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What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 25
- 26
- 27
Chapter 26. Enemies and Allies

Draco felt a subtle pressure in his head, pushing against his Occlumency shield. Glancing up from his place at the table, his eyes briefly flicked to his mother, quickly enough to catch her eye for a fleeting moment before she looked away again. He returned his just as hurriedly to his plate, his food now stone cold and barely touched. The gravy had started to congeal, and its gelatinous appearance made his stomach turn. He’d long since given up finishing his dinner, but his manners dictated that he remain at the table until everyone had completed their meal. Of course, his civility was lost on their current houseguests, he realized with disdain. Most of the Death Eaters he was surrounded by were barbarians whose only ambition was to murder, rape, or pillage as many muggles, muggleborns, and blood traitors as possible. Those were a class of people which Draco had no love for either, but the Death Eaters’ actions had nothing to do with blood purity or wizarding supremacy and everything to do with blood sport, for which he’d learned very quickly he wasn’t well suited.   He’d been bred for command, not combat.
The quick glance at the head of the table was enough for him to confirm his mother as the culprit when the spell was broken and the pressure in his skull receded as soon as she turned her eyes away. But she wasn’t the only one who attempted to gain entry to his thoughts these days. The Dark Lord frequently attempted to probe his mind, too, which was why Draco almost always kept his eyes down and his head empty as a sign of his subservience to the powerful wizard. Showing only abject fear in the man’s presence was something the Dark Lord expected of him anyway and which wouldn’t draw his suspicion or ire.
He thought Draco a coward, like a frightened child clinging to his mother’s skirt, which suited Draco just fine. He had no desire to have him think otherwise, now or ever. The less attention the Dark Lord paid him meant a greater chance of survival, and that was all Draco could hope for at this point.
His curiosity had gotten the better of him, his need to identify the person poking around in his head, and it overrode his instinct to remain invisible in Lord Voldemort’s presence. He regretted his glance to the head of the table, almost immediately. Seeing the Dark Lord sitting in his father’s chair, with his aunt on his right and his mother on his left, even for that brief moment, caused Draco to grit his teeth in fury.
The sisters were widowed now, their husbands murdered by Potter or because of him. Both women had been taken then by Voldemort as his concubines. The idea made Draco seethe with rage and disgust, and the Dark Lord knew it. He knew Draco despised seeing his mother in such a degrading position. She was a Black, a Malfoy, a woman of stature and nobility, with pure blood and proper wizarding pride, and yet the Dark Lord had claimed her as if she were a common whore to be traded or bartered. Draco’s outrage was hard to contain. Only his strong sense of self-preservation held him in his seat. Even if he no longer cared for his own fate, he couldn’t leave his mother here alone now that his father was gone.
To further inflame Draco, the Dark Lord insisted he join them at the head of the table for meals when Voldemort was at the manor, instead of letting him hide himself among the other Death Eaters who were present. He insisted Draco sit with them to complete the picture of his twisted familial dinner, amused by the repugnance which Draco couldn’t sufficiently hide.
His mother, of course, bore her new status and all it entailed stoically, regally, as always, instructing him by her example. But Bellatrix seemed almost transported by her new position, at finding herself so much in the Dark Lord’s favor. Thrilled to be so close to him, to be taken into his confidences and into his bed, eager to satisfy his carnal needs as if it were all she’d ever desired. Draco was sure the reverence she held for him was the closest thing to love Bellatrix had ever experienced, and she believed, foolishly, that the Dark Lord actually cared for her in return, but Draco’s blinders had finally come off. He understood that this was just another way in which Voldemort conveyed his contempt for their family, further eroding their social status and influence.
He knew his mother’s effort to break into his mind hadn’t been to read his thoughts. She was merely testing him. She checked constantly to see if his mind was guarded, always ensuring he maintained his vigilance. Trying to protect him, she worked to strengthen his shields, attempting to find cracks in his defenses, to worm her way in or catch him relaxed and unguarded. She had helped him to perfect his Occlumency skills once the Dark Lord had taken up residence in their home, or taken ownership of it, in reality.
The last few years had been a nightmare for Draco that just continued to get worse as the Dark Lord’s power increased. Living in constant fear now, his home had become his prison as Voldemort’s disdain for his father escalated and the ridicule and humiliation began. Once he embarked on his systematic destruction of everything Draco cared for, all of their lives became a living hell, for which there was no way out.
He’d felt so much pride when the Dark Lord had marked him and then entrusted him with the task of killing Dumbledore. He’d been taught to revere the man, to worship him with the same kind of zealous furor as his aunt displayed. Draco believed the Dark Lord was showing him favor, showing faith in him when he’d given him Death Eater status while he was still at Hogwarts, making him possibly the youngest wizard to ever enter the Dark Lord’s service. And then to be further honored by being assigned such a prestigious task, to be given the opportunity to seek revenge for his father’s defeat and subsequent imprisonment, it was more than Draco could have dreamed. But he’d been a fool, blind to the understanding that Voldemort never intended for him to succeed, that he’d set Draco the task as punishment for his father’s mishandling at the Ministry. Torturing his parents with the fear that Draco would fail and be killed by Dumbledore, the Dark Lord had used him as a pawn, as a throwaway game piece. He was an expendable Death Eater, and the realization had left him bitter, disenchanted.
And, of course, he had failed, just as the Dark Lord expected, as he’d planned, but Snape had completed the task for him. His mother had made the professor promise, coerced him into making the Unbreakable Vow to protect Draco again from his own foolishness, his own fate. Snape had murdered Dumbledore on the top of the tower when Draco was unable to and then fled with him and the others.
The Dark Lord was delighted, naturally, that Dumbledore was dead, but incensed that Draco had not done it himself or died in the attempt, livid that Snape had interceded on his behalf. They’d both been punished swiftly and cruelly, Draco castigated in front of his parents, humiliated in front of the other Death Eaters. His mother had stood rigid, straight-backed next to his father while Draco screamed and begged for mercy, causing the one and only break he’d ever seen in her stone façade as she closed her eyes to keep from witnessing his punishment.
