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In Loco Parentis	By : Phoenixstrike Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16795 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all identifiable characters are copyright of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Scolastic and Warner Brothers. This fanfiction is for entertainment only and makes no money. No copyright infringement intended.

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16^th August 2001

Diagon Alley was packed, which, combined with the blistering summer heat, was making for a very unpleasant shopping trip indeed. With just over two weeks to go until the start of the new Hogwarts year, it was crammed with students shopping for their school supplies as well as regular shoppers. Draco placed a supportive arm on his wife’s slim shoulders and guided her through the crowds to the quieter south side where the Alley’s more exclusive shops were located. They both sighed in relief as the air became instantly cooler as the number of bodies decreased. Annalisa paused to salivate over a beautiful set of dress robes that were on display in Twilfitt and Tatting’s, and Draco nipped her affectionately on the ear, a grin sliding up his face. Neither noticed a cloaked figure, dressed far too warmly for the balmy August weather, staring at them.

“Do we have time for a drink, darling?” Draco asked his wife, indicating a table outside a café surrounded by hanging baskets of beautifully-scented roses. She shook her head regretfully.

“We should be getting back for Scorpius,” she replied in a heavy French accent. “He is due a feed soon. And this is the first time we’ve left him; he’ll wonder where we are if we’re hours.” Draco reluctantly agreed, and turned to leave, guiding his wife past the row of shops that led close to the entrance to Knockturn Alley.

The first clue that Draco had that something was terribly wrong was the feel of a wand jarring him between his shoulder blades. He attempted to turn round but found the figure had pressed himself flat against his back, and something told Draco to keep as still as possible. Draco could feel hot breath on his neck, and the sound of raspy, rapid breathing. A rustle of fabric and surprised gasp coming from his wife informed him that whoever was threatening them had just removed Annalisa’s wand from her robe pocket. They were helpless. He winced when he felt the breath next to his ear, before an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Any sudden movements, Malfoy, and I will kill you and your charming wife on the spot. Hand over your wand now, and let’s not make a scene, shall we?”

With shaking hands, Draco reached into his pocket and withdrew his wand, a handsome length of red oak with unicorn tail core purchased after Voldemort’s defeat, and surrendered it to the unknown man.

With his wand fully trained on Draco’s back, the cloaked figure roughly shoved Annalisa into the deserted alleyway.

“Please, we have gold, if that’s what you want. But let us go, we have a baby,” she cried desperately. The figure laughed.

“I don’t want your stinking Galleons. And I know all about your son, pretty. Shame you didn’t bring him with you today. I’d quite like the whole Malfoy set at my disposal. Still, there’s always tomorrow,” he mocked. Annalisa made a sudden movement forwards at the mention of the threat to her son, and received a sharp backhanded slap across her face. Draco, powered by adrenaline, went to grab their attacker’s wand arm, but missed. The attacker swung his arm back and brought it squarely into Draco’s nose, shattering the cartilage and causing blood to drip sickeningly down the front of his robes and onto the alleyway floor. Annalisa took one look at her husband’s broken nose and let out a scream; in the next instant the hooded figure grabbed them both by the wrist and turned on the spot, Apparating away.

September 2001

Draco awoke slowly, lying on the cold stone floor of the cellar he was imprisoned within. He was shivering; his captors offered nothing in the way of bedclothes, and he only had a tatty threadbare robe covering his far too thin body. As with every time he woke (if he ignored the hard, bare floor digging in to his skin), he had a second to pretend that this was all just a ghastly nightmare, that he hadn’t been forced to witness the rape and murder of his wife, and that Annalisa would be bringing a fresh pot of coffee and the Prophet into his bedroom at any minute.

The fantasy only ever lasted the briefest of moments. The pain that flooded his body and the cruel voices coming from the other side of the room reminded him sharply that he was trapped, with no hope.

“Good morning, Malfoy. Sleep well?” one of the voices taunted. Draco ignored him, instead dragging himself off the floor and walking with as much dignity as he could muster to the corner of the room, where sat a filthy bucket that posed as his toilet. He relieved himself, using his scrap of a robe to provide as much privacy as it could, before eating the paltry scraps his captors offered for breakfast. The measly rations were just enough to keep him from starving to death, but not enough to sustain him; Draco estimated he had been in the cellar for about four weeks now, and he had lost a large amount of weight in that time.

He finished eating and drained the goblet of water that accompanied his breakfast, extending his tongue to ensure every drop of moisture was consumed. His breathing was raspy and he felt feverish but he knew better than to expect any potions would be offered.

“What do you want?” he breathed, for perhaps the hundredth time. Maybe even the thousandth, who knew. Not that he expected an answer; all he ever received was a cruel laugh as way of response. He was unsurprised to hear how defeated he sounded. Two words, he thought inwardly, just two little words, a stroke of a wand and a flash of green light my hell will end. He knew that no such mercy would be offered to him.

