able to save the world.
Would he be able to save his mother?
He had to find out.
Auntie Bela left them, wanting to know something about a stinging hex and who had cast it. He already knew it was Granger, it had to be. Potter was still looking at him, straight into his eyes, and Draco felt the immense power within him, the bright shining beauty in those depths. It still made his heart beat all that much faster, they were so close now, gravitating towards one another.
They always gravitated to one another.
Potter was screaming at him now, the same four words, again and again and again. And Draco felt his demeanour crack, he didn't mean for it to. But for one moment, just one blissful moment, he believed maybe Potter would be able to do it. Maybe he'd be able to actually help him. He didn't know he had been crying, the tears welling in the corner of his dull eyes. He didn't let them fall, never show weakness, especially not now. Potter's eyes widened, darting back and forth, trying to read him, trying to figure it out. He always ran spontaneously. Head first with fists raised and hope held high.
He knew he had gotten through. So, Draco said it.
"Save my mother."
Potter's eyes widened.
A sharp hand on his shoulder made him jump, scaring him. Fuck, had she heard him? He had been so careful to keep his occlumency shields up, to only let the small pithy of Potter's legilimens come through. Had he been caught? Was he going to die? Her hand was like ice, frozen and hard against the heat he had seeped into him by being near Potter, by sitting before him and watching him. But she hadn't noticed, instead she paraded around the room, cackling like a banshee.
"I promise."
Potter's voice was so quiet, so minute.
But. He promised, and Draco believed him.
His mother would be safe, Potter promised she would be safe. He had to believe that, he had to have hope.
And then it happened.
Draco was still whirling in the wind of what was happening, something about a sword and her vault, the snatchers who had brought the golden trio in dying one by one, his father holding him away from Auntie Bela's rage. And then suddenly Potter was ripped away from in front of him and he was left to watch as Granger writhed and screamed in pain, in the torture his aunt was forcing on her.
He could only watch, held back by his family, his father's hand against his chest, his mother's hand against his arms, as Auntie Bela pinned Granger down, grabbing her arm and marking her, cutting into her skin, the same way she had done with him. The same way she had held him to the ground, forcing him to submit to her, and listened with such glee as he was forced to get the dark mark on his arm. His screams had grown hoarse, his voice had threaded, he still couldn't speak properly because of her.
Because of her. He was broken, in more ways than one.
His entire being was screaming at him, this was his classmate, this was his rival for top spot in the class. He hated her, but he didn't hate her like this. He was sure in another life they would have been...friends.
Fantasy. Such pointless fantasy.
He couldn't do anything. He'd die. Auntie Bella wouldn't even think twice, she'd kill him, or his mother, or his father, without blinking an eye. He hated the way Granger looked at him, her gaze pleading, tears shedding as she screamed.
He was a coward. His own arm ached, he remembered the hours and hours and hours he spent on the same floor, he could still see the blood stains on the once polished marble and wood. His blood. Three years hadn't been kind.
The screams would forever stain his ears, the ghost of the same pain, the same ache. She would go hoarse too.
And he could do nothing.
Nothing lest he die.
And then what help would he be.
But he couldn't rest like this, he couldn't...he...what could he do? What could he do? He had to...he had to try, right? Should he? Would he be caught if he did? He let out a breath and let his thoughts search into the barely viable shield that held Granger's mind together. He barely pushed into it, but it crumbled to dust around him. The pain, the fear, the thoughts and feelings were familiar.
"You'll be okay. The pain will dull soon."
He didn't know what he was doing. Or why he was doing this. What would it help. All she had done was pause, shock catching her throat as she gazed at him, blinking once, twice, tears falling. But it passed by a moment later, and she was screaming again as Auntie Bela continued her tirade, her torture.
Moments passed like hours. He watched Grangers fallen body, the large letters spelling 'MUDBLOOD' on her arm, stark and red and bruising and bleeding, just like his own arm had been. At least the blood hadn't stained the floor, he didn't think the house elves liked cleaning blood.
Auntie Bela was yelling at the goblin, the one he had met many times before when he went to Gringotts. She was furious, the same fury that she lashed at him when he defied her entry into his mind. He still had the scars of her knives on his skin, thick and heavy, words like faggot, and gay, and traitor littered his back, his arms, his chest. All hidden away from prying eyes, from his mother. He'd never let her see the torture his body had gone through.
Potter had promised to save his mother, and he was going to...he...he didn't know what he was going to do. So, he continued calming Granger. It was the least he could do.
The soft sounds of wings flittered in his ear, something he hadn't expected, but his ears had always been attuned to it. He glimpsed at a quick moment of gold against the black, a mere speck of shine. If he hadn't been so used to looking for it as a seeker, he'd might not have noticed it. A snitch? What was a snitch doing here? Was he going insane?
And then he heard it again. Weasels' thumping oaf like footsteps as he came barrelling up the steps and into the room, how had he gotten out? Where was Potter? The room was filled with a cacophony of noise, screams of spells being thrown, things breaking around him. His father lashed his wand at Weasel, throwing hexes left right and centre.
Potter came rushing in, a breath of fresh air against the dark, and Draco felt that warmth again. Felt it deep within his skin. Such warmth.
The spell hit and his father went flying. Draco pushed his mother behind him. He didn't want his father to die, he didn't want his mother harmed.
Potter promised him.
"Duel me. For yours and your mums' sake, don't just fucking stand there!"
Potter's voice was calming and so warm.
Duel him? He'd duel him alright. Potter was trying to get away. And if they didn't duel, if they didn't at least show they were trying, they would all die by the hands of his aunt. So, he raised his wand and blocked, casting shields on both himself and his mother as he stepped back. He had to step back. Auntie Bela was furious, she would hex them and throw spells at them, spells that would grow considerably darker and darker as her anger grew. He was sure of it, but where was she right now?
