Draco Malfoy Harry Potter
Multiple Eras
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
Published: 12/05/2002
Updated: 05/30/2003
Words: 114,031
Chapters: 15
Hits: 378,784

Beneath You


Story Summary:
Draco had no idea that the repercussions of stealing Potter's journal and shoving it down the back of his trousers would be so extreme. Featuring nefarious plots, the mating rituals of Slytherins, double-crossing spells, Ron/Pansy, and Draco/Harry.

Chapter 12

Chapter Summary:
Draco had no idea that the repercussions of stealing Potter's journal and shoving it down the back of his trousers would be so extreme. Featuring nefarious plots, the mating rituals of Slytherins, double-crossing spells, Ron/Pansy, and Draco/Harry.
Author's Note:
Very sorry this chapter took so long! Many problems led to that. but updates should be faster now. It's an especially long chapter though, so maybe that'll make up for the delay. Thanks to my betas, as usual.

Chapter Twelve
It's not that I am stupid
It's not that I'm scheming
It's not that I'm searching for a sign
It's not that I am righteous
It's not that I'm unfeeling
I don't expect you to be mine
Oh, but I could break you if I wanted to
Be cruel to you and I could show the world your song
Oh, I could break you if I wanted to
Be cruel to you, 'cause I was broken all along
And the things you tell me don't mean a thing if you're not scared
And turning your back on me won't leave me weak or unprepared
-‘Broken’, Matt Caplan

He was halfway back to Gryffindor Tower when the fury returned. Someone sought to take Draco from him?

The Fat Lady swung open wordlessly when she saw his scowl. “Dear, are you alright?” she asked as he stalked through.

He didn’t reply.

Ginny and Ron were playing chess in the common room, and they both looked up when he came inside. “Harry?” Ginny asked, getting to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry bit off savagely.

“Where’s Malfoy?” Ron asked quietly.

Harry spun towards him and exploded. “Like you care, like you fucking care, Ron!”

Instantly, Ron’s eyes grew hard. “I only —”

“I don’t care what you ‘only’, Ron! I don’t care about anything about you! So just leave me alone, because I don’t want to deal with you right now!”

It was Ron’s turn to become furious, and he leapt to his feet. “Don’t act like a fucking self-righteous prince, Harry! You’ve always thought that your problems were worse than everyone else’s and gone on about how horrible it is to be you, and whenever anyone tries to see if you’re alright, you bite their heads off! Is it any wonder Malfoy left you?”

Harry reacted like he’d been punched in the stomach, physically flinching. “He didn’t,” he whispered, eyes welling up with tears. “He didn’t leave me, he just left. And he needs me. And I don’t care if you think it’s wrong, Ron, because it’s the most right thing I’ve ever known and I don’t want to lose him.”

Before Ron could say another word, Harry hurried up the stairs to his room. He sat carefully on his bed because his body felt like glass, about to shatter.

It could have been hours or merely minutes before the door opened and Ron walked in. He looked thoughtful and very pale. “Harry?” he said quietly.


Ron sat beside him, measuring his words carefully. “You’re very angry.”

“I’m scared,” Harry corrected.

“Is this what it’s going to be like? Are you going to be this scared and angry forever if you don’t get him back?”

Harry glanced at him sideways and didn’t say a word.

Ron rushed on. “Because I thought that if he was gone, like before, then we’d go back to how we were. You know. Because things changed when you and he… you know. And I thought, if only he went away, everything would be better again. But then he did go away, didn’t he? And… and nothing got better because you’re not even giving me the chance to get angry and shout at you, you shout at me first, and it’s just not right.”

It was rather incoherent and Harry shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Ron said after a moment, “that I’d rather have you if it means having Malfoy too than not have you at all and have things be like this.”

Harry swallowed thickly and would have said something, except all of this with Ron, it had stopped meaning anything the instant he had learned that Draco had gone home. To his father. To Voldemort. And that he had gone, thinking that Harry had chosen Ron over him when he hadn’t chosen either. He just hadn’t wanted Draco to be hurt anymore. “That’s lovely,” Harry said, suddenly feeling like he was going to cry. Or vomit. “But he’s gone.”

Ron got up and grabbed his cloak off his trunk, putting it on and then wrapping his Gryffindor scarf around his neck.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked tonelessly.

“Get your bloody cloak,” Ron snapped.

“What? Why?”

“Because! You’re the one who wants to go after Malfoy so bloody badly, so hurry up, before I change my mind!”

“But —”

Ron sighed. “Harry… trust me, alright?”

Harry grabbed his cloak. “But where are we going?”

“Where’s Malfoy?”

“At home.”

“Then I suppose we’re going there.”


“Because you’re hard enough to get along with when you’re in love with the git, let alone flopping about whining because he’s not here! Stop with the questions and let’s go!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile a little. “But why?”

With a wry and rueful grin, Ron asked, “What are friends for?” He shrugged a little.

“But I don’t know where Malfoy Manor is, and we have no way to get there.”

Ron shrugged. “The Knight Bus’ll pick us up from Hogsmeade and bring us wherever we wanna go.”

Even Ron couldn’t help but notice the way Harry’s eyes lit up behind his glasses, and a beaming smile twisted his lips. “Brilliant. But you don’t have to come with me, Ron.”

Ron scoffed. “Harry. You think I’d let you go traipsing off to Malfoy Manor alone? I don’t even trust you alone with Malfoy here where Dumbledore’s around to protect you if the prat tries to hurt you. And I know, you think he’d never hurt you. But honestly, Harry, you think this is easy for me, trusting a Malfoy not to hurt my best friend? I’m trying, I really am. So don’t lecture me, and let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll be back. Hermione’s going to kill us for not bringing her. You do realize this, don’t you?”

Harry just laughed and grabbed his cloak and his scarf.

The walk to Hogsmeade was strange for Harry, who hadn’t been there since that night he’d run into Draco, drunk in the forest. The only sound was the crunching of snow beneath their shoes, and Harry shivered, glancing around the forest.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Thank you. For coming with me, I mean.”

