A Painful Change

For work in 15 minutes

A/N- Hey! Beth Weasley here. You may know of my AU fifth year, Bonds of Pain, the other fic I have here on ff.net. This story is a prequel of sorts. Several people have asked me why Draco made the choice he did at the very beginning of the story when the books portray him as this spoilt rotten brat who doesn't care for anyone else. I hope that this story will explain it satisfactorily. I'm warning you, though, this is not for the squeamish! Enjoy!

A Painful Change

By Beth Weasley

Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of his seat in the stands, peering over the enormous hedges planted on the Quidditch Pitch. So this is the Third Task. A maze. How challenging. There was already movement inside, despite the fact that Potter, Diggory, and the two foreign champions stood outside in full view. A large clear area on the other side of the pitch from the entrance was occupied by a plinth bearing the trophy that would be displayed by the winning school. Draco hoped it would be Hogwarts: whether Potter or Diggory won didn't really matter to him anymore.

The Slytherin was so concentrated on the movements in the maze and his own thoughts that he missed the reading of the rules and only realized the task had started when a spell flashed in front of him. Minutes passed, and an ear-splitting scream rent the air. The voice was too high to be anyone but Delacour. Hogwarts' odds were now two to one.

I'm starting to doubt that Potter volunteered for this, he thought wryly. The Golden Boy might be a bit unhinged, but Draco doubted he was suicidal. For Merlin's sake, he had gone up against a full-grown Hungarian Horntail on her nest! The Gryffindor had seemed terrified when he had stepped out of the tent to face that final dragon. His flying, on the other hand, had been poetry in motion as usual. The blond had recorded it on his new set of Omnioculars to review later for next year's Quidditch games. Perhaps he could learn something by watching someone who was obviously a born Seeker.

As for the Second Task, Potter had looked absolutely frantic because both of his tagalongs had gone missing. Of course, the Weasel had been Potter's precious person at the bottom of the lake, and Krum had rescued Granger. When Delacour had come up empty-handed and the hour had passed, Draco had momentarily thought Potter might have drowned. Then the dark head had surfaced, towing both the Weasel and Delacour's little sister. Perfect Potter had risked himself instead of letting another die. Draco had hardly expected such chivalry from someone who was supposed to be a spoilt brat.

Afterwards, Draco had found himself carefully watching Potter every free moment he had. He was even taking note of the boy hero's clothes, by all the gods. Before the weather began to warm up, Weasley jumpers had been the norm, with four variations, one beginning to get too small for the slowly growing Potter. The jumpers were accompanied either by uniform trousers or gigantic denim ones that seemed to be held to the slim Gryffindor's frame by a length of rope, of all things. Surely Potter could afford a belt? When the jumpers had disappeared, Draco was even further shocked by the slovenly appearance of the Golden Boy. His tees were so large that Draco could have put both Crabbe and Goyle into one at the same time, and there'd be room left. Secondly, there were so many stains and threadbare spots he doubted even house-elf magic could repair them.

~* Flashback, April 27, 1995 *~

Draco stalked into the vacant fourth-year boys' dorm in Arx Serpens, scowling. Feeling his curiosity getting the better of him, he had sent his shadows to amuse themselves in some way other than following him around. Two quick gestures with his wand locked the door and prevented eavesdropping.

"HOUSE-ELF!" he bellowed. A moment later, there was a loud crack and an oddly attired elf stood before him. An elf he recognised and had thought he'd never see again.

"Yes sir, how may Dobby help, sir?" Watery green eyes became shocked when they met equally startled silver orbs.

"So you've been here, eh, mate? I wondered where you were after second year. All Father would say was that you'd been dismissed." He hadn't expected this at all.

"Harry Potter tricked Master Lucius into freeing dobby. Put He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's diary in a sock and returned it to Master Lucius, sah." The elf easily slipped back into the casual address Draco had insisted upon in his childhood. There was a brief pause to take a breath before continuing. "Master Lucius was trying to kill Harry Potter, sah, but Dobby stopped him and made him go away." Well. That was more than unexpected.

"Good job, then. If he tries anything else around here, zap him good for me." Draco no longer agreed with much of his father's beliefs. When Granger had slapped him in third year, it was enough contact infused with enough emotion to allow Draco a brief glimpse at her raw potential. He had known she had an almost perfect memory, but the fact that it was part of her magic was a new tidbit. Even just half trained, the Muggle-born girl was more powerful than Lucius Malfoy. Her memory probably allowed almost instant use of any spell she saw performed, let alone anything else. No wonder she was always carrying around thick, obscure texts. The old man would not have been at all happy, had he known.

