Before the Storm

Draco ran. Through the halls and down the secret corridors of the Malfoy Manor that twisted and turned beneath the stone floors above, he fled, knowing it was only a matter of time before they caught him.

It was cold, so very cold, and the distant drip of water drove him to distraction as he pounded furiously down the dank tunnels, his expensive dragonhide shoes splattered with grime and sludge. Puddles of water splashed around his ankles as he tore through them, and the hems of his gray slacks were soaked with the vile, viscous liquid.

I was not meant for this! I am a Malfoy!

Torches flared at his approach, and guttered out as he passed, leaving the path behind him as black as pitch and filled with eerie shadows. Sweat was dripping down his back, cold and terrifying and utterly foreign but he dared not stop to cast a spell. The hem of his cloak fluttered behind him and he kept his eyes wide open and alert - watering as the cold air whipped across them - seeking any signs of movement ahead where the torchlight could not touch. His narrow chest ached, and his labored breath was torn from his burning lungs as he ran, but he could not stop for they were coming for him.

Reaching a heavy door coated in moss and slime, Draco stopped and gasped horribly, barely able to drag in a breath after inhaling the foul air. He shoved a stray strand of silver hair from his forehead, smearing dirty water and tepid slime across his pale skin.

A distant shout galvanized the boy, and he looked back, terror stricken to see a pale flicker of light signaling the approach of his pursuers. Frantic, he turned to the door and yanked on the huge iron ring to open it, finding it heavier than expected and coated with rust. Horror froze his fingers.

I will die here in this filth like some common mudblood.

His heart pounded violently, and he pulled harder, hearing it give way in a screech of iron and wood. Cool night air assailed him, chilling the already cold sweat coating his face but lending him a burst of panicked energy. Bolting through, Draco pushed the heavy wood shut behind him and slammed the deadbolt home, hoping it would stall his chasers for a crucial moment. He thanked his father's paranoid foresight, pushing back a flash of pain at the thought of him, and began running for the thick forest across the gardens, knowing that his attackers could be lurking on the grounds as well.

As he clung to shadows and sculpted hedgerows, hearing nothing but the chirp of crickets, his fear intensified, but he saw no sinuous black wraiths where the moonlight poured over the place he had once called home. His goal was near. His heart caught in his throat when he saw the forest looming ahead of him, and he pushed himself harder, adrenaline giving him wings.

Darting across the dewy lawn, Draco flew headlong towards the trees until the bushes surrounded him and shadows hid him. And he stumbled onto the ground, exhausted and aching and unable to do anything more than try to breathe. The black skull burned into his wrist roared with pain, its darkness harsh against his white skin, and he rolled onto his back and gazed for a desperate moment at the black sky and the glittering cold stars that peered through the trees as he clutched his arm.

Then he began to think. Dragging his weary body to his knees, cursing harshly, he crawled as best he could farther into the forest. His limbs were quivering with helplessness and rage and he could not clear the sound of his father's shouts or his mother's weeping from his mind. The sight of his father hexing his assailants calmly until they overwhelmed him was burned into his psyche. He stumbled to his knees, attempting to stand, to run, he did not know where he was going, but he had to escape. He had to get away and -

A hand clapped over his mouth silently, and his shout was muffled against warm leather.

"Do not scream, Draco." A familiar voice hissed, but Draco struggled despite the order, wrenching his thin body wildly.

His captor clutched him tighter, and he could see the edge of the black robe that meant his death.

"Did you find him?" whispered an anxious voice, and Draco's eyes widened even further when the light from a wand illuminated the lined face of the muggle loving destitute, Arthur Weasley.

"Yes. Take him. I must return quickly."

Draco was abruptly released, and his panic filled muscles felt as if they were filled with lead. He fell heavily into Arthur's arms, terrified and confused but still feeling sullied by the older man's touch, and he twisted his head to see the black clad man's departure. A hood was thrown back to reveal lank black hair and pale skin, and spider-like hands slipped into a black cloak to retrieve a silver mask.

"Professor!" He choked out, bewildered and frightened.

Severus Snape nodded once before replacing his Death Eater mask and slipping into the shadows.

"We're going to get you out of here, Mr. Malfoy," said Arthur kindly, and Draco's eyes shot back to the man who held him upright.

The most senior Weasley's hair was still as thin and red as ever and his tattered blue Ministry robes hung limply from his gangly arms. His pale blue eyes were soft with pity though, and the youngest Malfoy - The last Malfoy, he thought hysterically - sneered ungratefully before slipping into unconsciousness.