She yelled behind them, a loud "stop" that made everything still. Their wants grip loosened and they all turned to her, to Auntie Bela as she held Granger at knifepoint, the blade tip pressed tight against her throat. Her auntie was a madwoman. He had to get his family away from her! She looked practically manic. What was one more death to her? One more body on the ground thanks to her hand?
What are we going to do?
They had lost.
He watched, defeated, as Auntie Bela forced the trio and their entourage consisting of Lovegood, the goblin and Ollivander's the wand maker, to drop their wands. They listened, the goodness in them tenfold. They still thought that if they did what she asked, she'd let Granger go, she'd let them go. Pathetic Potter. She was going to kill them all now. He jumped when she called for him, telling him to pick up their wands.
He didn't want to. Fuck, he just wanted to take his parents and run, please just let us get out of here alive. But he had to, if not to save himself and his mother for one last moment. Bending down, he reached for the wands, feeling the warmth spread into him from Harry's own. It tingled in his grasp. The wand chooses the wizard, indeed.
He darted his gaze up at Potter, giving him one last look, wanting to see into those bright green eyes one last time. He knew this would be the end for them all. He would never see Potter again. The stinging hex was breaking, and Potter was now looking more and more like himself, and Auntie Bela now knew as well, she was going to call on the Dark Lord and he would be here, the miasmic poison he was, and they were all going to die.
Forgiveness, his father had said. Identify Potter and all will be forgiven. He hadn't done shit; he hadn't confirmed what he honestly knew. And for that, his entire family were going to die.
Pathetic.
He was pathetic.
"Call him."
Draco looked up to Auntie Bela, wands tight in his grasp. The heat of Potter's wand pressing against his palm, almost burning him. His own wand held against it, shuddering and twitching slightly.
Strange.
"Call him." she bellowed again, looking directly at Draco.
He stilled, him? Call the Dark Lord? I won't do it. I can't do it.
"I'll get you out."
Ha. Of course, you will, Potter. You'll save someone like me.
At his stillness, his father stepped forward, his hair a mess, his clothes no longer the pristine as it usually was, he was scruffy and tired and scared and worried, just as they all were. That's what the poison did to them, that's what the Dark Lord did to them.
Follow blindly, or fear death.
Draco didn't fear death. He no longer feared pain either.
His father held his arm out, pulling his sleeves up to show the sick tattoo on his pale skin, pressing his wand to the dark mark and began the call for his master.
The imminent silence was broken by a squeaking above them, their gazes all rushed up to the familiar house elf on the chandelier, slowly and carefully unscrewing the screws that kept it up.
Dobby?
It was like watching a train crashing, the chandelier fell almost in slow motion, Auntie Bella jumped back, letting go of Granger, who dived forward, being yanked away from the crashing glass and metal by Weasel. She was safe.
Draco was pushed away from his family in the onslaught, looking up to see them safe on the other side of the room. His father covering his mother with his cloak, keeping the glass and shrapnel that now littered the floor away. Potter's hand grasped his arm then, dragging him to the side. Draco knew Potter was only there for the wands he had taken, he tried to tighten his hold on them, to only give him his wands. He didn't want his own wand to be taken away as well, his only source of survival in this hell. What surprised him was how Harry didn't let go. He dragged him up and away from the corner he had fallen, and pushed him behind his smaller body.
Draco was shocked, was Potter using him as a hostage? Why would he push Draco behind him if that were the case. He couldn't even do this right!
Potter held his wand out in one hand, and gripped Draco's arm with his other, stopping Draco from moving. The warmth was seeping into him now, heating up the cold that invaded his body so effortlessly.
What are you doing?
"Saving you."
Me? No, he was supposed to save his mother. Not him! What was the point of saving him?
But Potter's grip only tightened. He looked up to see the shocked expressions on his parents faces, of the way Auntie Bella looked at them, her eyes wide and filled with rage as Dobby took his mother's wand. Draco barely paid any attention to Dobby, or to his family, too wrapped up in the fact that Potter was trying to save him. His mind was an open book, a mess of pages, of ink spots. But there was one prominent thing in his mind, he was going to save his friends.
Friends. Were they friends? Dobby had said he had come to save Potter and his friends. A free elf, willing to go against his previous masters.
Good for you Dobby.
But he wasn't Potter's friend. They were enemies, weren't they?
"Taking a hostage, are you? A little souvenir?" Auntie Bela's voice was so high pitched, it hurt his ears. "He's such a pathetic little thing really, such a waste--" she raised her wand, the spell Draco was so used to half way to her lips. Those lips that tilted in a smile, a cruel and familiar twitch of them as she spoke the words, her crooked wand pointed at them, at Potter. Draco’s breath held, caught tight in his throat, stopping him from breathing, from thinking. "Crucio,"
So he didn't think, not that he ever did whenever he was around Potter, he grabbed Potter's body and spun him around, shielding his stupidly small and strong body beneath him, between him and the wall. The pain shouldn't be so familiar to him. It hit his back, and like the hottest shock of lightning, it spread through him, all the way down his limbs, to his fingers and toes, his hair hurt for fuck sakes. His back arched and he tried to force his mind closed, forced the pain to dull, forced something else instead of what he was feeling. It hurt so much. He felt like he was going to be sick, his body taut, muscles tight, eyes wide and throat choking with his failing breath.
Better me than him.
He prayed this was the time it killed him.
The familiar feeling of something tugging at his navel made him pause, the cursed unforgivable had finally stopped, but he was still reeling. So much so that he didn't recognise the feel of something sharp entering his back, not until he was lying face down in wet sand.
He wasn't afraid of death.