"Erm, Dobby, could I ask you a tiny favour?" He knew the elf would do anything for him, but he wanted to ask first, anyway. It was only polite to ask before requiring anything of the one who had raised you, after all.

"Of course, sah. What is it?"

"I'd like to know why Potter's clothes look like rubbish that should have been hauled away or burned years ago." Dobby snorted derisively. Obviously freedom agreed with him.

"It's because they should have been, sah. They is so full of holes and stains nothing can be done with them. They don't even have any stretch left in them because of Harry Potter's stupid, fat, ugly, rude, nasty cousin. He is being even fatter." Draco tried to imagine someone fatter than his two cronies put together. All he could come up with was something like a large ball of flesh. He then frowned as Dobby began muttering under his breath. That sounded... painful. At least, it would be if the elf ever laid his spindly little hands on Potter's relatives.

"Is there some reason why Potter always looks like he's facing execution when he gets off the Express in the summer?" Hey, it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Damnable Dursleys, is why!" Dobby exploded. "Punishment for magic, sah! When Dobby did the magic, and Harry Potter didn't have a wand! And stupid Ministry will expel him if magic happens there again!" The ranting faded again, this time with the elf pacing and clenching fists. Draco blinked. How in the nine hells did the even-tempered Dobby get so mad at these Muggles?

"Calm down, mate. You'll get your chance with them some day, I'm sure. Karma, you know?" The house-elf nodded as he took a deep breath. "What can I get for you? I really owe you for everything. Not just for this." The small figure brightened.

"Socks, sah. Dobby likes socks, but I is not liking matching ones." An over-sized shirt was lifted to reveal shockingly bright socks. One was Chudley Cannons orange--both Draco and Dobby's favourite team, despite their hard luck--with bright pink butterflies, and the other a glaring yellow that had never been seen in nature with black ants.

"Not a problem at all, mate. I'll pick some up in Hogsmeade next chance I get." Well, at least it's not dull. Must be fun after who knows how many years in a pillowcase. The elf left with another crack as Draco removed the charms from the door and prepared for bed.

~* End Flashback *~

Draco sighed. Either Dumbledore didn't know how the Muggles treated the Golden Boy, or the daft old wizard truly believed the hero was better off in that sort of environment than where the Dark Lord and his minions--minions like Draco's own father--would have access to the teen. If the latter was true, and the rumours that had been floating around about Potter's defeats of the Dark Lord in their first two years were true, then the danger must be extreme indeed.

Draco gasped as red sparks shot into the air above the pitch. Someone else was down. He could see a pair of dark heads near the top of the hedges. Two of the remaining contestants must have stumbled across the third, who was incapacitated, obviously. He couldn't, however, tell whether the lighter of the two was Diggory or Krum. Potter was simply too damned lucky to be taken down by anything the judges would throw into that maze. Besides, weren't they trying to keep all the contestants alive now? If Potter had survived and defeated a basilisk, there wasn't anything tamer that could possibly take him out.

Wait. There, in the clearing with the Cup. Diggory and Potter faced each other across the bare ground, but an Acromantula was sneaking up behind the older wizard. Potter pointed and yelled, causing Diggory to turn. Both shot spells at the giant arachnid. Potter was momentarily snatched up, but then the creature fell to some hex or another. Obviously, Potter's leg was not in terribly good shape. The two wizards spent a moment in heated debate, both gesturing at the other and then the trophy. Moments later, a decision was obviously reached, and they clasped hands before both reaching for the trophy. Simultaneous victory for Hogwarts! Draco was about to cheer when the vignette seemed to warp and the students and trophy were gone.

Damn. Father said something at Easter about a plan, but I'd no idea they were going to turn the Cup into a Portkey. It would take complex and time-consuming magic to find out where they had gone, and the two wizards probably did not have that time. Only the maker of the Portkey itself and his superiors knew.

All around the blond, students and adults alike were panicking. Their Wonder Boy had disappeared. He had faced You-Know-Who twice before, and murderer Sirius Black as well, Of course, few outside the school believed the tales brought home by students about Potter and the Philosopher's Stone or the Chamber of Secrets. They were shocked, however, to find that Dementors had seemingly been more of a threat to Potter than Black. Of course, Draco's mother had told him confidentially that she never believed the charges against her cousin, who had always despised his Dark-worshipping family. Narcissa had stayed out of the whole debate entirely, not taking either side. And when Draco found out about his father's part in suspending Dumbledore in second year, he had been appalled. Things had only gotten worse without the wizard, despite how crazy he was.