Ron glanced at him. “Welcome. What are friends for? I… I’m sorry too. For everything. Not for fighting him, of course.” That was said with wild defiance and a scowl. “But for being such a prat. I don’t like him, Harry, I’ll never like him. But if you like him enough for all of this…” He waved a hand vaguely, indicating the current situation, “then I guess I’ll… let it go. But if he ever hurts you, Harry, I’ve got first claim on kicking his arse.”

Harry smiled a little. “He won’t, Ron. He’d never hurt me. He loves me.”

“Spare me the details,” Ron moaned, looking pained.

Laughing, Harry shoved him a little. “You’ve got him to thank for getting together with Pansy, you know that, don’t you? It was his plan.”

Ron looked appalled. “He was in on that? Tell me he had nothing to do with that!”

Harry just smiled.

They walked the rest of the way talking lightly, catching up on all they’d missed, as busy as they’d both been lately.

On the outskirts of Hogsmeade, Ron hailed the Knight Bus and he and Harry climbed onto it, paying the fare and making their way to the back, sitting on creaky beds. For some reason, they were both giggling, the whole idea of having escaped from Hogwarts by way of the Knight Bus to rescue Draco Malfoy, disobeying Dumbledore’s orders directly, going to their heads and making them a little giddy. After all, despite everything they’d done in their younger years at Hogwarts, they’d never done anything this foolhardy, reckless, and… strange. Rescuing Draco Malfoy? A year ago, Harry would have laughed himself hoarse at the very idea.

It took a few hours to get to Malfoy Manor and Ron slept for most of them. Harry was too tense to sleep, and listened to the creaking bus, biting his lip and conjuring up a thousand possible scenarios for what was about to happen. First, he’d hold him and tell him he was sorry about Lucius. Which he was. Not for Lucius’s sake, of course, he loathed Lucius. But for Draco. Then he’d explain about the scene that morning, that he hadn’t really taken Ron’s side, he just hadn’t wanted Ron to hurt him. And then he’d kiss him and never ever let him go. Harry smiled a little at the thought.

The bus dropped them off outside Malfoy Manor and Harry stared at it in mesmerized horror. It was a huge gothic mansion, tall, dark, made of stone, with granite gargoyles perched on the roof. It looked frightening, intimidating, and not warm at all. Every window in it was dark, except one, which flared with colour.

“That must be Draco’s room,” Harry whispered. It was the type of house you didn’t want to speak too loud in front of, as if it had ears and you didn’t want it to notice you standing before it.

“Let’s go then,” Ron replied nervously, taking a few brave steps towards the front gate.

Harry grabbed his sleeve. “Ron. You’re not going in.”

Ron whirled around and scowled. “I’m not letting you prance off into Malfoy Manor alone, Harry!”

“Yeah, you are. It’ll be dangerous; I don’t want you in danger. Draco’ll take care of me if anything goes wrong, I know he will. But if you’re there too and something happens, he might not be able to help us both.” It was a lie, sort of. Harry was quite sure that it would be fine, nothing would happen, and it was hardly dangerous. He just didn’t want Ron inside that house; Draco would hardly appreciate it. If he was upset over his father, he wouldn’t want Ron to see.

“But Harry —”

“The bus driver said there’s a village just over that hill,” Harry said, pointing as he pulled a small bag of coins out of his pocket. “Go there and… and wait for me, alright? And if I don’t send word in… three hours, go back to Hogwarts without me.”

Ron laughed grimly. “Right, Harry, I’ll do just that, you stupid prat,” he said sarcastically. “If you don’t show up in two, I’m coming back for you. I’ll see if they’ve got any carriages or anything to borrow or whatever, and I’ll wait for you. I’m not going back without you.”

“Right, do that then.” Harry smiled reassuringly. “It’ll be fine.”

Ron hardly looked reassured but set off towards the village anyway, and Harry watched until he was out of shouting distance. Then, taking a deep breath, he touched the front gates. They were iron and cold, swinging open at his touch. He let out his breath and, praying that they didn’t have any sort of security charm, stepped hesitantly onto the grounds of the manor.


Draco didn’t know what he expected. Dumbledore had shown him the letter from one of his house elves, had gently explained things that Draco was too dazed to catch, and then had sent him home in a carriage. Hours, maybe days later (his concept of time from the meeting with Dumbledore until months later would always be distorted) he’d arrived at home. Usually his mother was there to meet him on the steps, but she had died the summer before. He charmed his trunk to float behind him and led it up to his bedroom, sitting on the side of his bed for a long time, lost in thought, Dumbledore’s words echoing in his mind.

“It’s your father, Draco. There’s been an accident. The details aren’t at all clear to me yet, but from what I’ve been able to gather from the letter your house elf sent, a spell backfired… Something went wrong…” More words, sympathetic, soothing words, none of which meant a damn thing. “I’m sorry, Draco…”

“Sorry?” Draco whispered. He didn’t know how he felt about that, really. His father had always been a presence in his life that couldn’t be denied. They’d never been close. Close? They’d never been anything! Which was what had lead to this numb confusion. They were going to be close, as soon as Draco was strong enough… ‘Malfoy’ enough. As soon as he’d done something to make his father proud.

But then, the things that would make his father proud…

Draco stopped thinking about it and instead thought of Harry, who he knew would be frantic. He wished he’d thought to leave a note, to say good-bye. Harry wouldn’t have forgotten had it been him.

Someone else Draco would never live up to. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling inferior, and he was so confused at the moment that he found himself feeling inferior to Harry. It was easier to be furious at Harry for all those years of making him feel inferior then his father for an entire lifetime of it. His father, who was dying.

Fury. Draco slammed out of his bedroom, finding strength in that rage.

His father’s room was on the fourth floor and Draco’s anger sustained him all the way up the stairs. He threw the door to his father’s bedroom open and there he froze, uncertain.

The room was dark. The house elves were terrified of disturbing Lucius, after the last one to try had received a bookend to the head. That had been a few days ago, however, when they still thought there was some hope. When Lucius was still strong enough to light his own fires. His strength had fallen prey to the weakness soon after, and now, Lucius, Prince of the Malfoy family fortunes, second hand to Voldemort, was bedridden and dying.