But this wasn’t how things were meant to be. This wasn’t the grand plan that Draco had bought into. The Dark Lord was supposed to reign victorious. He was going to lead the wizards out of hiding and create a utopian pureblood society, forming a new ruling class, with wizards taking their rightful place of power. And they, his faithful Death Eaters, would be honored for their service to him. Instead, his father had been murdered brutally and without honor, with Draco and his mother forced to watch. Neither of them had been allowed to grieve for him.
“Is the meal not up to your standards, Draco?” the Dark Lord asked, his voice high pitched and cold, a hissing quality to it that made all the hairs on Draco’s arms stand on end.
He glanced up again immediately, his face draining of color at being addressed directly.
“My son had a very large lunch today, My Lord,” his mother responded calmly before Draco could even unclench his teeth, which had frozen with fear.
“Surely he can speak for himself, Narcissa?” he reprimanded, and she went silent instantly, bowing her head in acquiescence.
“Yes, my Lord, I…I did have a big lunch,” Draco stammered his excuse. “The food is superb as always, of course. I’m just not terribly hungry, and I don’t feel my best today. I did not intend to be rude, sir.” He clamped his mouth closed then, trying to prevent himself from continuing his senseless chin wagging, keeping his mother from being forced to kick him under the table to stop his babbled apology.
Of course, it was a lie, as he’d eaten almost nothing for lunch, either. The truth was he’d been steadily losing weight and sleep since he’d joined the Dark Lord’s service. It had persisted throughout his sixth year at Hogwarts as the pressure mounted with every failed attempt on Dumbledore’s life. But it had intensified since Potter’s capture and imprisonment here, becoming even more pronounced since his subsequent escape, so that Draco was hardly eating anything at all now, as if he were attempting to become so small, so emaciated, as to be completely invisible in his master’s presence.
The Dark Lord’s disdain seemed to have transferred from father to son, so that he appeared to be targeting Draco now. He felt those red eyes always on him, though his mother did everything in her power to deflect it. Still, Draco lived in near constant fear these days, afraid Voldemort might kill her, too; afraid that the odium he felt for the man would be detected, or that the help he’d given Potter and his friends during their imprisonment would be discovered.
Draco could feel the crimson stare now as if it was burning a hole in the side of his head, but he kept his own eyes on his plate in deference to him. Repeatedly clearing his mind, he practiced his breathing technique to slow his heart rate and get control of his fear when he felt, for the second time tonight, the pressure against his skull. He didn’t need to look up this time to know who was trying to sift through his thoughts.
“You are excused, Draco,” Voldemort hissed quietly after what felt like an eternity of heavy silence, apparently satisfied that Draco was concealing nothing.
Nodding his head at once, Draco quickly pushed back from the table.
“Thank you, my Lord,” he spoke softly, without raising his eyes, and then turned and left the dining room, heading for his chambers without risking another glance at the head of the table.
He felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him, which in addition to his mother and aunt, only consisted of Avery, Mulciber, and Wormtail tonight, and Wormtail really didn’t count. He was a constant presence in the house, treated more as a servant to the Dark Lord than a Death Eater, barely a step above the house elves, though he was permitted to share meals with them instead of serving it.
Walking as quickly as he dared without outright fleeing, Draco took the stairs two at a time and let out a held breath when he was safely behind his closed door, his back pressed against it.
He could relax his shields a fraction when not in the Dark Lord’s presence, though he only ever did so when he was alone in his rooms. There were too many others in the manor, like Bella, who would be only too happy to betray him, to carry word of his disloyalty to the Dark Lord.
As he made his way to his bed, he kicked off his shoes and lay down on his back, exhausted from fear and lack of food, his stomach burning with acid and knotted with tension. Rummaging around in the drawer of his bedside table with shaking hands, he came up with a half empty pack of smokes and a small box of matches. He shook one out of the pack and lit it before relaxing back onto the bed. He took a deep drag to calm his nerves, holding the smoke in his lungs a moment before blowing it towards the ceiling and letting it roll out of his nostrils.
He’d likely take to drinking if it wouldn’t impair his senses, liberate his tongue, and cause him to completely lose his wits. The consumption of alcohol would be a dangerous endeavor for him to undertake in his home these days to be certain, though on evenings like this, it was still extremely tempting. It was a very hard thing for him to resist spending his evening trying to get to the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey or whole barrel of oak-matured mead.
The pressure on him was almost overwhelming sometimes because he knew it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord killed him, too, like he’d killed his father. It would occur more swiftly if his actions and thoughts were revealed, however, so he stuck with nicotine as a coping mechanism, for now anyway. There was no reason to court his death.
In what had become almost a nightly ritual, he found himself contemplating the manner of his demise, reflecting on his own mortality. His mind tormented him with images of himself on the polished marble floor under the ornate crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer. Lying in his father’s place, the Death Eaters in a circle around him while he screamed in pain, his cries for mercy going unanswered, until he couldn’t draw breath anymore, until his screams turned to gurgling gasps.
His hands shook as he returned the fag to his lips and drew another measure of calming smoke into his lungs, squeezing his eyes shut to try to force out the horrible thoughts, but they would always return. Even his sleeping hours were filled with the same nightmarish visions.   Images of the Dark Lord cursing him until he lost control of his own bowels and blood welled in his open mouth, his tongue chewed nearly in two, his eyes locked on his mother’s during his torture like his father’s had been, holding her gaze, trying to tell her he was sorry for failing her, until he stopped seeing forever. Until the echo of his screams had faded, his eyes had gone dull, and his body ceased in its spasms, finally going mercifully still and lifeless. The images and the memories made him shake with terror and revulsion and grief.
But it wasn’t really help he’d given Potter and his friends anyway, he reminded himself, trying to assuage the fears that were always threatening to engulf him these days. It was more that he refused to participate in the Death Eaters games of torture. Ensuring only their survival until the Dark Lord returned by insisting they be given water and food like the other prisoners, taking them the food himself when they refused, that was all he’d done, really. Well, and then, of course, he’d stood aside when Potter made his escape with his friends, even handing them back their wands. But that only proved him a coward, he reasoned, not that he’d actually aided in their escape.
Any fool could see that trying to get in Potter’s way that day would have been suicide, and Draco was no fool. He was a Slytherin above all else; self-preservation was always and would always be his utmost priority.