The minutes ticked slowly by. At ten minutes, Snape, Karkaroff, and--strangely enough--moody and Fudge all paled. Karkaroff made an abortive movement to grip his left forearm. Draco knew his godfather--Severus Snape, of course--and Karkaroff had been Death Eaters like his father. Perhaps Moody and Fudge also numbered among Lucius Malfoy's "friends."

Time continued to crawl. Over twenty minutes after their disappearance, Potter and Diggory returned, much the worse for wear; Potter was battered, covered in dirt, and seemed to be bleeding from the crook of his left arm. Diggory was obviously dead, clutched limply in Potter's arms. The skinny boy was holding the corpse in the fashion of a drowning man with a lifeline. There was a vaguely wild frightened look in the green eyes that Draco could just see with his Omnioculars, like a cornered, wounded animal. He mentally patted himself on the back for thinking to bring the sporting gear. Otherwise he'd be missing this.

Moody tried once to take Potter to the castle, but Dumbledore insisted that the boy stay where he was. Moments later, Draco spotted the scarred Professor dragging the Golden Child away from the larger group, towards the castle. Draco thought quickly. If the man was a Death Eater, his actions spelled disaster for Potter. Surely a loyal servant would bring the escaped arch-enemy back to his Master. As much as the blond disliked the Boy Wonder for snubbing him so long ago and making friends with Weasley instead, the thought of the Dark Lord achieving his plans for domination was worse than helping his rival. Draco knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Muggle-born witches and wizards kept the wizarding world alive.

In a snap decision, Draco stood on his seat. "Headmaster!" he shouted. "Moody took Potter inside!" The venerable wizard's head whipped around to face him at his cry, and the blond pointed at the diminishing figure of the suspicious-acting professor. Vince and Greg suddenly took it upon themselves to drag him back down into his seat, but his Omnioculars were immediately up to see what Dumbledore did. An odd sense of satisfaction filled him as the headmaster and McGonagall hared off after the rogue and his captive.

"What the bloody d'you think you're doing, Draco?" Greg asked in his thick voice. Honestly, the idiot would jump off the Astronomy Tower if a Malfoy said so.

"I'm making my own decisions, for a change," the smaller teen snarled at his crony. No, he wasn't going to allow his father to determine his actions any longer. Nor was he anyone's servant, not even the Dark Lord's. He was an equal, a team-mate, or he was out.

The three young wizards waited impatiently to be allowed to return to the castle and their dormitory as whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd.

"You-Know-Who is back..."

"... killed Diggory..."

As the rumours circulated faster, Draco tried to piece together what might have happened. He knew the Cup had to be a Portkey to a place where at least some of the Death Eaters were in complete control. Diggory seemed to have gotten the Killing Curse almost immediately. Potter had been caught somehow, perhaps while stunned by the death of a classmate right beside him, and then he was bled for an unspecified ritual. He claimed You-Know-Who had regained a body, according to a horrified Hufflepuff, and then Potter had been forced into a duel. Something had happened then that allowed Potter to reach both Diggory's corpse and the Cup, bringing him back to Hogwarts. The rest, he knew.

Snape, scowling fiercely and subtly rubbing his left arm, escorted his Slytherins back to their dungeon dormitory a few minutes later. He only stayed long enough to threaten his charges with expulsion and other punishments if they left the area before he had to leave himself for what he claimed was "a staff meeting." A brief glance and a few slight motions conveyed a message to his godson just before he left.

"Be careful. Great danger lurks here." They had developed the private sign language for the specific purpose of keeping them both safe and passing on delicate information in a general fashion when they could not speak in absolute private.

Hours later, when the Potions Professor returned, Draco was still sitting up in the common room, waiting for the inevitable discussion they would have. Snape gestured him into a secret passage that led to his own quarters in the Teacher's Wing. A few muttered spells sealed the rooms off before Draco's suspicions were confirmed. Potter had been bled for an ancient Dark Potion that had returned the Dark Lord to a humanoid body, and the Boy Wonder had been able to quote the three main ingredients that identified the concoction. You-Know-Who had then been able to negate the protection left on Potter by his Muggle-born mother on her death, which had defeated him in the encounter over the Philosopher's Stone. Uncle Severus, of course, had told Draco the truth about both that incident and the one in the Chamber of Secrets, or at least as much as the older man had been able to pry out of Dumbledore and his colleagues.

On hearing which ritual and potion had been used, Draco was first disgusted. Then his will hardened. Now he was even more determined not to follow in his father's footsteps. What did You-Know-Who have against Potter to try and kill the boy at a mere fifteen months? Why would a wizard who was supposed to be so powerful be afraid of a mere babe? When he voiced the questions to his godfather, the man shrugged.