Draco had never been afraid of his father. As a child, he’d tried to emulate him, they had never been close, and Draco had always known it was because his father found him weak. Now, staring down at the shattered man who lay there with huge, glazed eyes (the very same ones that Harry had only the night before claimed that Draco had inherited), Draco shook his head slowly.

“I don’t even know you,” he whispered. “How am I supposed to be you when I don’t even recognize you?”

Lucius was aged now much more than ever, with eyes as dark as bruises and as deep and empty as a hole in the ground. Draco felt a vague stirring of numb horror.

“What did you do?” he asked in a hoarse, shocked tone.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed and, when he spoke, spit glistened at the corners of his lips. “Nothing. Nothing. You’ve got to finish it.”

“Finish what?”

Lucius lurched forward, trying to sit up. “Bringing her back.”

For one wild moment, Draco didn’t say anything. He was afraid of what he’d say if he opened his mouth. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. “Bring back who?”


Draco would have flinched had he remembered how to move.

“Too weak. She was too weak. I was too weak. All too weak.” Lucius was ambling now, eyes closed.

“Father… Father, what are you talking about?” he sounded as though he were begging and, in a way, he was.

Manic strength gave Lucius the power to sit up. “You have to understand. I had to bring her back! She couldn’t leave me, she couldn’t leave me to do this alone, I couldn’t do it. She was so weak!”

“Where… where is she?” Draco asked, swallowing hard.

“In the dungeon,” Lucius whispered, falling back and closing his eyes again. “I kept her in the dungeon, all these months, while I waited for the proper time to call her back. I kept her body whole, kept it clean… waited… gathered ingredients and strength… not enough strength. He’ll know it, he’ll know it when he sees me, he’s here, Draco, he’s here, and this is my punishment… punishment…” He was shaking his head now and rambling, and Draco backed out of the room.

His eyes ached, like someone had poured sand on them. Walking slowly, delicately, he made his way downstairs to the dungeons. As soon as he opened the iron door that led to the last flight of stairs, he could hear the screaming. He knew from his studies that Necromancy was one of the forbidden arts and that, if interrupted, the body lies halfway between death and life, the soul torn between two polar opposites. It’s like dying only a thousand times more painful because the soul resists being torn from the afterlife and the body resists having it forced back inside.

Only the most powerful wizards could do it, and Lucius had always been cruel but never powerful. His body and mind had cracked before he could finish it, and Narcissa’s body was twitching and writhing, her lips, dead and tinged blue, were wide open, emitting shrieks that hurt to hear. Her wrists and ankles had been shackled to the stone slab she lay on, and all around her, painted on the floor, were the symbols his father had drawn for the spell.

Draco stood on the bottom stair, unable to tear his eyes away from his mother’s body.

Her eyes were opened, but rolled back, white. Her hair, always her main vanity, ratty and dull, dusty and tangled. Her skin was limp, too pale, and had a gray tint to it. The dress she’d been entombed in lay off her body like a skeleton. Her stomach was still rounded as she’d died while giving birth and the baby was still inside of her.

And she was still screaming and twitching.

Finish it, his father had said. Finish it. Draco didn’t even know how.

Clapping one hand over his mouth to stop himself from vomiting, he ran back up the stairs and into the nearest bathroom.

Then he returned to his father. “If you loved her so much, you would have let her go,” he said weakly.

“I didn’t do it for her,” his father said with a strange smile.

“Then why?”

“For you.”

Draco sat heavily on the floor against the wall, burying his head in his hands. “Why?” he croaked. “Why would you do this for me?”

“Better to lose a child I’ve never known then you.”

Lifting his head, Draco stared at his father. “What?”

“He wants you. He’s always wanted you. I kept him away. I made you weak.”

“You…” Draco started laughing painfully, standing up and coming closer, leaning over the bed. “Just tell me already. Tell me all of it, before you lose anymore of your mind.”

“He gives nothing without a price, nothing, but you were mine. You were mine.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco whispered.

Lucius’s eyes flew wide. “He’s here,” he whispered. He grabbed Draco’s robes and tugged him closer, hissing, “He’s here. Run. Get out!”

Jerking out of his father’s grasp, Draco shook his head, stepping back. “I don’t understand you,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand why you’ve done this.”

Lucius’ eyes had wandered away from him and focused on something behind him, and Draco suddenly became aware of the chill in the room, the darkness. He turned slowly but there was no one there.

Terror had twisted Lucius’ already twisted face and his ragged breathing had become even more laboured. “Get out of here,” he whispered, and Draco somehow didn’t think he was talking to him.

“Father…” Draco pleaded softly. “Stop.”

Sucking in a painful, hissing breath, Lucius’ body suddenly bucked, his head falling back, and he shrieked, suddenly looking like Narcissa’s body had in the dungeon. Wondering nervously if that was the price for being too weak to finish a high level dark spell, Draco slowly backed towards the door, eyes trained on his father. It was almost as if his father were going through the Necromancy spell himself, only backwards. His soul was being forced from his body.

When Lucius kept shrieking, the same, otherworldly shrieks as Narcissa had just moments earlier, Draco turned and ran from the room, squeezing his eyes shut and slamming the door behind him. He could still hear the screaming, and he was shaking as he hurried blindly away.

He instinctively made his way back to the dungeon, because even if she wasn’t really his mother, she was still… part of his mother. A small part. And he had missed her, and mothers were who you were supposed to go to when you were scared and suddenly the dark was too frightening because it seemed to jump out at you.

“Mother?” he whispered, pausing on the last stone step and watching her body with narrowed eyes. She was panting like an animal, the motion all the more grotesque because her body was still dead, and her lungs were faltering, jerking and wheezing and echoing with the air forcing its way into dead flesh.

Draco dropped onto the last stair, sitting there and watching his mother’s body fight off her soul, his eyes wide. Every time she screamed, he fancied he heard an echoing cry from his father, though of course he couldn’t, not so many floors down. He’d flinch just the same.

He watched over her for a long time, minutes shifting into endless hours, as he wondered numbly when the ritual had gone badly, when this torture had started. He didn’t know how to finish it and probably didn’t have the power.

