Eclipse

Chapter 7

The Darkest Hour...

***********

There's no way out.

Hours blended together, and in the hazy stretch of time, that was the only coherent thought that permeated Harry's emotion-addled mind and pain-wracked body. There's no way out. Curled up against the wall, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, his every effort had been given over to blocking out the entire cruel, painful world. Imprisonment had worn him down much more than he'd realized, and recovery was taking much longer than he though it would. Or maybe it just felt longer. Every so often a random muscle would twitch of its own accord, and the ghosts of the Cruciatus Curse would run up and down the muscle and straight into the pit of his queasy stomach.

Other than the occasional spasm, Harry hadn't moved once, refusing to shatter the tiny bubble of seclusion he'd created for himself. If his silent vigil was disrupted, his last grasp on sanity would disappear, and that was just about all he had left. Trapped, without his wand, without an ally, without a prayer, the reality of the situation had finally struck home.

There's no way out.

Harry had never been trapped quite like this. Every brush with death, every battle with danger, every encounter with Voldemort, had been fast and furious. There hadn't been time to brood; to dwell on his impending fate. No thought, just action. In retrospect, that was probably the only reason he'd survived the other times. This time, however, there were no curses flying, no people screaming, no sudden panic. Just sit and wait. Sit back and pass the time agonizing over a fate that until now had only seemed like a twisted sort of abstract.

Since the attack at the Ministry the previous spring, there had been so many abstract things. Vague hints of Voldemort's whereabouts, extra lessons in Defense Against the Dark Arts sent via owl during the summer months, attempts at reassuring glances from friends; it all fed into this nebulous web he called his life. The completely familiar patterns of terror, determination, and hope; the constant threat, but none of it felt quite real. There was always the underlying knowledge that in the end everything rested on him; but the cold reality of it had always been muted by time and distance. "When it comes..." "Eventually..." "In the end..." Those weren't "here and now." Those weren't real yet.

This was real though, and it was all wrong. He'd had a distant mental picture of the impending showdown, as if part of him had already decided how it was going to happen, how everything was supposed to end. The Order would be there to back him up, to ensure he'd make it to the final confrontation. It would be a battle, head to head, curses flying, kill or be killed; just as it had been before. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

There's no way out.

Where was Dumbledore? Where was Remus? Where was this bloody Order that was supposed to be protecting him? Where was everyone now that he really needed them? Searching, using every resource at their disposal, and worrying out of their minds, he was sure, for all the good it would do. Trapped in an Unplottable fortress, and probably hidden by countless spells and shields, Harry's hopes that even Dumbledore would find him were growing dimmer by the hour. At first, in the back of his mind, he's believed that help was on its way, but now, he knew with aching certainty that he was on his own. Of course, he was used to being on his own. He'd learned over the years to rely on his own devices, whether or not his intuition was correct. In the end, the battle against Voldemort was supposed to be up to him anyway.... But imprisoned, with no wand, no help....

There's no way out.

There had almost been help. Somewhere along the line, subconsciously, he'd put his only real hope for escape in Malfoy.

At first the banter and his antagonizing of the other boy had been nothing but an angry backlash at the bastard who'd trapped him, but soon they began to take on a deadly serious purpose. Manipulation - not the most honorable of activities, but what choice did he have? He'd hoped there might be some way to needle under the skin of the obnoxious Slytherin. With that lever, maybe, just maybe, he might have been able to push Malfoy enough to drop him off his guard, possibly giving Harry a chance to escape. It was a survival move; any port in a storm.

It had seemed to be working, but somewhere along the way, something had changed. Under Malfoy's pale skin, it seemed, resided an actual human being. Not a particularly wonderful one, but alive, vulnerable, and very human. And that was where Harry had made his fatal mistake; he'd let Malfoy, in turn, get under his own skin. He'd actually trusted the boy, had begun to believe that Malfoy was actually starting to care about something, anything, besides himself. He'd invested his trust, and his hope, in his strongest rival.

I'm such an idiot.

Harry felt his throat tighten again at the painful memory; a pain that reached beyond the physical, pain that almost overwhelmed him once before and now threatened to do so again. Taking a couple of deep breaths, Harry tried to force some calm back into his shaking body. Even hours later, his emotions were still as raw as his nerves, caused by the shock of his only hope being pulled out from underneath him, and what seemed like a complete betrayal.

He shouldn't have been surprised, and it shouldn't have felt like a betrayal, but it did. The physical aftermath of the curse mingled with the realization that not only had he lost his little crusade to gain Malfoy's help, but that he never could have won in the first place. His own naivety and misplaced trust; he should have known better. It was his own fault, but that did nothing to ease the pain.