"Why would he tell anyone, let alone his treacherous Death Eaters? They always squabbled amongst themselves for position at his side. What do you think they would do if they knew such a weakness? My only advice to you is to follow your instincts, young Dragon. Don't let anyone force you into anything unless you want it on your own, and don't accept conditions. I made that mistake a long time ago, let my father rule me, and I'm still paying for it today." With those words, the Head of Slytherin sent him to bed.

For the rest of the week, in every spare moment he could snatch between exams and studying, Draco thought long and hard about what he truly wanted. Much time staring at nothing brought him around again and again to the conclusion he had reached a few months earlier--that magic needed Muggle to survive, and that the reverse was true as well. Many of his House-mates, especially sixth-year Roger Demeurt and his cronies, continually spoke of a return of the "good old days" of Muggle tortures and killings. Draco, sickened by the mere thought, kept up the façade of the perfect Malfoy scion, smiling and nodding at each mention.

Soon enough, he decided that the Dark Lord had everything backwards. He no longer cared that Muggle-born students took a while to fit into wizarding society. The fresh ideas they brought from the Muggle world had given wizards many things they took for granted, like the ever-popular WWN and the photo camera. Photos were so much quicker than portraits, and the Wireless was one of the blond Slytherin's favourite things. How else could he hear new music and the latest news? If people like Lucius and his "Master" had their way, he'd be listening to ancient folk songs and choral pieces intended for the church instead of bands like the Weird Sisters. How completely boring.

Just before leaving the castle for the train home on Friday, Draco stopped in to see his favourite professor again. The sallow man smiled wanly and clapped a warm hand to his shoulder.

"Be careful out there, my boy. Keep in touch." Draco often felt Uncle Sev was more of a father to him than Lucius.

"Weekly as usual, Uncle. I'll try to make you proud of me." Despite the lack of a close blood connection, the blond had always called his godfather "Uncle." He didn't know whether the man fought for the Dark or the Light in this war, but he suspected the Light. Draco would still be making his own choice, not following blindly. At least the wizard could be proud of that, even if Draco's suspicions were off target.

The train ride turned out to be relatively uneventful, if one were to discount his visit to the Wonder Trio's compartment. He wasn't sure why he let Greg, Vince, Montague, and Demeurt goad him into the comments he made, ones which Draco did not believe to a word. When the older pair--Demeurt and Montague, of course, who had stayed in the shadows--revived the younger three, the Malfoy heir had retaliated with several very painful jinxes, none of them even touching Darker magicks. Between the inventive curses of the notorious Weasley twins and the hexes powered by the deep anger of the Golden Trio, some things had side effects that really HURT! Fortunately, Blaise Zabini was knowledgeable enough to reverse the visible symptoms before they reached London, though the git continually muttered to himself and smirked deviously through the entire process. Though the blond still felt a bit wobbly after, he dismissed the feeling as jangled nerves.

Once again dignified, Draco disembarked at Platform 9 ¾, to be quickly met by his father and one of the Manor's many house-elves. His luggage disappeared with the elf, and his father guided him out to one of the family carriages, charmed to be unobtrusive and unnoticeable to the non-magical eye. As the carriage lurched into motion, Lucius fixed his son with a stare.

"You will be receiving the Dark Mark this summer, will you not?" the man asked. Startled only slightly, Draco thought for a brief moment. Did he really want to join a man who desired the thing that would eventually destroy their way of life? A man who would orphan and try to kill children just because he hated them? Not a snowball's chance in Hades.

"No." Draco's steel grey eyes met clear ice blue squarely. Draco figured his answer would earn him the worst treatment of his life. He didn't particularly care. He had made his decision, and he would stick by it, no matter what. His heart, long silent and ignored, was fairly singing with joy. He had finally done what felt right. His contemplation over this astounding fact was cut short as Lucius' hand struck his cheek with such force he was nearly thrown from his seat.

"Would you care to repeat that?" the older wizard grated. His eyes grew even icier, warning his son that the same answer would merit worse punishment.

"I said no, and that's my final decision." Crack. There went his other cheek. "I don't care what you do to me, father, I won't grovel for a wizard who cares nothing for his followers. You're disposable to him. There's no power in being a Death Eater." Suddenly he found himself writhing in the grip of the Cruciatus Curse. Bah. He'd put up with that from Moody--or rather, Crouch the younger, as it had turned out. When the pain lifted, he merely glared at the man who shared the carriage. "He didn't do anything to protect Barty Crouch from the Dementors. Why would he protect you?" He was determined to make those the last words he would speak to Lucius Malfoy.