He sat there so long that the shadows began swaying strangely before his glazed eyes, taking on strange shapes that would melt away whenever he focused his eyes on them. That was why it took him a moment to react to the feeling of eyes on him, and then he only reacted because the body of his mother had stiffened, her eyes rolling in her head, her scream twisting into a whimper. Then, her eyes rolled again, the whites rolling back to show her irises for the first time. They were dilated and black, empty. And they were fixed sightlessly on the far wall, much the way his father’s had been.

Draco followed her stare and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the shadow she was watching to melt away.

It stepped forward instead, and smiled.

Draco rose slowly to his feet, his heart pounding, though he wasn’t afraid. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“Draco,” was the reply, said in a soft, pleasant tone. “Where else would I be?”

“In hell? It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want you here, I don’t want you near her.”

Voldemort glanced almost fondly at Narcissa’s body, and then back at Draco. “You said you didn’t understand.”

“When?” Draco asked dully, aware that he should be scared, or humbled. A private audience with the Dark Lord himself, who wouldn’t be honoured? But he wasn’t. Scared or honoured or anything, really.

“When you were standing over your father’s body. You said you didn’t understand why he’d done this.”

“You were there.” It wasn’t a question.

Voldemort smiled. “Where else would I be?” He stepped closer, studying Draco in the thick shadows. “Don’t you want to know, Draco?”

Draco nodded, not because he particularly cared, but because he felt it was expected of him, and Draco always strove to do what was expected of him.

Narcissa moaned; she seemed to have stopped writhing, and was now shaking, her lips falling open, her eyelids fluttering weakly. Despite himself, Draco got to his feet and stood over her, studying her. She’d always been so beautiful to him, an ice queen, his own pretty, perfect mother. And now she was a monster.

He reached out to touch her cold face and she flinched, lips wrinkling back in an awful hiss.

“I want to know,” Draco said hollowly.

“He did it for you, Draco. Everything he’s ever done was for you.”

Draco shook his head, laughing harshly. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as things started clicking together in his mind. “What’s he ever done for me?” Draco whispered defiantly.

Cocking his head to the side, Voldemort studied Draco in silence for a long moment, an indulgent smile on his face. He reached forward and stroked one finger down Draco’s face. “Such a pretty boy,” he said softly, and Draco jerked away.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, oddly shaken.

Voldemort just smiled. “I’ll do whatever I like,” he said simply. “Now that your father’s gone. Or nearly. That was the arrangement, after all.”

“Arrangement,” Draco repeated heavily.

“Of course. You, in exchange for her.” Voldemort had turned back to Narcissa’s mangled body, smiling down at her graciously. “You were only a child when the binding was done, I suspect you don’t remember.”

“The prophecy,” Draco realized, his eyes widening. “You’re talking about the dratted prophecy! You and everyone else in the world, it seems! That’s ridiculous! I don’t believe in fate, and I certainly don’t believe that being your ‘disciple’ or whatever is mine, so sod off. You can’t have me.”

Voldemort smiled again, showing his pointed teeth. “But Draco,” he said softly, his voice a warm hiss. “You’re already mine.”

“What are you talking about?” Draco spat.

“Your father was just a boy himself when he made the arrangement, and his pretty young wife was too weak to have a child. A family curse, I suppose, weakness. You were killing her, your mother, and Lucius could tell. He honestly loved her, then. And she was dying. He went a little mad and was about to do something quite melodramatic and pathetic when I happened to arrive on the scene. He’d been a follower of mine, you see, though not very useful, and I strove to strengthen my power over him. An important man, your father. And then there was the Malfoy Prophecy. Loyalty is what I praise above all else, Draco.”

“Mother was dying and Father was going to kill himself. Over me.” Draco’s voice was hollow, he was finding it hard to process.

“Patience, Draco. The story’s only half done. So I offered him a deal. I’d save her life, and the life of the child she carried, if he’d give me a child. My own stupid fault, I suppose, wording it that way. But he seized on that hope and signed the life of his child away. Narcissa survived, and you were born. Weak and sickly, of course, given your mother’s weakness, but still, alive. The deal was that you would be mine upon his death. I had no use for you, until he was gone and I needed you to take his place. His loyalty, I thought, was assured. I had saved your life. He owed me his soul. He betrayed me, in the end. He sought to keep you from me. Sought to make you weak so that I wouldn’t want you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were a sickly child, Draco. It was Narcissa who first realized why. He poisoned you with small amounts of belladonna and ground cypress root, to keep you weak, small, pale. So that I would not want you. It had been easy enough to sign away the life of a baby he’d never seen, but to hand over his beautiful little boy… Narcissa did not take it well, the poisoning, but then, she didn’t know about the arrangement. She was furious and told others about it, and I heard of it, and my wrath was, understandably, quite extreme. He was punished, but he was still alive, so you were not mine yet. He came up with another plan to keep you, however. ‘Better a child he’d never met than his baby dragon’, is what he said to me, in his one moment of defiance.”

“My father would have never —” Draco began.

“I had said he had to give me ‘his child’ but had not specified which one. A technicality, but truth all the same. He killed her for you, Draco. He knew she couldn’t have another child, she should have died the first time. But he did it for you. Maybe not on purpose. He wasn’t thinking clearly and only sought a way to keep you, his first child. Maybe he didn’t kill her directly for you, but indirectly, surely.”

Draco was shaken, and he was sure, if he had the time to process things, he’d be shocked. As it was, he could only stare at his mother’s dead body and force himself to breath steadily through his nose because allowing himself to suffocate wouldn’t accomplish anything. “He didn’t bring her back because he wanted her,” he said out loud. “He wanted the baby.”

“Yes. Because until a child is born, its soul is bound to the mother’s. He did not have the necessary spell items to raise the dead child. The bits of hair he pulled from Narcissa’s brush, or even the body, as it was still inside her, anything of the child’s necessary for the ritual to be effective. So he tried to bring her back, and the baby as well, so she could finish it.”

Draco’s eyes were drawn to his mother’s stomach, distended with wisps of dusty funeral clothes draped over it. He hadn’t even thought about the baby.