For years, Draco Malfoy had proven himself to be nothing more than a cowardly little snake, feeding on the tenets of his father's beliefs, clinging to the coattails of the powerful, doing whatever it took to save his own arse. He would never do anything that might violate his standard code of self-serving conduct. Even if, by the slimmest possibility, Malfoy hadn't lied when he'd told Harry he hadn't wanted to curse him; it didn't matter. Draco obviously didn't have what it took to stand up to his father. If that was the case, then he would never, never be able to defy Voldemort, allowing Harry to escape.

No, Harry shouldn't be surprised; but that didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell to realize the truth.

There's no way out.

No, he couldn't rely on Malfoy; not now, not ever. He had nobody but himself, but there was nothing left for him to do. No choices, no options, no escape. The harsh chill seeping through his clothes from the dungeon floor was no match for the freezing sensation in his gut as he considered his inescapable fate.

I'm really going to die this time.

Determined though he might have been not to go down without a fight, there didn't seem to be any way he could fight. There was nothing he could do, no actions to be taken.

Harry took a slow breath, feeling his shaking chest pressed against his knees, and hugged them tighter to himself. The world was slipping out from underneath him. Some piece of him used to believe that there was a happy ending to every story, and perhaps a tiny part of him still wished it could believe in such nonsense, but the ember of faith had died. It was stone cold and buried deep under cynicism. There was no sense in having hope anymore. Hope had betrayed him so many times, and now, once more in the form of Draco Malfoy. He wouldn't let it happen again.

*************

There's no way out.

Draco pulled the heels of his hands away from his face where they'd spent another interval of time rubbing his eyes red. No tears; he didn't deserve tears, nor did he feel the need for them. So much emotion had already been taxed from him that there seemed to be none left to give. He couldn't even let himself think about what he'd done to Harry. It was over. The damage had been done. He'd have to deal with it eventually, but for now, it was too much.

Instead, he'd been pouring through every possible angle of the same problem, only to keep returning to the same worthless conclusion.

There's no way out.

He could just picture it; trying to stroll out the front door. "Yes, thank you for the lovely stay, Lord Voldemort, but the décor is lacking and my room has a draft. I think I'll be going back to Hogwarts now." Oh yes, that would go over so well.

There was no chance for subtle escape, not that he could see. First of all, Draco didn't know a thing about the structure o Voldemort's dungeons. Just finding his way out before being caught would be next to impossible. Second, even if he managed to make it beyond the fortress, Voldemort would track him as easily as a niffler would find the contents of Gringotts piled on the sidewalk. Sure, there were ways to avoid detection, but Draco just didn't have that sort of magic available to him, not here. Third, there was Harry. What about Harry? After years of nothing but self-serving interests, Draco found himself entertaining the purely altruistic notion of facilitating Harry's escape as well. Yet, if getting out of the dungeons himself would be next to impossible, getting Harry out as well... forget it.

If escape was impossible, what could he do?

Send a message. Call for help.

He struck down that thought as quickly as it came. If he could get a message through, what would it say? "I'm trapped with Harry Potter in an Unplottable fortress at least a hundred miles north of Hogwarts. You can't find me even if you do know where I am, but please send help before we both die." Even if he managed to get the plot for the fortress and give it to Dumbledore, or anyone, Voldemort would know immediately that his security had been breached, and Draco would be dead before he ever saw his would-be rescuers. So, that plan was out.

Sabotage.

Draco almost laughed aloud at himself for that piece of foolishness. Even if he could outsmart Voldemort and his flock of Death Eaters, which was quite likely the most insane thought he'd had yet, where would he start? And to what end?

It was pointless, just like everything else.

What about his father? Draco almost let his hopes get ahead of him when he thought of going to his father, but the natural conclusions of this train of thought were almost worse. Lucius would never allow Draco to simply walk away from this. If Lucius' services to Voldemort were absolute, and Draco was sure that they were, then he'd never willingly allow Draco to abandon this fate.

If Voldemort ordered Father to do so, he would kill me without hesitation.

It wasn't an emotional realization for Draco; more an acknowledgement of something he'd always known but had never really considered. That was Lucius; a true Malfoy. Everything Draco had always wanted to be. All his life, Draco had wanted nothing more than to please Lucius, and that attitude was as deeply rooted into his being as his own name. His need for his father's approval and the loyalty he felt to the Malfoy name - the name he'd earned - he couldn't easily walk away from that. Both were a part of him, part of his blood.

But, if he wanted to escape from Voldemort, he didn't have a choice. His father would never support his wish to leave, and so Draco would become little more than a liability to Lucius. As much as he hated to do it, as much as it killed him, if he wanted to leave, he would have to turn his back on his father.