His resolve held true for the rest of the journey, infuriating the older blond. Despite repeated and varied pain curses, their effects making Draco's frazzled nerves even worse, he was able to remain dignified and defiant. He walked into the Manor under his own power, only to be confronted by a most disturbing sight.

"What have you done to my sweet, cheerful little Dragon, Lucius?" his mother screeched as she flew down the stairs to clutch him to her side. A brief glance between them told Narcissa that her son would be all right for now, and she launched herself at the taller man. She would have knocked him over and clawed him to shreds if the Squib butler had not restrained her at the last moment. "Why?" she screamed, her face puffy and streaked by tears, her hair untended and tangling past her waist. "He would have made an excellent Ravenclaw, but no, no Malfoy has ever gone anywhere but Slytherin! You forced him to play Seeker, buying that position, when you know he's a better Chaser than anyone in that school!" The slender witch tried to get at her husband, making mincemeat of the butler, but it was in vain as the servant hauled her away. The once-beautiful woman had obviously neglected her appearance recently with worry over her only child.

Mum, the fifteen-year-old thought in despair. She meant the world to him. Only his Uncle Sev and his Aunt Rita--his godmother--were anything near so precious to him. He wanted to mimic her actions, to leap upon the man he had called Father and tear into him for the torture he had obviously put Narcissa through. Only his rigorous self-discipline kept him standing still, though a solitary tear traced a damp path down his bruising cheek.

"You have one day to reconsider your foolish decision, Draco." Lucius fixed him with a frigid glare. "However, you will not be doing so in the comfort you would normally enjoy in your room." Fingers like iron bands gripped the young wizard's arm as he was hauled into the cellar and through damp, musty corridors to an empty storeroom. A set of manacles dangled from a hoop in the ceiling in one corner, and hay was piled below them. The older man casually flung his son into the room.

"You will be watered later. Think about your words. I will return at this time tomorrow." The door slammed shut, and Draco heard the bolt rammed home.

This is a right mess I've gotten myself into. Of course, that's what I get for acting like a bloody Gryffindor in this house. The thought caused him to stop and blink for a moment. Bloody hell, I'd expect this sort of behaviour from Potter! The revelation reminded him of his Sorting.

~*Flashback, September 1, 1991*~

"Malfoy, Draco!" Subtly shifting his robes as he heard his name, the small blond boy strode forward.

Has to be Slytherin, Father said, he thought to himself as he sat on the stool. Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin, Slyth-- His world briefly went dark.

[Slytherin, hey? You'd do far better in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, you know.]

Huh-UH! Has to be Slytherin. Father would kill me anywhere else.

[Ah, yes, Lucius Malfoy. Haven't seen anyone quite as... well, extreme as him since, though those Weasley twins were quite the capful. Guess it must be--] "SLYTHERIN!"

The boy took his new place smirking, but inside his head spun.

~*End Flashback*~

Draco lost track of time not too much later. He stubbornly refused to recant whenever asked. He even spat at Lucius, which earned him a brief session with the man's favourite athame, leaving behind two shallow but burning cuts across the flesh of his stomach. At least he was fit. The cuts hurt like hell, but the young blond would not break.

He woke up soon thereafter to find himself locked in the manacles. A servant--a Squib, of course, as the house-elves might still follow his commands--brought water and dry crusts of bread at irregular intervals. Lucius would also drop by at odd times to whip or beat him in an attempt to make him submit. Then the strange dreams began.

At first, it was only flashes while he slept fitfully on the mouldy hay. A boy of a size with him, only dark-haired instead of blond, curled up as if to protect himself. The flashes grew longer, soon showing that the boy was being beaten with fists, feet, furniture, and whatever came to his tormentor's hands. The first real dream, however, was truly bizarre.

Draco knew he was asleep as soon as he saw his surroundings. He knew he was still chained in the storeroom. Besides, he had never seen a setting like this. Muggle pavement formed a road between two rows of nearly identical houses. The gardens were far too neat to have more than one household on the entire street that was more than moderately magical. The neat white door he faced bore a shining brass number four and an equally gleaming spot at shin height, probably for Muggle post. He only realized that he had no control over the dream when he glided straight through the door without even willing it.

The foyer of the house, though it was probably the cleanest on the outside, was a battle zone, literally. Blood spattered both walls of the narrow hall and smeared a section of the hardwood floor, dripping down a cracked mirror and from the top of the tiny table underneath. The table itself had been knocked askew, one corner deeply embedded in the plaster wall, and the opposite leg bent and cracked. A bony figure huddled beside a small door underneath the stairs on the other side, a massive man looming overhead.