“A girl,” Voldemort said gently, stroking Narcissa’s arm. “It would have been a little girl, had your mother been strong enough to survive it, your father strong enough to finish this. A pretty little child, and she would have been mine.”

“Don’t touch her,” Draco whispered, feeling sick.

“Instead,” Voldemort continued, ignoring him. “He failed and the spell backfired, sapped his strength and destroyed his mind. Three souls caught in between death and life, all waiting for a wizard strong enough to finish it.”

“Finish it,” Draco growled. “Stop it, she’s hurting, she’s not supposed to be here, let her go.”

“Now that all depends, Draco, on you. I can finish it, easily. I can return her to you.” As proof, he drew his wand from his pocket and whispered a spell Draco didn’t catch, gently drawing Narcissa’s soul the rest of the way into her body, easing the incredibly agony that had been tearing her apart.

Draco’s eyes widened with something like wonder when his mother’s body relaxed, the horrible breathing calming into something weak, sporadic, but soft, normal. Her gray face seemed to fill out around her skull, colour blossoming there, like a flower, her lips their normal coral colour. Her hair, while still tangled and dirty, was vibrant blonde again. Most miraculous of all, her eyes closed slowly and, when they opened, they were a little glazed, but their normal dark blue, sparkling, and wonderfully alive.

“Draco?” she whispered, voice raspy. Her hands, still shackled to the platform, curled into weak claws.

“Mother,” he cried softly, touching her dusty face. It was warm.

“Nothing comes without a price,” Voldemort whispered behind him, his breath stirring the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck.

Draco ignored him for the moment. Narcissa’s face twisted suddenly as an interrupted contraction tore through her. When it had faced, she was panting, whimpering. “What’s happening?” she whimpered. “Where’s Lucius?”

Draco smiled reassuringly at her, even if his eyes had welled up with tears. He took her hand, his other stroking her face soothingly. “Shh, now, Mother,” he scolded gently. “Everything’s fine.”

“Then why are you crying?” she asked with a faint smile.

“Crying, Mother?” he teased her, very softly. “You should know better than most that Malfoys never cry.”

Her hand clenched around his with another contraction, and Draco closed his eyes slowly. She was about to give birth to the baby that had killed her months before: Draco’s sister.

“What do you want from me?” he asked over his shoulder, not tearing his eyes from his mother’s face.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Voldemort replied almost lazily. “Your loyalty. You.”

“I’m not my father,” Draco whispered, even as he stroked his mother’s face.

“Are you sure?” It was silky, and very tempting.

“Yes. I won’t… I won’t give myself up to you. Not even… Not even for her.”

“But the child, Draco,” Voldemort hissed. “Not even for the innocent child? A beautiful little girl?”

Draco closed his eyes. “Not for anyone,” he lied.

Fury flashed in Voldemort’s eyes and growled, tightening a hand on his wand as he began the complicated incantation to undo the spell Lucius had begun and he had finished only moments before.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Draco whispered, kissing her cheek.

“For what? What’s happening?” she asked, and he nuzzled her hand, still shackled there. She stroked his face.

“Nothing,” he reassured her, his voice hoarse.

“Draco?” she whispered, eyes flying wide, breathing through her nose. “Draco, what’s… what’s happening?”

Her skin was slowly turning gray, sliding off her skull like silk or water, until it was hanging limply again. Her breathing grew shaky once more, and her eyes were twitching in their sockets, as though they longed to start rolling again but force of will held them trained on Draco’s face.

The hand he still held in his became gaunt, skeletal.

“Nothing, Mother,” Draco lied, smiling reassuringly.

Voldemort finished the incantation in a hiss and Narcissa’s body convulsed once as her soul was torn from it. Her lips pulled back in a shriek that twisted in her throat and emerged as a hiss, her last breath leaking from her dead lungs.

“Your father was linked to her, he’s gone as well,” Voldemort said scathingly, sounding almost like Professor Snape, delivering a punishment for a disappointing answer in class. “Your weakness has cost you everything.”

“My weakness?” Draco asked quietly, still staring at his mother. “You’ve got no idea about my weaknesses, and you never will. Get out of my house.”

“I can make you do as I say,” Voldemort hissed.

“You said it yourself, loyalty is the most important thing to you, and Imperius will hardly make me want to follow you. What sort of loyalty is that?” Draco spat, letting go of his mother’s hand. It had grown cold in a second.

“You were always a foolish boy.”

“Maybe. But I’m not yours, so it shouldn’t matter to you. Get out of my house.” Draco was so exhausted, he didn’t even wait to see if Voldemort would go. He turned and walked out of the dungeons, feeling dirty and very, very tired. More than anything, he wanted to be back at Hogwarts, curled up beside Harry and fast asleep.

He walked into his bedroom, started a huge fire in the hearth to keep the shadows away, and collapsed on his bed, falling asleep in his grimy clothes without bothering to get under the covers.

His dreams, understandably, were very dark.


Waking was startling for Draco, whose nightmares had been the type that grasp tightly and drive all remembrance out of the consciousness. One moment he was terrorized, shadows dancing in his dreams, the next, his eyes were opened and staring at the roof of his bedroom, his breathing ragged.

“Draco?” the voice was soft, pleading, and Draco’s entire body stiffened.

“Harry,” he hissed, sitting up and turning to stare at the other boy, whose face was cast in darkness from the shadows flickering in the hearth. “You shouldn’t be here!”

Harry drew back, as if stung. “Draco, I only… are you alright?”

“How did you find me?” Draco slid off his bed and stalked to the fire, throwing more wood in as if that would keep the things that threatened Harry away. He was threatened by more than shadows, however, and Draco was terrified.

“I can always find you,” Harry whispered.

Draco glared at him, and Harry sighed.

“Ron brought me here, on the knight bus. I knew which room was yours because it’s the only one with a fire burning… I… I was worried.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me, don’t you get it?” Draco shouted, patience running out. He spun around and glared at Harry. “You don’t get it. You shouldn’t be here! I don’t want you to be here!”

“I heard about your father,” Harry replied warily, trying not to look hurt.