Courage was highly overrated, a potentially fatal trait to possess, in his opinion. Only dead people were ever called courageous, and it was a word said in an effort to comfort the families over their loved one’s own stupidity. That’s what the term courage meant, to Draco, just another word for stupid. He could be, and had, been called a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t generally one of them.
There had been a room full of charred Death Eaters flung around the dungeon floor or slumped against the walls, many dead, some still in flames, when Draco had braved a look inside. What he had seen then left him in awe. Seeing his childhood rival transformed, standing in the center of the room, glowing with power, literally glowing, with his body nude and covered in blood as if he’d just been birthed by Rhea and escaped the jaws of his father, Kronos had left Draco speechless and dumbfounded. Potter had been a thing of frightful beauty, a terrible, vengeful god in that moment. His eyes were filled with power, a wild madness in them as if he’d climbed out of the very bowels of hell to deliver his retribution. The image was so powerful it caused Draco, for the first time in his life, to question his own beliefs, to doubt his upbringing.
Now he realized that he’d switched sides at that moment. He knew for sure he was on the wrong side, the losing side, at seeing the vision of Potter that day, at the feel of his terrifying power, his fury, breaking against him in painful waves. Feeling the sting of that wrath, Draco had heeded the warnings. Nobody could fault him for that. Even wandless, Potter would have killed him if he’d made any attempt to stop him. There was no question in his mind.
Draco had learned that there were many different kinds of power. The Dark Lord was certainly powerful, there was no doubt. Draco had seen numerous displays of that tremendous power, felt it. But when he’d brought Potter food the night before his escape, he’d watched as Harry continued to rise while they were brutally beating his already horribly damaged body. Forcing his eyes back to Draco’s to ensure that he saw it all, Potter compelled him to witness it, his stubborn refusal to give up. He’d displayed a kind of power then that Draco had never seen before. A kind of irresistible force, a strength of will which Draco could not fathom.
He knew even then that Potter would beat Voldemort, even before the awesome display he’d shown at their escape because he simply refused to stay down no matter what they did to him. It was the same kind of quiet strength Draco admired in his mother and tried to learn from now by her example in his own bid to stay alive.
His father had possessed his own type of power, the power of persuasion, the power to influence and manipulate; traits Draco also hoped to possess, to have inherited. And then, of course, there was Snape, the wizard he hoped to emulate most of all right now.
A potent man that Draco knew had been in the Dark Lord’s favor, Snape had been a most trusted Death Eater, a formidable wizard who had murdered Dumbledore for the Dark Lord, for Draco, to fulfill an oath to his mother. And yet he’d also tried to save Potter, clearly hiding his true loyalty so completely that he’d fooled the most powerful wizard of all time.
Draco couldn’t wrap his brain around it. He couldn’t reconcile those two conflicting images of his potions master together in his mind. The man despised Potter and venerated the Dark Lord. Yet he risked his life to attempt to pull Potter from the dungeons. Draco didn’t understand his motivations, but he also couldn’t help admiring him at the same time. He prayed most of all for that power these days, the power of deception.
Licking his fingers, he pinched the end of the remnants of his cigarette to snuff out the fire. Then he tossed it in the bin to prepare for bed, praying for a night of dreamless sleep, for a reprieve from the nightmares.
The following day saw the Dark Lord take his leave again after breakfast in one of his frequent trips. Draco had no idea what business he was conducting, nor did he have the slightest desire to know. He only felt welcome relief as some of the pressure was lifted off his chest at his departure. In his absence, he almost always left Nagini, however.
Draco despised the serpent and was utterly terrified of it. When the Dark Lord was away, it seemed to watch over the remaining occupants of the house as if it had been instructed to report their activities back to its master on his return. Draco believed it to have near human intelligence, an astuteness in its terrible lidless eyes that wasn’t natural. The Dark Lord certainly spoke to the snake as if it did. The horrible hissing of Parsletongue as they conversed made Draco’s skin crawl, and the way it looked at him as if he were its next meal gave him the creeps. On those days, he endeavored not to be caught alone in the same room with the monstrous ophidian. He hoped he looked less appetizing since he’d lost so much weight, but feared that it only made him appear easier to swallow.
He returned to his room in fairly good spirits after the morning meal in which he actually managed to eat a fair amount, only to be greeted by the most shocking of sights. Standing in the corner of his room, nearly hidden by the bed and shaking all over in terror, was their old house elf, Dobby, wearing the most bizarre assortment of clothes he’d ever seen. Draco was so shocked that he just stood there with his hand on the door, his mouth open in stunned surprise.
“M…Master Draco,” the elf stammered in greeting, clearly petrified at addressing him or finding himself in the home of the family he’d once served.
Draco swiftly closed the door and locked it before turning back to the elf.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, causing the elf to shrink farther away, his huge eyes reflecting his fear.
“Dobby has a…a message for you, sir, f…from Harry Potter.”
Absolutely nothing out of the elf’s mouth could have stunned Draco more. He was totally speechless as he continued to gape, trying to make some sense of this, of the words he’d spoken.
“Potter has a message? For me?” he finally managed to get out as if the meaning hadn’t been clear.
“Yes, sir,” he squeaked, nodding his head vigorously. “Harry Potter is requesting a meeting.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he replied in utter disbelief, marching over to sit on the bed while the elf backed flush against the wall.
He needed to sit down. This was completely bizarre, so totally unexpected that he thought maybe it wasn’t actually real but some sort of stress-induced hallucination. He decided to go along with it anyway, even though he knew it was foolish, that he should be rid of the elf, whatever his message, with haste. Instead, he asked, “What in the world would Potter want with me?”
“Dobby does not know, sir. Harry Potter said only that he would likes a word with you, if you are to be willing.”
“When?”
“If you are agreeing, sir, right now. Dobby is to be taking you.”
“I don’t get any time to think this over, huh? Come with you now or the deal’s off?”
“Yes…yes, sir.”
“Well, he’s not stupid, I’ll give him that. It doesn’t give me any time to summon any reinforcements or formulate a plan to capture him if I intend to go.”