"We'll have no more of your freakish nonsense, boy!" the man bellowed, his face red and spittle flying everywhere. "We don't believe you actually have a godfather, or he would have come to see you! You're a piece of lying filth, not fit to live with normal human beings! Into that cupboard, Boy! I don't want to hear a peep out of you!" the bony figure--or boy, the blond guessed--was roughly shoved into the space under the stairs, the door shut behind him and fastened with five different sorts of lock.

As the fat man left, Draco again drifted forward involuntarily, this time straight into the cupboard. Marvelling at how small the space was--smaller than it seemed from outside--He had just a moment to really look at the boy. Thick black hair sprouted in every direction from the child's head, dull with an obvious lack of nutrition. His skin was even paler than Draco's own, nearly translucent from a lack of sunlight. The boy's gaunt look screamed starvation, and something was on his forehead, just covered by sweat-damp hair that stuck to the skin and a hand that had fallen over the rest of the boy's face. Before he was able to look any closer, the blond jerked awake, sweat dripping into his eyes.

Who was that? Why do I feel I should know him? His thoughts were interrupted by Lucius striding in. That must have been what woke him, the bolt sliding open. The older man held a horsewhip in one hand.

When the pain finally faded hours later, Draco gratefully dropped back into unconsciousness. Maybe he would see that boy again, find out who it was.

~*Dream*~

The black-haired boy was thrashing on the thin padding that lay on the floor of the cupboard, banging his knees, elbows, and head painfully and loudly on the walls.

"No. Don't. Just me, please." The words were uttered in a harsh, dehydrated voice, and the thick locks were plastered to his skull by sweat. "No! Run! Go! Nooo!!!!" The tortured screams were abruptly stopped when an impossibly huge boy yanked open the door and pulled the much smaller boy out by a rag-like tee.

"Dad says I get to shut you up this time," the mass of flesh chortled as a knobbly stick was raised. Though it came down many times, the skeletal boy didn't fight. He only curled into a ball and lay on the floor, even when a sickening crack signalled a broken arm.

"Leave him alone!" Draco cried, disgusted by the violence both in his own life and that of this defenceless boy. He lunged for the lard ball, but passed right through. No one seemed to have heard him, either. "Make it stop," he sobbed, sinking to the floor beside the small boy. "I've had enough. What did we ever do?" When the beating was over, what seemed like hours later, the silent child had been shoved back into the cupboard, and Draco had floated in with him. Longing for at least one of them to have a form of comfort, he tried to cradle the broken form and found, to his surprise, that the boy was the one thing he could touch and effect.

"why do they treat us like dirt?" he asked the unconscious form he held. "We're people too." The blond idly began to smooth the dark hair as it dried. His eyes were closed, and he felt tears flow freely down his face. When his fingers encountered a line of lumpy scar tissue on the other boy's forehead, his eyes snapped open to look beneath the thick fringe. The pale skin bore an all too familiar lightning bolt shape.

What are the odds of two similar-looking boys having that particular shape of scar in that particular spot? He asked himself. "Harry Potter," the blond muttered thoughtfully. The boy's eyelids fluttered but did not open.

"No, Cedric," the dark-haired boy murmured a moment later, beginning to get restless again. "Don't take it, Cedric." Draco grew alarmed. This could be nothing less than another nightmare. Hadn't Diggory's name been Cedric? Whatever the case, he certainly did not want to see a third beating in such a short span of time. Turning the boy gently in his grip, he cradled the dark head so that any screams would be muffled by his own body, and he could still reach to restrain thrashing limbs.

"Hush, now. It's only a dream," he tried to soothe the sleeping boy.

"No! Run, Cedric! Go! No!" The other boy's slight movements became more frantic as he screamed into Draco's stomach. He suddenly snapped awake, perhaps realizing that someone was holding him. Green eyes stared into Draco's grey, green eyes the Slytherin knew well despite the absence of their usual lustre. There was only one person with eyes of that rare hue.

"Harry Potter?"

~*End Dream*~

Draco woke with a start. Dobby had implied that Potter's family didn't like the Boy-Who-Lived, but this was worse than anyone could have imagined.

"They beat him for having nightmares," he whispered to himself. Had Potter put up with such treatment from the day he was left in their custody? If so, it was a miracle that he'd survived, let alone staying sane and becoming the shining beacon of good he seemed to be at school. And the boy's nightmares... It sounded as though he blamed himself for Diggory's death, of all the people who had been present.