He was at a loss as to who his captors were, although after a few weeks in captivity he was certain they were using Polyjuice Potion, and their features were not their own. Acutely aware of his family’s last-minute desertion of the Dark Lord, his own wand being the one to finally vanquish Voldemort, and his mother’s role in saving Potter’s life, he had considered rogue Death Eaters, but there were very few left free in Britain, and none of them belonged to Voldemort’s inner circle. Any Death Eater capable of this crime was in Azkaban, and Draco had heard nothing of a breakout from the place. He was sure the Aurors were considering Death Eater activity too. His stomach gave a severely uncomfortable lurch when he realised it was the wrong path.

He was roused out of his thoughts violently by a sudden hex to his back; grunting in pain, he raised his eyes rebelliously to stare at the caster and spat in his face, knowing he would pay dearly for his defiance. He would not give the man the satisfaction of breaking. He would find a way out of this purgatory. Only a couple more weeks, he told himself, as he screamed and writhed in agony from the resulting Cruciatus Curse that was his punishment for expectorating, a month at most, and he would be free.

Christmas Day 2001

Draco wept softly as he thought of his son, now seven months old, without his parents for Christmas, not even caring that he was being watched. That little boy, the light of his life, was the only reason he hadn’t completely given up; the hope, no matter how slender, that he would one day be reunited with Scorpius was what kept him going and kept him sane. Not a minute passed when Draco didn’t think of his son. He hoped his mother had managed to give Scorpius a happy first Christmas, despite the circumstances.

Draco had rapidly discovered months ago that his prison cell was heavily warded and, without a wand, he had no chance of escape. He never had been able to perform wandless magic, and he was now so weak that he wouldn’t be able to summon the strength needed to do so. He unfolded one arm from his lap, and gasped as he did so; it had been broken some weeks before and the bone had not set properly. It hurt every time he moved the limb, and was set at an unnatural angle.

His guard left after a period of time, leaving Draco isolated and thoroughly alone in his warded cell. It was bitterly cold in there, being December, and Draco could see his breath in the dim light that filtered in through the bars of his cell. He trembled violently with cold, and curled up on the floor, drawing his legs to his chest in an attempt to warm himself. Eventually his abused body gave in to sleep, his shuddering breaths evening out, but even sleep did not aid his rest. He slept fitfully and was plagued with nightmares, and woke in the early hours of the morning with a scream.

17^th August 2002

“Well, I thought I’d give you a little anniversary gift, Malfoy,” his captor said. Draco didn’t even raise his head from his knees in response, the news he had been held a prisoner for three hundred and sixty-five days coming as no surprise to him. He jumped slightly when a heavy gold bangle was thrown at his shoulder, and opened his eyes to gaze at it, his breath catching when he recognised it. He picked it up and rotated the jewellery between his fingers. The Malfoy and Black coats of arms were intertwined around the bangle, and small diamonds were studded along the length. It was unmistakably his mother’s, and it was a piece of jewellery he had never seen her remove.

“Sorry it’s a day late, but we wanted to mark the occasion properly,” the man said. “So yesterday we took a little trip over to Malfoy Manor. Your mother, right annoying old bag she was. Trying to stop us from getting what we wanted. Oh I did enjoy her screams as she fell to my Killing Curse.”

Draco closed his eyes and breathed deeply in an attempt to rein in some control from the monster that wanted to burst out of his chest. His mother… was dead. He fought back the tears that threatened to fall and glared at his kidnapper through watery eyes. Then another thought occurred to him, and terror filled his heart. If his mother was dead, then…

“Scorpius,” he rasped, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

“Your brat is dead. Severing Charm to the throat,” was the reply. “Oh, his tiny body did crumple. Not so much as a whimper left him. But then again, we did slash his jugular. I’ve never seen so much blood. Still, don’t grieve, Malfoy. He’s reunited with your worthless mother and your whore of a wife now.”

But Draco had heard nothing past the fact his son had been killed, and inside his mind he began screaming, whilst his exterior remained eerily silent. For an entire year he had fought, desperately trying to escape. It was Scorpius, that little boy who Draco had only had for three months, that had kept him going. Finding out his son had been killed took the last drop of fight from Draco, and in that moment he no longer cared if he died. In fact, he welcomed death as there was nothing left to live for. That was the moment when Draco Malfoy was finally defeated.

Sometime in late 2003

Days, weeks, months- they meant nothing to Draco any longer, and he longer had the slightest clue as to how long he had been held captive, although he was aware, by the shift in temperature, that it was coming up for his third winter in captivity. He existed merely as a shell, barely noticing the curses and hexes fired at his broken body on a daily basis. A period of time ago- Draco had no idea how long- he had begged, pleaded with his captors for death; a plea that was met with merciless laughter and a jinx. He now realised why he had been left alive when his wife was killed almost immediately. Death was too good for him; his suffering was what his kidnappers wanted.