“Well you didn’t hear all of it, all the nasty details, and hopefully you never will,” Draco said grimly.

“Are you alright?” Harry had come closer, his eyes searching Draco’s face. He reached up and touched his cheek gently. “It must be so hard.”

Draco flinched and pushed Harry roughly away. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. “You don’t understand. You’ve got to leave, you’ve got to go, right now.”

“Draco, I’m not going to leave you,” Harry swore. “You need me.”

Narrowing his eyes, Draco took a deep breath. Better to hurt Harry and keep him safe than to protect him now only to lose him later. It was panicky reasoning at best, but the only thing he knew was that Harry needed to get out, now. He closed his eyes and let his face relax into familiar, cold lines. Then he drawled almost lazily, “Honestly, Potter, need you? You’ve certainly got a high opinion of yourself.”

Harry blinked. “What?” He took a step back and Draco rolled his eyes.

“You thought I wanted you here? In the same house as my father?” He laughed scornfully. “You said so yourself, that I didn’t understand what it was not to have a father and now I do. You should be glad.”


“Harry.” His voice was heavy with loathing. The shadows were dancing in the corners and Draco watched them carefully. Voldemort could be lurking, after all, and he didn’t want him to know of Draco’s one weakness: Harry.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Did you think it would last? That I’d choose you over everything my father had built for me?” He laughed again. “You’re mad. It was a game. The ink, the journal, all of it. Amusing, but it grew old fast.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie to you, Potter? After all we’ve been through together?” He smirked, openly mocking, even while flinching at the way Harry’s eyes dilated with shock. Draco forcibly restrained himself from reaching out and touching him, reassuring him. After all, there’d be time to explain, when they were away from all of this and no one could hurt them. No one could hurt Harry.

Harry breathed deeply through his nose, his lids half closed over dark green eyes as he struggled to understand. Draco shoved him roughly towards the door.

“Why?” Harry whimpered, his eyes shining unnaturally in the firelight.

“Someone made me a better offer,” Draco smirked.


“Who else? Besides. I don’t want you anymore.”

“I —”

“Get out of here! Don’t ever come here again! Leave me be, I’m sick of your… your glasses and your stupid green eyes and your messy hair and all of you! The way you look at me, like you think I handed you the world and then shattered it while you watch! I hate everything about you, I always have! You think these months are enough to fight destiny? This is where I’m meant to be, what I’m meant to do and nothing, not even loving the… the taste of you…” he trailed off, swallowing, and then finishing firmly. “Nothing will change that.”

“If that’s the way you feel, Draco,” Harry said quietly, reaching for the door, “then you don’t deserve me.”

He walked away without looking back. Had he glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen Draco looking stricken and pale, but he didn’t, and the door swung shut behind him.


Furious was a much safer way to feel than hurt, and that was the only reason Harry didn’t cry. His eyes were stinging, of course, but with angry tears, which was a thousand times better, he reasoned, as he stumbled almost blindly towards the lower floors of Malfoy Mansion. A house elf had answered his knock before and had let him in and he had made his own way from there, and now, he couldn’t quite remember the way.

He glanced around, eyes narrowing, and looking for an elf to ask directions from. There was no one and he kept walking, shaking his head from time to time and mumbling out loud to himself. He’d wait until he was back at Hogwarts to fall apart, however. Now was certainly not the time. He was sure everything would make sense, once he was away from Draco with his burning, furious eyes and his smug smirk that Harry recognized from years and years of having it turned upon him. It had to make sense, some sort of sense that escaped him at the moment, because there was no way he would ever believe that Draco would hate him for that episode in his room that morning, with Ron.

Then there was his father, and Harry had no idea what was going on with that. What if Lucius had said something, something to change Draco’s mind?

Dumbledore had been right, this wasn’t Harry’s world. He didn’t belong here.

Harry had just made it to the entrance hall and was about to open the front door, when the shadows behind him started to whisper and flicker.

It was dark, there were no torches lit here, and he turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Hello?” he called. “Draco?”

Whispery laughter answered him and Harry’s stomach went cold in sudden fear. He recognized that laughter. “Voldemort.” He drew his wand quickly and held it up in a defensive position, still searching the shadows for Voldemort, eyes narrowed. He took a few steps forward, squinting into the darkness.

“Where are you?”

Laughter again, this time from behind him, and Harry spun. Voldemort was standing by the door, watching him indulgently. “Hello, Harry,” he said with a smile.

“Get away from the door.”

“You’re hardly in a position to give orders, Harry.”

“Let me pass.”


“I mean it!” All the wild emotions of the past few hours crashed upon Harry and he started screaming. “Let me through! I want nothing to do with you, I didn’t come here to battle with you, I don’t want anything to do with you, so let me pass!”

Voldemort just smiled, and before Harry had any idea of what to expect, the dark wizard had drawn his wand, a snake-like flick of a wrist. Harry raised his own in defence, but before he had time to say a single word, he was cursed into darkness.


Draco went a little mad. It was all too much to deal with, honestly. The death of his father, the raising and destroying of his mother, finding out the reasons behind his father’s loyalty to Voldemort, speaking with Voldemort, and then shouting at Harry. Hurting Harry.

Shouting with wordless fury, he kicked his wardrobe over, sending it crashing to the ground, and still, the rage burned uncontrollably. He’d never believed in fate, but apparently fate had a way of fucking you over whether you believed in it or not.

By the time the hot anger had faded into something far more dull and painful, Draco’s bedroom was in ruins. He’d destroyed the wardrobe, the mirror, the bed, the paintings on the wall, torn the curtains from the window, and only just barely managed to restrain himself from lighting the entire mess on fire.

He was breathing heavily when he finally paused to survey the destruction, feeling oddly satisfied and emptier than before.

Swearing softly, he made his way to the window, sitting in the alcove there and staring blindly out at the grounds below.

It took a few seconds for it to register, and when it did, Draco nearly started to cry.

There was a carriage parked on the street outside, Weasley just visible inside, Harry nowhere in sight. He’d never made it out.

“He just got lost in the halls, that’s all,” Draco reassured himself. “I suppose it would be hard to find your way out if you hadn’t grown up here.”