"Awake again, I see," a cold voice spoke in the silence. Lucius stood by the open door, his athame in hand. He strode forward, malice in his eyes.

"No thanks to you," Draco hissed, his first words to the man since he had been shut in here. He spat with perfect aim as usual, the slimy projectile landing square across the man's eyes.

"You'll regret that, brat," Lucius growled as he wiped his face clean. The tall man gripped the ceremonial dagger more tightly now, moving swiftly to leave another burning trail across Draco's belly to add to the first two.

Two more stripes quickly followed, one crossing two of the other and causing trickles of blood at the junctions. Then Draco felt the other presence in the room. He spotted a column of misty substance in the next corner over, which rapidly resolved into the vague form of the Gryffindor he'd been seeing in his dream just minutes ago.

Harry, he thought, almost pleading with the boy's image. Don't look, you don't need to see this in addition to what you already put yourself through. Despite the plea, the form of the famous young wizard stepped toward him. Lucius obviously didn't notice, even if he could, too engrossed in causing Draco more pain.

"Serve the Master," the older man growled, cutting slowly across the other gashes.

"Never," Draco grated through clenched teeth. He was not going to scream. He wouldn't let the wanker have the satisfaction. "I'll never bow to that slime." The look on Harry's face was worth the pain he was in. Sudden surprise softened into a look of mixed joy and sorrow. The young wizard's image came closer to Draco. The blond winced as the athame sliced deeper.

"Who are you?" the apparition whispered. Lucius definitely didn't notice this. He would have reacted if he'd heard the voice. It must be just like my dream for him. "Why is he doing this to you?" The boy's pained questions deserved an answer, deserved the truth.

Draco glared defiantly at the older wizard. "I chose," he snarled. "I have charted my own course, decided to be my own person. I belong to no one. I will not bow to you or your despicable, damnable Master!" Lucius quickly responded with a head-spinning slap that nearly dislocated Draco's jaw.

"Malfoy?" Harry's image asked in a croak, the emerald eyes wide and showing more life they had before. "Draco? Is that you?" His given name sounded almost musical coming from the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Keep your mouth shut, you ungrateful wretch!" Lucius hissed. "I thought I taught you to speak only when spoken to in the company of your betters. Again and again you fail me."

Draco laughed harshly, mockingly. "You? You're not better than me. You're a spineless flunky who likes to play at being all high and mighty." That earned him another jaw-popping slap. He turned to look at Harry. The other boy's image had grown more solid, and if looks could kill, the dreaded green curse would be shooting from those stormy eyes. -Equals, you and I,- the blond mouthed. Harry nodded resolutely.

"Of course. I never considered you as anything less. Annoying and irritating at times, yes. Always trying to cause trouble, yes. But never any less than me."

Just as Draco began to nod in response, Lucius drove the dagger's pommel into his kidney. The closest slash opened further, weeping blood. Some of the scabbed-over welts from the earlier session with the whip broke open as well. Sneering, the older wizard swept from the room, the door thumping closed behind him and the bolt slamming home loudly. Draco sagged in his bonds.

Harry rushed to help Draco almost as soon as the door had closed. The look on the darker boy's face reminded the blond of the Second Task.

"Are you--" A racking cough forced him to stop for a moment. "Are you worried about me?"

"Bloody hell! Yes, I'm worried about you! He'll kill you within a month at this rate." The blond snorted and rolled his eyes.

"I'd much rather die than ever give in to either of those evil bights. At least I'll die without innocent blood on my hands." As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced. He'd forgotten about Potter blaming himself for Diggory's death.

"It's a bit late for me on that account," the Wonder Boy sighed, eyes downcast.

"Bollocks. Diggory was not your fault, Potter. You forget, I saw everything up until you were snatched away by that Cup. You did something chivalrous and noble, performed an honourable act that few could match. It's You-Know-Who's fault he's dead, him and whoever cast the spell."

"Ah, but it's my fault Wormtail is alive, you see. I'm the one kept Sirius and Lupin from killing him in third year. He got away, and he's been helping Voldemort ever since." Draco shuddered on hearing the name dreaded by the majority of the magical community.

"It's still not your fault. Wait a minute." Realization dawned on him. "That wouldn't be Sirius Black you're referring to, would it?" Harry nodded warily, and Draco chuckled wryly. "I guess Mum was right about her cousin after all. I take it he wasn't the one who killed the Muggles?"

"He's never have done something like that. Told me himself the thought still gives him the creeps. It was Wormtail as did the deed, to cover up his own escape. Siri didn't betray us, either. Once again, that was Wormtail." The venom Harry put into the strange name startled Draco. And hadn't Lucius mentioned a Wormtail once or twice when bragging about his "Master?"