Draco was speaking out loud, not really realizing what he was saying until the elf’s ears had gone flat to his head and he’d hissed a warning, his fear apparently draining away at the perceived threat to Potter’s welfare.
“So is Potter your master now, or something?” he asked, staring at the elf in mild curiosity.
“Dobby is a free elf,” he answered defiantly, straightening his shoulders. “And Dobby chooses to serve Harry Potter, for as long as Harry Potter wishes Dobby to.”
“Okkaaayy, and if I agree to go with you, what assurance do I have that Potter and his friends aren’t just trying to lure me out of the house to harm me or take me prisoner or something?”
“Harry Potter is a noble wizard,” Dobby replied angrily, as if that settled the matter, as if a wizard like Potter would never stoop to that level.
The elf clearly worshipped Potter with blind devotion. Another follower for The Chosen One, he thought dismally, champion of half breeds and house elves, mudbloods and blood traitors.
Draco sat in silence, mulling over his options, trying to decide what he should do. He knew it was idiotic to go, but he was fighting a strong desire to obey the summons anyway. He must be going mad. At long last he stood, coming to a decision that confirmed his mental state as he stretched out his hand.
The elf stared up at him with a considerable measure of distrust.
It’s mutual, he thought, a moment before the elf slid his hand in Draco’s, and they vanished instantly with a crack.
They reappeared a moment later at the back of an alley, the buildings on both sides so tall that they cast the passage into darkness despite the early hour of the day. Dobby immediately released his hand, and he turned, peering around.
“Where is he?” Draco asked, starting to feel the beginnings of fear, feeling vulnerable though the alleyway appeared vacant. He drew his wand.
“Harry Potter says you’re to Apparate to the place of your meeting after the World Cup, sir,” the elf instructed.
“What the hell is all this?” he growled in irritation at the cloak and dagger game they were playing with him. “That’s what Harry Potter said, is it?” he asked mockingly, but the elf remained silent.
Then Dobby stepped back, his huge eyes still watching Draco warily and snapped his fingers, vanishing again with another loud crack, leaving Draco alone in the alley to decide for himself if he intended to go on, to continue the game.
“Shit!” He glared around again, and then sighed deeply. “After the World Cup, huh? Clever.”
He gave the alley one final look.
“Fucking Potter,” he muttered, and turned on the spot, feeling like he was traveling back in time as well as through space as he pictured the spot in the woods in his mind.
He appeared after another moment and spun on the spot, wand up, expecting to be ambushed by the remnants of the Order, but again, all was quiet. He stared around for any sign of Potter, but he was alone once more. He knew he was in the right location, though, of course, the moor looked much different than it had that summer night.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” he called irritably and waited, but there was no response besides the answering calls of the insects and the barking of a squirrel whose breakfast Draco had evidently interrupted.
He continued to wait, until he was sure no one was coming, until he began to believe this really was a ruse to lure him away from the manor, though to what end he didn’t know. His frustration mounted.
“Well, this has been a really interesting little day trip, Potter,” he said loudly to the trees. Then he began to turn quickly on the spot again, intent on returning home. He was done playing, done waiting.
It was as if some invisible force struck him as his face collided painfully against an immovable object midway through his turn. He let out a howl of pain and surprise as he fell backwards, landing hard on his arse on the ground.
Dazed, blood pouring from his nose, he blinked rapidly at the watering of his eyes. Then Weasley emerged in front of him, having rapped himself on the top of the head to end the charm concealing him. He straightened up; holding the wand Draco had dropped.
“What the hell is wrong with you, you fucking radge?” Draco shouted in outrage, holding his nose.
“Hello, Malfoy,” Weasley responded with a feral grin, and without another word, he reached down and grasped Draco by the upper arm, Apparating them both away again.
They reappeared a moment later, Draco sputtering, trying to catch his breath, still bleeding from his throbbing nose as Weasley pulled him to his feet. After a moment’s confusion, he realized they were back in the alley again, where the elf had left him.
“He didn’t try to summon anyone,” Weasley announced while Draco tried to get his bearings, his nose swelling rapidly.
“Good,” came a female response, and then Granger materialized suddenly in front of them as she also removed the disillusionment charm on herself.
“He followed Dobby’s orders here straight away, too,” she continued and then glanced at him. “Morning, Draco.”
“You broke my nose,” he accused, ignoring her and glaring at Weasley again, trying to stem the flow of blood.
“Stop being so stroppy. I was just paying you back for all the help you gave us at your place, Malfoy,” the ginger brute responded. “You had that coming to you, and you’re lucky it’s not worse. If you had summoned anyone else, you’d be dead right now. Hermione or I would have put paid to you before you even knew we were there.”
Granger conjured a handkerchief and held it out to him, neither confirming nor denying Weasley’s bold statement. He glared at her then, furious at his treatment but also at Weasley’s words because he was absolutely right. Draco never sensed that either one was there, which was foolish. He should have known better. They could have taken him down with ease. Jerking the handkerchief angrily from her grip, he mopped up his face while she turned, leading the way out of the alley.
“I still haven’t ruled it out either. You look like you’re thinking of pressing your little dark mark, which will be the last thing you ever do, Malfoy. Do you understand?” Weasley hissed warningly in his ear as he followed Granger, frog marching Draco out of the alley with his hand still firmly clamped on Draco’s arm.
They stepped out into an unfamiliar street, clearly in Muggle London. The glare of the sunlight after the darkness of the alleyway made his eyes stream again, but it was temporary as they immediately descended a flight of stairs. Draco was still so dazed that he had no idea where they were taking him. They went through some sort of turnstile where Granger passed a blue card (that he was sure read “Oyster,” though he’d never seen anything that looked less like an oyster) across a yellow circular disk for them to pass. Then she continued to lead them down a subterranean staircase that moved on its own, which he was impressed with in spite of himself, before finally emerging in a well-lit underground tunnel.
There were red and blue signs everywhere that announced that they were indeed Underground for some reason. Surely even Muggles could figure that out for themselves, he thought. Coming to a stop in front of what appeared to be train tracks, they waited.
“We’ll take the central line, it’s the longest route so it will give us the most time,” Granger announced, although if she believed that statement meant anything to him or Weasley, she was mistaken as she was met with only silence from both of them.