He hurried from his room, calling Harry’s name. In all his panic, he forgot his wand.

No one answered his calls and in the entrance hall, Draco found proof of why. Harry’s wand was lying on the floor, forgotten; he’d made it this far but something had prevented him from walking out the door and to Weasley’s carriage?

Draco snarled furiously, picked up the wand, and stalked down the stairs towards the dungeon.

The rage lasted only until his foot touched the stone floor and then it was replaced by the coldest, darkest fear he’d ever known. His mother’s body had been taken from the stone platform and was lying on the floor, her head tilted awkwardly, her eyes glassy. On the platform in her place, Harry lay on his back, his head tilted back and exposing his throat, his arms spread on either side of him and hanging limply over the edges of the platform. His eyes were closed, his face very, very pale, and his robes were soaked with blood. The scent of blood lay heavily on the air, as did the mild aftertaste of dark magic, and Draco approached Harry carefully.

“Harry?” he whispered, but Harry didn’t stir. “Harry, it’s me. It’s Draco. Wake up.” The words of the prophecy were whispering in the back of his mind, over and over again, faster and faster, and the room was beginning to spin.

A sacrificial dagger lay on the floor, a pattern of snakes carved into the blade, stained with Harry’s blood.

“No,” Draco whispered, picking it up. It was cold. “Harry.”

He’d seen enough ancient texts of rituals to know that the dark ones always required blood, spilt with this type of dagger. Harry had been bled, had lost too much blood… Draco had let Voldemort have him, had let Harry walk right into him, alone, thinking that Draco didn’t love him anymore. “No,” he whimpered, gently lifting Harry’s arms and moving them closer to his body. From her place on the floor, Narcissa’s dead eyes, glinting in the torchlight, watched. He could feel those eyes on him and he started to panic. It was startlingly similar to losing his mind.

Lying Harry’s wand beside him carefully, Draco tiled Harry’s head down and tried to pull him up, into a seated position. “You’ll be alright,” he said brightly, pulling Harry’s limp body against his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “C’mon, Harry, you’ll be fine,” he repeated, voice sharp, about to break. He kissed Harry’s forehead.

Harry’s head was lolling limply against Draco’s shoulder, and Draco’s panicking mind lit upon a sudden, wild idea. “He needs blood,” he whispered, laying Harry gently back down. Without a thought, he slit his own wrist and held it to Harry’s lips. His blood smeared on Harry’s face, very little actually getting into his mouth, and Draco started breathing quickly, hyperventilating.

“I won’t let you leave me,” he hissed, shaking him now. “I won’t let you go. Take mine. Take my blood, it’ll help you. You lost yours, have mine.” It was flawed logic at best, but that didn’t occur to Draco. This entire situation was fundamentally flawed. Harry wasn’t supposed to be hurt.

“That’s not going to help him,” Voldemort drawled from behind him.

Draco’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t listen, because he’d felt breath against his arm, held to Harry’s mouth. Faint, weak, barely there, but there all the same. He wasn’t dead. But he was so cold.

Harry’s chest shuttered with a cough, and Voldemort sighed, coming closer and touching Draco’s shoulder, one finger stroking the side of his neck. “You’re going to drown him, pet.”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Voldemort leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Do you want him to die?”

Draco stiffened and pulled his wrist away, turning to look at Voldemort. “You already took my mother and father as punishment, why are you doing this to me?”

“Draco,” Voldemort admonished. “Not everything is about you. Besides, you gave him to me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t want him, you told him so, you shouted it, up in your bedroom. Why should I have had him if you didn’t want him?”

“You were there.” Draco’s eyes widened in horror.

Voldemort smiled very slowly. “Draco, I was always there. You think I haven’t watched you? You were mine, you’ve always been mine, of course I watched you. I’ve always watched you. When you fell in love with Harry Potter, I watched you. You were hardly discreet about it and there are people in Hogwarts who are loyal to me. And imagine, you loved him and still let me take him.”

“I didn’t,” Draco whispered, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t ever have hurt him. I lied, of course I want him, I’ve always wanted him, if you watched the whole time than you had to have known that. You know I’d never hurt him, you know it!”

An indulgent smile twisted Voldemort’s lips. “Of course I know it.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he glanced at his mother, dead and wooden on the floor, and then at Harry, fighting to breathe. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“Surely you know,” Voldemort chided. “What have I always wanted?”

Draco closed his eyes and laid his head on Harry’s chest, listening to his faltering heart. “Me,” he said out loud, faintly.

“You’re already mine, I shouldn’t offer you anything in return for that. However, I’m feeling remarkably generous today. I can stop the bleeding, you know. Harry’s still bleeding. Would you like me to stop it?”


Voldemort took Harry’s wrist gently and stroked his finger down the bloody underside, skimming over the precise knife wounds there, his other hand fingering his wand as he whispered a healing spell. He did the other next, and then almost tenderly lay his arms back on the stone slab. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air; Voldemort had cauterized the wounds.

“He’ll live now,” Voldemort said casually. “If I leave him be.”

“Will you?” It was too much to hope for, really, and Draco wished suddenly he hadn’t left his wand in his room. Harry’s lay there, but even with his own wand, Draco was no match for the Dark Lord.

“Do you want me to? After you gave him up and sent him away?”

“Please,” Draco whispered, suddenly understanding how his father could have begged Voldemort for anything. If it was important as all of this, Draco would have begged anyone in the world.

“It could be arranged.”

“What did you do to him? The spell you used on him.”

“Your father taught you some of the dark spells, Draco, don’t you recognize the markings on his arms?”

Taking Harry’s hand and tracing the seared flesh on his wrists, markings that enacted the ancient spell Voldemort had used. He did recognize them, and he whispered, “Is it painful? That spell?”

“Very. But it doesn’t last long. He screamed, however. Quite weak, the boy you chose to fall in love with, Draco. You wouldn’t have screamed.”

“Not for you,” Draco said quietly. “What do you want from me?”

“I need you,” Voldemort said, sounding businesslike. “I’ve been studying the ancient prophecies of the old families, in their original High Hakiran form, the ancient language of the prophets, and I need you.”