"Who's Wormtail?" he asked cautiously.

"Only a cowardly, treacherous rat also know as Scabbers and Peter Pettigrew. He likes to fake his own death to get himself out of sticky situations."

So a Death Eater had been under their noses the whole time. The gods only knew how long the man had been a rat. Probably since the day he'd "died" and put Black in Azkaban. Draco knew from Uncle Sev that Pettigrew had been part of James Potter's group of friends.

"So were they all Animagi, then?"

"Save Professor Lupin, yes. They figured it out so they could keep him company on full moons. Dad was Prongs the stag, and Sirius is Padfoot the Grim." The boy smiled wryly. "Trelawney kept seeing him whenever she did a reading for me back in third year. All the time, it was 'Oh, no! Not the Grim! Poor Mr. Potter!' Personally, I think he makes the Grim a symbol of protection for me."

Draco was flabbergasted. Of course, he was less superstitious than most. He had seen a huge, shaggy black dog on the grounds several times over the past two years, occasionally petting the beast or throwing a stick for it to chase.

"He's been around the school a lot over the past two years, hasn't he?" A sheepish nod was the only reply. "I thought there was something off about that dog. Now I know why."

Harry, predictably, sniggered. "He got you to play with him, didn't he? He's like that. Never really grew up, between Voldie and Azkaban." A small smile played across the boy's features. "He does miss his motorbike, though."

"He had a motorbike? A Muggle bike? Wicked!" Draco had always liked the look of those contraptions as they roared down the roads.

"It flew, too. I used to have these dreams where I remembered him taking me up on it as a baby." The cheerful light dimmed. "The Dursleys don't like anything strange, not even inventive dreams."

"Look," Draco said determinedly, pointing at the form next to him. "If I get a chance to talk to anyone or owl anyone at Hogwarts, I'll get you out of there. Wizard's Oath." He meant it. Harry had to leave that house, and soon. The boy might think Draco himself wouldn't last much longer here, but it would take even less time for the younger wizard.

"Same here. If I get any contact with Hermione, Sirius, Lupin, anyone, I'm telling them to get you. I don't know what a Wizard's oath is, but I'll swear it on my mother's love. There's nothing that means more to me. It's saved my life at least three times."

Draco held out a manacled hand. "If we both manage to get out of this, I want to start over between us. Forget the past four years. Clean slate."

"Absolutely. I want to get to know the new Draco Malfoy. He seems to be an interesting person." Harry's form reached up, and Draco briefly felt a warm hand clasp his. Then his body froze as if drenched in ice water, and then plunged into a raging inferno. Pain assaulted his every nerve, rapidly replaced by a strange, comforting feeling. The torrent of sensation nearly caused the blond to lose consciousness.

~Dear gods of heaven, hell, and everything in between,~ Draco thought. ~Let me never experience that again.~

The unfamiliar tenor echoing in his head was too much. Draco Malfoy fainted dead away.

Once again, time began to pass without Draco marking day or night, not that there was any source of natural light around him. He only wanted to survive. Sooner or later, someone was bound to come for him. Probably Uncle Sev. He was still seeing the dreams of Harry, keeping the other wizard from waking the damned Muggles with his nightmares. The boy appeared to him sometimes when he was awake, especially when he was being tormented.

Harry's memories were sometimes wide open for Draco to view, though he did not know why. What the blond saw of the events after the Third Task assured him that his Potions Master was indeed Dumbledore's spy among the Death Eaters. Draco didn't want his godfather risking life and limb for him, but he knew the man too well to think he'd stay at Hogwarts. If Uncle Sev decided Draco had gotten himself in serious trouble--which he had--the Potions Master would arrive at the Manor shortly thereafter. The older man hated to admit to his Gryffindor streak, though it was nowhere near the magnitude Draco was discovering in his own.

He hadn't truly begun to worry about his godfather coming to rescue him when it happened. The blond, now rail-thin from malnutrition and a bit fevered from the untreated wounds on his belly, was woken from a light doze by shouts in the corridor outside his prison. He could distinguish the voices of two of the Squib servants, as well as a familiar, unexpected one.

"Damn you, woman, will you get out of my way? I don't want to hurt you! I just want my godson!" Well, that was only a bit of a surprise. Of course, the man was on a rescue mission.

It had been a painful change from last year's snotty-nosed prat to who he was now, and Draco knew it might get worse, but life was definitely looking a little sunnier for one Draco Malfoy.

Fin