Within a few moments, a sleek red and white train sped towards them, though it didn’t look like any train Draco had ever seen. It moved entirely too swiftly, stopped too abruptly. It didn’t belch steam, and it was much quieter than he expected. When the doors opened, Granger stepped forward and Weasley followed, pulling Draco along with him, garnering more than a few stares from the surrounding Muggles. He was forced into a seat with Weasley beside him as Granger muttered a stream of spells, concealing her wand as best could before she took a seat across from them.
One must have been a Muggle repelling charm because the few that remained in their compartment hurriedly left, and no one else joined them. When the doors sealed themselves, she added a locking charm, and Potter finally revealed himself as he slid his invisibility cloak off.
Potter was seated next to Granger, directly across from Draco, and he knew now who she’d been speaking to earlier.
“What did you use?” he asked her.
His voice sounded different than Draco remembered, raspy and hoarse. He didn’t know if he would even have recognized it as Potter’s if he hadn’t seen his lips moving.
“I placed a Muggle-repelling charm, an anti-Apparition spell, and an Imperturbable charm on the compartment, just in case. I also made the windows reflective so no one can see in, and sealed the doors for good measure,” she answered.
Potter nodded his head as if satisfied. Draco was, at any rate. He was impressed not only with her quick spell work, but the lengths and planning they’d gone to in an effort to secure their safety with this meeting.
“Potter,” Draco greeted irritably, pulling the bloodied handkerchief away from his face when Harry turned, finally acknowledging him.
He did nothing but stare at Draco, however, as the train started moving, waiting, it seemed, for the disembodied female voice to stop speaking. It reminded him of the voice in the lifts on his many visits to the Ministry, cool and pleasant as it declared their next destination.
Potter looked much better than Draco expected. The last time he’d seen him, the image of him right before he’d fled with Weasley and Granger was still seared in his brain, maybe forever. Looking a little underfed (which wasn’t even that unusual for Potter) was all that appeared to be wrong with him now, other than a black eye he was sporting. But that couldn’t be a remnant from his imprisonment. It was too fresh. Draco looked much the same, maybe worse, since Potter didn’t have bloodstains on his face and clothes from a recently broken nose, which would probably leave him with two black eyes of his own.
Weasley tossed Draco’s confiscated wand into Potter’s lap, who picked it up and rolled it in his fingers, testing its weight in his palm.
“What kind of wood is it?” he asked.
“Hawthorn,” Draco answered, bewildered at Potter’s apparent interest in his wand, and then knowing the next question, he continued, “with a unicorn hair core.”
Potter nodded his head, staring at it a few minutes in silence, turning it over and over in his hand as he examined it. Then he turned it suddenly on Draco, pointing it between his eyes.
“Episky,” he incanted quickly before Draco could even react at having his own wand turned on him.
He grunted at the sharp pain, and then he felt an immediate soothing warm heat as his nose was instantly mended. Feeling it gingerly, he ran his fingers carefully over the bruised flesh.
“Thanks,” he said grudgingly.
“Just returning the favor,” Potter replied.
Draco didn’t know if he was being facetious, referring to when he’d broken Potter’s nose on the train to Hogwarts their final year, or being sincere from when he’d healed his leg in the dungeon after Dolohov snapped it like a twig.
“Ron, would you stop hitting the people I’m trying to gain cooperation from, or get information out of, please?” Potter asked then in exasperation, turning his intense stare on the apparent muscle of their little operation. “It tends to lessen my chances of obtaining either.”
Weasley just shrugged back at him, completely unabashed.
Draco tried, but he couldn’t help the smirk that tilted up the corners of his mouth at the exchange, wondering who else the trio had been interrogating. He hadn’t noticed anyone else at the manor looking recently roughed up since Potter fled the dungeons, however, so maybe they saved this kind of greeting for special guests. Although, he supposed, if Weasley’s threats were to be believed, they could’ve done worse to anyone else they’d captured. He tried to think if there was anyone he hadn’t seen recently, anyone who’d gone missing after Potter’s escape. Besides Snape that is.
“It’s as much the ferret’s fault as mine,” Weasley replied churlishly.
That wiped the smirk off Draco’s face as he gritted his teeth at the hated nickname.
“The ponce ran right into my fist.”
He scowled at Draco then as if daring him to contradict him, and Draco scowled right back at the temerity of his explanation, but didn’t argue.
“We’re going for a ride on the tube today. Taking a little tour of Muggle London, if you don’t mind, Draco,” Potter told him then, as if he had a choice anyway with Potter still holding his wand and Weasley still holding him in his seat.
“I’d rather not be stationary for too long. I’m reasoning it’s harder to catch a moving target. I thought this might be better than, say, trying to have a little meet-up at the Leaky Cauldron. It makes me feel safer, at any rate. Sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, by the way. You understand, I’m certain. I recall you doing a fair amount of sneaking around yourself our sixth year. Can’t be too careful, can you?”
“What’s happened to your eye then, if you’re being so careful?” Draco questioned snidely. “Did you just accidentally run into Weasley’s fist, too?”
Potter smiled at him.
“Nope. Hermione got to me first,” he answered dryly. “She slapped the piss out of me. You remember what that’s like, don’t you, Malfoy?”
Draco stared at him in some surprise at his frankness.
“Damn, you’re a real jammy berk, aren’t you? Never catch a break, do you, Potter?” he replied, amused. “Still, I’d think they’d both be a little more grateful. You must truly be a bastard if she clocked you like that even after you saved their arses.”
“I do seem to have a way with people,” Harry responded sarcastically. “This one I deserved, but I attract more than my fair share of hostility sometimes. It must be my winning personality.”
“Oh, stop it,” Granger huffed crossly, looking pink in the face. “Both of you just drop it. We didn’t go to all this trouble to discuss Harry’s face.”
“Lover’s quarrel?” Draco asked then with raised eyebrows, ignoring her protests completely to continue his own line of questioning.
“Shut it, Malfoy,” Weasley growled at him.
“Call off your dog,” he demanded of Potter before turning to the weasel, who was snorting hot air on his neck like a raging bull about to charge. “Did I touch a nerve or something, Weaselbee?” he goaded. “I’m not going anywhere, you know? You can release me.”