“‘The bearer of light shall carry to the feet of the Serpent lord, a child. That child shall deliver into the hands of the Dark One his own Destruction, choose life over love, and become His loyalist disciple,’” Draco repeated dully.

“A plebeian form of the prophecy, yes, but the idea is there. Besides. You’re mine. I own you, I’ve come to claim you.”

“And if I let you have me, you’ll let him go?”

“I will. And if you remain loyal to me, he will live. Loyalty that is achieved through gifts and bribery is useless, Draco, because a higher bribe can always be offered. Loyalty achieved by threats is the only true form because it cannot be bought away.”

Draco stared at him blankly, unable to form a single word, let alone a sentence.

“It’s true. If you’re ever disloyal to me in action, I’ll kill him without remorse. If I die, so does he, so don’t even think about betraying me that way. I’ve been trying to kill this stupid boy for seventeen years, it’ll be far easier to keep him alive, you need not fear his death by my hand, so long as you are true to me.”

“True to you. You want me to follow you, against my will, and think that it would be true loyalty.”

“In action. I care not if you are loyal in your thoughts or heart, as long as you act loyal, be loyal. Think whatever you like about me, say whatever you like about me, I care not. Just do not betray me, and your precious Harry will survive this with only a few more scars to show for it.”

Draco didn’t have to think about it. He’d lost his mother all over again and some sister he’d never met tonight, as well as his father, who had done more for him than he’d ever realized. He’d lost his family and maybe his mind as well. He repeated the words of the damned prophecy in his mind again, smiling a little, and leaning down towards Harry, not caring for the moment that Voldemort was there, that he could see.

He traced Harry’s lips and breathed, “Oh, Harry. Not for my life, I’d never give it up for mine. For yours.” He stroked Harry’s face. “We spent so long trying to prove fate didn’t exist,” he whispered, and Harry shifted a little, moaning softly. “Wake up,” Draco called softly, nuzzling the side of Harry’s face. “C’mon, love, wake up.”

Harry’s eyelids fluttered open and his eyes, glazed with weakness, flickered to Draco’s face. He smiled. “I knew you’d come for me.”

“Of course I did. I will always come for you,” Draco scoffed, very gently. He touched Harry’s face.

“I’m dead, Draco, I’m dead,” Harry whispered. “It was Voldemort, he killed me.”

Draco smiled soothingly. “You’re not, he didn’t.”

Harry touched his face, fingers stained with his own blood. “I knew you’d come for me…” he said again.

“Of course,” Draco replied again, gathering Harry up against his chest. He couldn’t help his eyes stinging with tears, and he hoped Harry wouldn’t notice. Harry rested his head weakly on Draco’s shoulder and Draco forced a soft laugh. “There you go, trying to die on me again,” he teased, smoothing his hand over Harry’s clammy face.

“I’m sleepy,” Harry mumbled.

“Sleep then, I’ll take care of you.”

“You’ll stay with me? You’ll stay here while I sleep?”

“Yes,” he lied, kissing Harry’s forehead.

“I think this is a dream,” Harry said now, voice thick with sleep.


“This. Can’t be real. Maybe I did die and go to heaven, because I thought you didn’t love me anymore…”

Draco stiffened but didn’t say anything, just kept stroking him soothingly, waiting for him to fall asleep again.

“This could be heaven,” Harry decided; he was smiling. “I love you, you know. I didn’t say it before.”

“I know,” Draco whispered.

“Alright. And you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Where else would I be?”

“That’s right,” Harry mumbled, closing his eyes. “Because this is heaven.” And then he drifted back to sleep.

Voldemort was shaking with silent laughter, but Draco paid him no heed. He smoothed Harry’s hair back and kissed his scar tenderly, before saying coldly over his shoulder, “I’m taking him out to his friend, I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, feel free, this is most touching,” Voldemort mocked.

Draco ignored him and lifted Harry gently, tucking his wand in his robes.

He left Voldemort behind and carried Harry up the stairs, holding him protectively. Harry didn’t wake, even as they left the manor and stepped into the frigid night.

Weasley was sleeping in the carriage, and Draco rolled his eyes. He set Harry carefully inside and touched his face gently, kissing him softly goodbye. “Not everything ends the way you think it should,” he said, repeating the words Harry had said to him that night on the tower, the first time he had let Draco know he remembered their first kiss. Then he smiled, painfully. “You’ll be alright, Harry. You’re stronger than me.”

The moonlight was dim and Harry’s blood nearly invisible in the darkness. Draco was glad, that meant Weasley wouldn’t kill him for it, wouldn’t notice it until they were back at Hogwarts.

He turned, shaking Weasley. As soon as the other boy was awake, he snarled, “Why did you bring him here?”

Weasley blinked at him, startled. “Malfoy? What? Where’s Harry?” He saw him in the carriage then and looked relieved.

“Why did you bring him here?” Draco asked again, furious.

“For you,” Weasley replied blankly. “Why else? He must be very tired, sleeping that way.”

“He is,” Draco said absently, refusing to glance at Harry. “Get him back to Hogwarts, as fast as you can, and bring him to Dumbledore. Take… Take care of him, alright?”

“Of course… Malfoy, are you alright?” Weasley looked honestly worried.

“Fine,” Draco snapped. “Just get him out of here.”

He stood up and turned to go, and Weasley caught his arm. “Malfoy. I’m… I’m sorry. About your father.”

Draco stared down at him for a long moment and then nodded. “Thank you.”

“Will you be coming back soon?”


“What should I tell Harry, then?”

“Tell him I love—Don’t… Don’t tell him anything.” Draco swallowed heavily.

“Malfoy —”

“Get out of here! You never should have come here!” Draco snapped, slamming the door.

He watched for a long time even after the carriage had faded away into the darkness.

It's not like I'll inherit all the Earth if I destroy the meek
It's not that I am special
It's not that I'm indifferent
It's not that I'm cowardly or vain
It's not that I am angry
It's not that I'm violent
I don't objectify my pain
Oh, but I could break you if I wanted to

-‘Broken’, Matt Caplan