Feeling suicidal, he had attempted to starve himself to death on more than one occasion, but proved impossible. He was immediately placed under the Imperius Curse, which he was nowhere near strong enough to resist, and forced to eat. He wished for a wand, or some other method where he could just make everything stop, but there was nothing. For the first time in his life, he realised fully why people went mad in Azkaban, even without the presence of Dementors.

Draco remained lucid enough, however, to still consider who had taken him and destroyed his family in the first place. He began to obsess over it, giving his fractured mind something to work on rather than torturing himself with the deaths of this son, wife and mother. He had ruled out Death Eaters rather quickly. This was far more personal than his family’s defection, which didn’t affect the outcome of the war too much (even with Potter shouting his mouth off in the Great Hall about Elder Wands, and true masters, and using Draco’s length of hawthorn against Voldemort in the final duel, very few people had known about his mother’s lie to the Dark Lord whilst Potter lay presumably dead in the Forbidden Forest, and they were all either dead or rotting in Azkaban). No, Draco had concluded, this was personal about him; the kidnapping and murders were all a result of something he had personally done to someone, and this was their revenge. The destruction of his family was targeted specifically to devastate him. His family were all dead, and it was his fault.

His mind cast back to April 2001, just a month before Scorpius’ birth. He had been in deep negotiations over a lucrative but not-strictly-legal business opportunity worth over two million Galleons. It had fallen through at the last minute, with the person with whom he was negotiating accepting the offer of another negotiator instead. Although Draco never knew the name of this other person, and they didn’t know his, his stupid stubborn Malfoy pride was at stake. He wasn’t going to lose out on the deal. The fact that his potential business partner had opted to accept the offer of the other person as their family had been left virtually destitute following the war was of little consequence to him; Draco Malfoy was not well-known for his empathy and he wanted the deal as a matter of principle now, rather than to increase the contents of a Gringotts vault that was already overflowing with gold. So when he just happened to stumble across the man in an extremely compromising position with someone who, firstly, certainly wasn’t his wife, and secondly, not even female in a well-known Muggle red-light district, of course Draco took photos. And if he then used those images for blackmail, leading to him securing the contract after all, then that was just tough for the other negotiator. After all, they wouldn’t know it was him.

Except it appeared the victim of his blackmail had blabbed his name, and that anonymous third party was now a very real, terrifying nightmare, hell-bent on revenge. Draco’s own selfishness and arrogance had cost him literally everything. It also explained why the Aurors had not caught up with the captors yet, as the deal was extremely secretive, with all negotiations having taken place firmly behind closed doors. It was all speculation on his part, of course, but Draco was certain he was right. It just fit. The theory gave him a slither of something to work for. To get out of this, see his captors brought to justice. And once he had seen them sentenced to an imprisonment of their own… then he would be free to join his son. This thought consumed him. He needed justice for his family. He couldn’t achieve that lying dead or broken in a cellar somewhere. He owed it to them all to do this, to atone for his own mistakes. The beginnings of a plan started to form.

October 2005

Draco never had shown any ability in wandless magic. Indeed, it had taken him several weeks just to be able to Summon a small stone to his hand from the floor of his cellar to him when it was lying only a couple of feet away. He was unpractised in spells in general, having not had a wand for years, and the rush of magic felt unfamiliar to him. Only the thought of securing justice for his son gave him the strength to carry out the task. However, it also left him exhausted, both physically and magically, and he required a few days’ rest every time he made progress. Therefore it was no surprise that it took him nearly two years of solid practice when he was left alone in order to formulate his plan.

The morning of the day in October when Draco deemed himself competent enough in wandless magic to carry out his plan started just as any other morning did in this purgatory. He awoke on his cold floor, relieved himself in his makeshift toilet, and received his breakfast scraps which he consumed in silence. He spent the day forcing himself to rest as much as possible, and not antagonising his guard. He couldn’t afford to take a hex and have his plans ruined.

Evening fell, and the light failed to almost total darkness. Draco lay down on the floor, feigning sleep. As always at this time of night, he heard the Unlocking Spell cast upon the lock on the door and the dismantling of the wards surrounding his cell, as his captor paid their final visit of the night. Draco opened his eyes fractionally, allowing the darkened silhouette of the man to become visible to him. As always, the man was twirling his wand through his fingers as he examined Draco, making sure he’d not managed to succeed in killing himself in some way yet. Draco’s heart began to pound in his chest; a failed attempt and he would be severely punished. His captor would also be on the lookout for an attack in future. This was his one and only chance.