Of course he didn’t. In irritation, Draco turned back to Potter.
“So you called this little meeting, or interrogation, I guess. Can we get on with it then?”
“Need to be home before your mummy finds you missing?” Weasley taunted.
“No, you prick, but I haven’t exactly been treated very nicely since I agreed to this. I’ve been physically assaulted and practically kidnapped, and I’d like to take my leave as quickly as possible. I think I’ll be passing at the next invitation.”
“We were definitely kidnapped and more than assaulted. I haven’t come close yet to giving you what we got,” Weasley shot back angrily.
“Enough,” Potter began, speaking loudly to forestall any further angry retorts from him or Weasley. “I have some questions for you, if you’re willing to answer them, Malfoy. Despite your initial treatment,” and he glanced at Weasley again as he spoke, “I don’t have plans to force anything out of you. I know you came voluntarily.”
“And what makes you think I’d willingly tell you anything?” he asked. “What makes you think I’d risk my neck to help you?”
“I think you already have,” Harry replied. “I think you did, when we were being held in your home.”
“I was only trying to keep you alive for him,” he lied.
His tongue, which he’d thought to be dulled from disuse, was as sharp as ever and was recalled to him immediately in Potter’s presence, as if this was just another trip home on the train from Hogwarts, and they were just two childhood enemies facing off again.
“I was saving my own neck. If he came back and you were already dead...”
He felt angry suddenly at Potter, afraid of what he’d gotten himself into, the realization of the seriousness of what he was playing at here dawning on him as he spoke.
“My mistake,” Potter said coldly after a long silence while Weasley clamped down on Draco’s arm as if he were preparing to rip it from its socket.
“Why did you even come then, Draco?” Granger asked.
“Didn’t have any better offers at the time,” he replied with a sneer.
In truth, he wasn’t really sure himself, which terrified him. He had no idea what he’d hoped to gain from this meeting or why he couldn’t fight the lure of seeing Potter. Maybe it was to feel that power from him again, to convince himself it was still there, but it was dangerous and stupid. Potter wanted something in trade for satisfying his curiosity, and Draco didn’t know if he was prepared to give it to him.
The train was coming to a stop, slowing down at the next station. They all sat silently as passengers entered and left the adjacent compartments. Granger’s spells had apparently held because no one attempted to gain entry to their compartment or bang on the sealed doors during the interval at the station. Draco made no attempt to leave the train, didn’t even bother to rise, choosing to remain dutifully in his seat, although he did wrench himself free, finally, from Weasley’s grip.
“He killed my father, Potter…because of you. Because of what I did for you, because I let you go,” he finally accused when they were moving again, his voice cracking, his hands starting to shake as he pointed at Harry in his anger and hatred.
“I know,” Potter replied, which just infuriated him more.
The simplicity of his admission was a wholly inadequate response for the enormous loss of his father. He could feel his eyes stinging, his face hot with rage and embarrassment at coming apart like this in front of them.
“The Dark Lord killed him, but it’s your fault!” he shouted.
“Your father deserved to die,” Weasley growled at him savagely, coming to Potter’s defense when it appeared that Harry had no intention of defending himself from Draco’s verbal assault. “Do you know what he did to Harry? Do you know what the rest of your mates—”
Potter shot him a warning glance, holding up his hand, and Weasley went silent at the nonverbal command, clamping his lips closed and glaring at Draco. His whole face was red, like a kettle on the boil, steaming with fury.
Of course, Draco knew exactly what they’d done to him. He’d heard them bragging to each other, seen the evidence on Potter’s body. But he’d also seen some of Potter’s payback, too, and none of the remaining Death Eaters that took part in his torture were bragging now.
“He killed my father, too,” Harry said calmly then in that strange gravelly voice. “He killed both my parents, and that’s also my fault, but I didn’t start this. Not with him, and not with you. Not with your father, either. He chose to follow Tom, and so did you. You told me once that I’d picked the losing side, Draco, but I didn’t get a choice in any of this. No one asked me. It was decided for me by Tom when I was barely old enough to walk. He decided for us both then, and the two of us have been paying for that decision ever since. He’s hunted me like an animal from the minute I rejoined the wizarding world. I was a child, Draco.”
Potter stared hard at him, his eyes boring into Draco’s like they had that day in the dungeon so that Draco couldn’t look away as he spoke, the proof of his power still evident in that verdant gaze. His voice grew softer, colder, as he continued to speak.
“He took my family from me. He took my choice, my childhood, and my freedom. Your father and a handful of Tom’s followers took even more from me in the dungeons of your home.   I’m choosing to trust you, asking for your help right now, Draco, and I’m giving you the choice. Make it.”
Draco sat there, staring at Potter, saying nothing for a long time, and then he finally spoke quietly.
“I wasn’t brave enough to try and save my father, Potter. I didn’t try and stop the Dark Lord killing him. What makes you think I’m brave enough to help you? I don’t want my mother to go the same way as yours. I…I should have tried to stop you. Maybe he wouldn’t have…I just stood there.”
“Dumbledore offered you protection. Do you remember? At the top of the tower, he offered to hide you both, you and your mother. You came very near to accepting it, unless I’m mistaken. I’m willing to extend that same protection to you and your mother now. We can hide you. The Order can protect you.”
Draco gaped at him incredulously.
“Uh…you were captured, dolt! Did they beat you so badly that you don’t remember that part, or did one of these two Obliviate you? They came very near to killing you, Potter. Thanks, but I don’t need that kind of protection. I think I’ll take my chances.”
“He’ll destroy you, Draco, you and everyone around you. It’s all he’s capable of. He’ll destroy everything you’ve ever cared about. Surely you realize that by now.”
“And if I’m stupid enough to betray him, foolish enough to feed you information or whatever it is you want, it will somehow be different? You think I should get in bed with you now instead? Is that it?” he asked.
Potter actually snorted then, as if that was hilarious.
“In a manner of speaking,” he finally got out, though he was still smirking. Weasley, however, was looking more furious than ever.
Something had definitely changed here with the three of them. Some weird tension seemed to have sprung up amidst the trio at Draco’s words, like an electrical charge that was looking to ground. Draco wondered if the two wizards were in some kind of love triangle with the Mudblood now, or something. The weasel had been hot for Granger for as long as Draco had known them, and he was pretty sure Potty had a thing for Weasley’s little sister, but something was going on here. If Granger and Potter were now an item, that must make for an interesting dynamic. It may be putting a strain on the friendship, but it didn’t seem to have dampened their fierce protectiveness of Potter. Draco was more curious about it than he should be, and it annoyed him, actually. What difference did it make who Potter was banging?
“You must think I’m an idiot, Potter. Those beatings rattled your brains, not mine.”
“Beatings you did nothing to prevent,” Weasley spat at him, clenching his fists, apparently unable to hold his tongue any longer.
“Well what the hell was I supposed to do? Huh?” he asked angrily, trying to defend himself, though he didn’t know why, but he was fed up with Weasley. “I did everything I possibly could.”
“Right,” Weasley scoffed in disbelief.
Draco didn’t respond again. It was pointless anyway. Instead he turned back to Potter.
“I’ve seen him destroy everyone around you, too, Potter. Being close to you is an even riskier proposition right now from where I’m sitting.”
Harry winced slightly at the truth of his statement, his eyes darting quickly to Granger and Weasley before he returned his gaze to Draco, smothering the brief moment of naked fear he’d revealed in that instant.
“Fine, you’ve made your position clear. I still have some questions for you. I’m not asking you to do anything else,” Potter told him and waited.
“I don’t know what information you think I possibly have, but ask away.”
Harry stared hard at him before he spoke, as if he were thinking over his words.
“Can you tell me where your aunt lives?”
“Bellatrix?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise at the unexpected query as Potter visibly recoiled at the name. “What in the world would you want with her?”
“I have a score to settle with her…among others,” Potter answered through gritted teeth.
“I bet you do, but you’re mad to want to tangle with her again,” he replied. “Although, if it’s any consolation, I think she’s just as frightened of you now as you are of her.”
He smiled at the scowl that appeared on Potter’s face.
“She’s lived at the manor since they escaped Azkaban, so I would think the address is already familiar to you.”
“Where did she live before that? What’s the address of the home she shared with her husband?”
Draco could not fathom why in the world Potter wanted this information.
“She was sent to Azkaban when I was a baby, Potter. I knew her about as well as you knew your godfather before their escape. It wasn’t as if we spent holidays with her. I believe the Lestrange’s are from Yorkshire, but as I said, it’s not as if they took up residence in their old home and started playing house when they escaped from prison. If you’re thinking of attacking her, you won’t find her there.”
“Tom once gave your father an object to keep safe for him before he killed my parents. I need to know if she ever spoke about something he’d entrusted to her, something that would have held similar value to him.”
“I don’t know,” he answered a little too quickly, caught off guard by the sudden change in the line of inquiry.
“Yeah, you do, Malfoy. You were always bragging at school about the things you weren’t supposed to know about, lording the information over everyone all the time,” Weasley accused then. “Probably sneaking around the manor, listening at doors to private conversations, weren’t you?”
“Tom found out about the diary, didn’t he?” Harry went on as if Weasley hadn’t spoken. “He found out it was destroyed and he was angry, wasn’t he?”
Draco’s mouth hung open.
“Did there come a time when he asked her about the safety of the object he’d asked her to keep hidden for him?”
“I…why do you want to know that?” was all he could think to ask. He was stalling because he had indeed overheard a conversation, though he hadn’t exactly been sneaking around like Weasel King had suggested.
“What can you tell me about it, Draco?” Potter asked, pressing him now, leaning forward in his seat. “Where is it?”
“She’s keeping something for him in her vault, but I don’t know what it is, okay? That’s all I know. He asked her about it, yeah.”
He felt dread at his admission. He knew for sure this would get him killed. He was a fool to come, a fool to answer any of Potter’s questions.
“How can I get into that vault, Draco? Can you get access to it?” Potter asked him then, urgently.
“No. Fuck you! You’re crazy,” he spat. “I’m not helping you…oh, God! I’m dead already!”
He was starting to shake now, starting to panic. He might as well throw himself under this train now and save himself the agony he knew lay ahead of him.
Granger moved suddenly. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, a quick flash of her wand. He felt dizzy, light headed for a moment. Lifting a hand to his head, he rubbed at his temples blinking rapidly to try and focus.
“Sorry, what did you just say?” he asked, feeling disoriented.
“Are you all right, Draco?”
“Yeah,” he answered, though his heart seemed to be beating too fast and his skin felt clammy, sweaty, like he had the lurgy. Weasley must have hit him even harder than he realized. He was starting to get a headache. Maybe he just needed to get some food in him, he thought. Breakfast had been a while ago now.
“What I said was, fine, you don’t want to get in bed with me, that’s cool, but I still have some questions for you. I’m not asking you to do anything else,” Potter repeated and he waited.
“I don’t know what information you think I possibly have, but ask away.”
Harry stared hard at him before he spoke, as if he were thinking over his words.
“Can you tell me where your aunt lives?”
“Bellatrix?” he asked. His eyebrows rose in surprise and Potter flinched at the name. “What in the world would you want with her?”
“I have some unfinished business with her as well as a few others, but she’s at the top of my list right now.”
“I’ll bet she is, but you’re mad to want to tangle with her again,” Draco replied. “She’s lived at the manor since they escaped Azkaban, so I would think the address is already familiar to you.”
“Does she ever leave the manor?”
“She doesn’t have regular appointments to get her nails done or anything, if that’s what you mean,” he said scoffing. “But yeah, she does leave occasionally.”
Then he looked seriously at Potter.
“She may be mad as a hatter, Potter, but she’s still my aunt, no matter what she did to you. If you think I’m planning to help you ambush her, or something, you’re out of your mind.”
“When was the last time she left?” Harry asked, appearing to ignore his words.
“She went to Azkaban just as soon as she was able to get back on her feet after the mess you left her in.”
He stopped, staring at Potter, trying to decide how much he should say.
“She’s ordered the Snatchers to have anyone school age brought to the manor first instead of the Ministry. Especially if they’re Gryffindors,” he admitted.
Potter’s face drained of color.