Wishing he had managed to command non-verbal casting in addition to wandless, Draco summoned all the magical energy he could, and whispered, “Accio wand!”

To his utter relief, the wand in his unsuspecting captor’s hand jerked free and flew into his own, which was outstretched and waiting. The feeling of the length in his hand after so long was unfamiliar, yet he instantly felt complete. His captor recovered from having his wand taken and lunged at Draco, who quickly Stupefied him, grinning in grim satisfaction as the spell rendered the man unconscious.

Even two simple spells learnt by all Hogwarts children well before OWL level left him utterly drained, and as much as he wanted to hex the living daylights out of the man, he knew he would be unable to. He couldn’t even levitate the now unconscious form of his captor out of the building as he had intended to. It was far more important to get some help before the man came to following his Stunning Spell.

He ascended the huge staircase leading away from the bowels of the building and blindly made his way through it as fast as he could, his legs and wasted muscles protesting at the longest distance they’d been required to cover in years, trying to commit to memory anything that could help him identify the place. There was nothing.

He finally found the entrance to the property, and shoved open the huge oak door. The cold, fresh air smacked his exposed face, and his poorly-clad body began to shake violently in the Autumn night air, but neither could stop the fleeting surge of pleasure that Draco experienced when he took a gulp, breathing in the outside scents and sensations for the first time in nearly half a decade.

There was no way he was prepared to attempt Apparating, knowing he would Splinch himself if he tried. Surviving on adrenalin alone, he began to run through the streets of what he thought to be London. He knew both the Ministry and The Leaky Cauldron were in London, but he didn’t know how to get to either from the Muggle world, especially when he had no clue in which part of the capital he was. He began to panic.

Sheer exhaustion forced Draco to stop after a while, and he slid, panting, onto the floor, desperately trying to create some warmth from his ragged clothing. His earlier elation at being outside had long-since subsided and been replaced with desperation; the Stunning Spell would wear off very soon, if it hadn’t already, and even if Draco could get help in time, he had no idea where the house was. Hot tears began to fall down his face. He had failed. Yes, he was free, but he had not managed to bring anyone to justice. His family’s deaths would remain unavenged. Draco wanted to scream, but no sound would come out of his parched mouth. He attempted to drag his body up and plough on in the vain search for help, but he didn’t have the strength. He closed his eyes. Just two minutes, he told himself, as the tears began to dry, fusing his eyelashes together. Two minutes, then I’ll get help. He attempted to stay awake but his effort was in vain; even the sound of the traffic roaring through London was not enough to prevent his body falling into a deep sleep.

He awoke at dawn, wondering why he was outside and freezing, and with no memories beyond his own name.

****

June 2006

Draco finished his tale and Harry realised he had wrapped his arms around the other man and was holding him tightly to his chest. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he had done that, but judging by the tears that were falling from his own eyes he guessed it was around the time of Scorpius’ supposed death, the recount of which had caused heaving waves of nausea to overcome him.

“That morning,” Draco continued, after taking a couple of violent, shuddering breaths, “I awoke with the wand in my hand. I wondered what it was, and threw it away. I had his wand, this vital, wonderful piece of evidence, and I fucking tossed it away.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harry soothed, stroking Draco’s hair. “You weren’t to know, Draco.” He looked at his watch. “I hate to leave you, but I really need to owl Kingsley. I think you’re right, about it being a vendetta as revenge. The Death Eater angle didn’t make any sense to me, but it was literally all we had. I looked into all your business activity, of course, but this one obviously never came up.”

He reluctantly untangled himself form Draco and quickly drafted a letter to the Minister which he sent with his owl, before returning to the bedroom. Draco had changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms and a loose t-shirt, and had washed his face. He looked completely drained.

“You must hate me,” Draco said softly. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “The business deal. Now you know it’s my fault they killed Annalisa and my mother. They’re dead, because of me.”

“No,” Harry replied firmly. “They’re dead because of him. You were a selfish, hard-hearted git about stealing the deal, but you did not deserve that level of retribution.” He crossed to the shelf where Draco kept the potions Healer Morgan had prescribed, and retrieved a purple phial. “You don’t need nightmares tonight, Draco,” he said firmly, handing the Sleeping Draught out to him, which Draco accepted gratefully. “We still have a huge amount to discuss, but it can wait until morning.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Draco whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said. He watched Draco get into bed, un-stopper the phial and down its contents, falling rapidly into a deep, peaceful sleep, before lying next to the blond. Draco’s recount had been harrowing at times, but he had come through it alive, and had been reunited with his son.

He lay awake for a long time, listening to Draco’s calm, even breathing, his mind processing everything he had heard that evening. It was going to take a lot to help Draco heal. But Harry intended to make sure he was there to help- every step of the way.
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In Loco Parentis