“What does she want with them?” he asked, though Draco thought he already knew the answer.
“She’s interrogating them for information about your whereabouts. She left the manor to retrieve that Ravenclaw nutter who went to the Ministry with you, Lovegood, from Azkaban. The Snatchers brought Dean Thomas a few days ago with a goblin he was travelling with.”
“Oh my God,” Granger cried, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.
“That fucking bitch!” Weasley growled.
Potter just looked terrified at the news, a slight shaking starting in his hands.
“Are they still alive?” he asked fearfully then, finally finding his voice.
“She hasn’t killed them,” he answered. “She’s not…doing to them what she did to you, Potter. I’m sure she’ll send them back to Azkaban if they don’t know anything.”
Potter just stared at him, clearly not believing a word of his feeble attempt to reassure him, and of course, he was right to be skeptical. Potter knew even better than he did what Bellatrix was capable of. Draco had no idea really what she had in store for those souls who couldn’t give her information on his whereabouts. She’d become even more deranged at his escape, nearly as obsessed with Potter now as she was with the Dark Lord.
The train was slowing down again, coming up to the next station, and Harry leaned forward then, extending his arm out to Draco to give him back his wand.
“Thank you, Draco.”
Draco’s eyebrows went up as he stared not at the wand, but at the hand holding it. Harry’s sleeve had pulled back, exposing his wrist to Draco. A pink, still-healing scar was visible there across the wrist, with another perpendicular to that, extending up his arm for as far as Draco could see.
He looked up into Potter’s eyes as he reached for it then. Grasping the wrist instead of the wand, he jerked Harry forward, closer to him, exposing the arm further to his examination. The pressure of his fingers around Potter’s wrist made the scars go white. Both Granger and Weasley let out a yelp of shocked outrage and raised their own wands to him, grabbing either him or Potter as if they thought he were about to Apparate away with him, but Potter never changed expressions or even tried to pull away.
“My father didn’t give you that, Potter,” he said sharply, but he was met with only silence from the other wizard, their eyes still fixed on each other, his trusty sidekicks still frozen beside them. “You expected me to throw my lot in with you, and you’ve already tried to check out at least once already? That doesn’t inspire very much confidence. What am I supposed to do if you succeed the next time?”
They continued to stare at each other, everyone totally silent. Then he finally relaxed his grip, and Potter pulled his wrist free, dropping Draco’s wand in his open palm before he finally spoke.
“I’m holding myself together right now, Malfoy. I can’t guarantee for how long, it could change tomorrow, but I’m doing the best I can. You would’ve had to decide if that was good enough for you, if you could trust me or not.”
His response was so frank, completely devoid of any attempt to sway Draco with false promises or gloss over the seriousness of his own situation that it took Draco totally by surprise.
“You’re different,” he blurted, without meaning to, speaking his observation out loud as he stared at the raven-haired wizard while the train came to a stop in the station.
“So are you,” Potter replied simply. “I don’t think either of us has been the same since that night when Dumbledore died on the tower. But spending time in your family’s home didn’t do me any favors, if that’s what you mean. The hospitality I received there leaves something to be desired. I don’t think I’ll be recommending it to my friends.”
“I did what I could,” Draco told him, though he didn’t know what he expected to receive in return. Gratitude? Absolution, maybe? What he got was a simple nod of acknowledgement from Potter.
“Do what you can for the others then, too.”
Draco grimaced at the softly spoken request, but didn’t respond.
“Mind the gap,” the cool disembodied female voice warned them as the doors swung open on the compartments besides their own.
Draco got to his feet, pocketing his wand as Granger ended at least some of the enchantments on their own compartment so their doors slid open as well, though no one entered.
“I will kill you if you get in my way, Draco. I hope you understand that,” Potter called to him quietly as he stepped away from them.
“You’re threatening me now, Scarhead?” he asked, turning back to face him.
“No, but I am giving you fair warning. Stay out of my way, and we won’t have any issues. There are certain people on my list, and you aren’t one of them right now. Keep it that way is all I’m saying.”
Draco stared at him a moment before he finally spoke.
“I don’t understand why you let it happen.”
“I didn’t let anything happen,” Potter argued, angry at the accusation.
“Yeah, you did,” he countered. “You let them…you volunteered for it, provoked it even, and yet all the time you had the power to kill them all, to just take your friends and leave.”
Potter held his tongue, his lips pressed together so tightly they’d gone white.
He saw again in his mind’s eye, Potter’s arms stretched out across the table in the basement room they used for torture, his chest and face pressed against it, chained down so that he was bent over it for a purpose Draco hadn’t needed to guess at when he’d entered the room. Draco had thought him already dead. His body was bloody, filthy, and disgustingly, horribly violated. Even the memories of it made Draco feel sick. When he’d released him, Potter had slumped to the floor, lifeless. But then he’d summoned the strength to get himself to the table with the lure of food, and he was quiet, polite even to Draco, grateful for the food he’d provided.
They’d actually had a civil few moments, possibly for the first time since their initial meeting in Madame Malkin’s before they started Hogwarts. Potter was worried for his friends, appearing wholly unconcerned for his own welfare. He never asked Draco for help, never tried to overpower him, he didn’t even try to resist when Dolohov and Selwyn arrived and pulled him from the chair.
When it was obvious that Potter had no intention of responding, Draco spoke again.
“Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t think any answer you could give me would help me understand that anyway.”
Then he turned and walked out of the compartment. The doors re-sealed themselves, and immediately the train shot away, speeding them away from him.
He had no idea where he was, but it didn’t matter. He went back up the stairs to find a secluded spot so he could Disapparate away, back to his home with a fresh set of secrets and fears to conceal.
He found a small alcove and pulled his wand, gripping it, but it felt wrong, too thick, unfriendly in his hand. He looked down at it.
“Shit!” he shouted in anger, “Fucking Potter! This isn’t my wand!”

~ . ~

Crippling writer’s block, that’s all I can say in my defense.   This chapter was such a struggle to write. I don’t know if it’s because it was in Draco’s POV and I rarely deviate from the trio, or what, but it was harder to get this chapter on paper than it was to give birth! JEEZ - Greycie
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What it comes down to

Chapter 26. Enemies and Allies