Or, I could just stay.

Draco frowned miserably at the thought, but it really was the most obvious option. And the safest. Maybe he was being too hasty about this whole notion of escape.

Sure, he had some minor reservations about serving Voldemort.

Well, significant reservations.

Keep dreaming, Draco. These were reservations large enough to blow holes through the ramparts of Hogwarts. Still, was he a Malfoy or not? A Malfoy plays by the rules of self-preservation, and turning traitor to the Dark Lord was not the best way to keep one's head about him. Or attached to him.

After years of being absolutely comfortable with his plans, with his chosen future as a Death Eater, why not just follow through? It was certainly the safest idea. He was still in both his father's, and Voldemort's, favour after all. All he needed to do was step back, mentally regroup, and hold his ground. He'd spent all his life learning how to please the people in power, how to gain favour with the right people. Yet it had been nothing but an extravagant façade; Draco Malfoy did not favour anyone but himself, and his allegiances had always been merely self-serving. Why not just continue with that? Why not just save himself the pain, anguish, and possible death and dismemberment, and simply acquiesce to the destiny that had been calling him for years?

Because I'm scared.

The answer screamed at him, impossible to ignore. It was true. There was no way to deny it, not after everything that had happened. Too scared to stay, too afraid to leave. Terrified of being trapped with no real options. No safe way out, but no sanctuary in staying.

It was all too overwhelming for an exhausted teenage boy.

Draco quickly pressed his hands over his eyes again, desperately trying to force his mind to go blank. His father, Harry, Voldemort; the three conflicting thoughts spun around in his brain, with no solution in sight. It was so useless.

He ground his fists harder against his eyes, and the pressure from his hands created an artificial mosaic of colour behind his eyelids. He let himself focus on the swirling pattern, drinking it in as a sort of relief from the gloom of the dungeons, even if it was nothing more than the effect of pressure straining his optic nerve. He mused vaguely whether some of that colour might be a side-effect of excessive consumption of Sleepless Nights potion, and then wondered if such over use of the potion could cause long-term damage. Of course, if he fell asleep on the job, the short-term damage would be much worse.

He pushed the remaining thoughts away and drifted with the rich patterns of fabricated colour. Reds and yellows gave way to blues, and Draco could let himself imagine, wistfully, that he was seeing a hint of the blue sky outdoors. Then, the image turned into a swirl of green, and before he could stop himself from thinking it, he swore he was looking into Harry's eyes.

The image gripped him, and he felt his breath catch, but he couldn't pull his hands away; didn't want to stop looking....

A sudden cracking noise almost caused Draco to fall out of his chair, heart racing, and he grabbed desperately at the arms of his chair in an attempt to steady himself.

"Biddy!" he yelled in surprise before he was able to calm himself properly. "Don't ever startle me like that again!"

Biddy hopped backwards and dropped into a fearful bow, almost spilling the tray of food she was carrying. She squeaked frightfully, "Master, sir! Yes, sir, Biddy is terribly sorry, Master Malfoy sir, but Biddy is only wanting to bring Master his dinner, sir!"

The house elf stared at him uncertainly with her large, watery eyes.

Blowing out a slow breath between pursed lips, Draco raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling and ran his fingers harshly through his hair. His hand stopped at the back of his head, grabbing at the limp blond locks and squeezing the fistful of hair tightly. Finally, after a moment of settling his ragged nerves, he said shortly, "Fine, it's fine. Just leave the tray."

Biddy nodded warily. "Yes, Master Malfoy, sir."

She set the tray carefully by his feet, but instead of leaving immediately, she turned to look at him. Venturing forward with a tiny step, she blinked once, then asked cautiously, "Master Malfoy... sir... is you all right, sir?"

Draco stared down at the elf, startled by her boldness.

No, I am NOT alright! Everything is fucked beyond belief! I'm sympathizing with the enemy, I think about turning traitor to the Dark Lord, and I'm betraying everything my father every taught me! Does that sound all right to you?!?

"I'm fine, Biddy. Thank you."

With a casual wave of his hand which belied the emotions which were straining to break through his shell, he dismissed her. He couldn't let her know that he was actually grateful for the sympathy. A master should never lower himself to admitting he needs his servant for anything more than menial labour. It was improper.

Biddy pressed her lips tightly together, eyes full of concern. She didn't believe him for a moment, and he knew it. Finally, she looked down, reassuming her proper house elf behavior. "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir."

With that, she disappeared again.

Draco looked at the tray and his shoulders fell. Nice little sandwiches, pumpkin juice, tea, apples, two cups, and two plates. It looked more like a spread for a picnic in the park than rations for a prison guard and his captive. The very sight of the food made Draco's stomach want to turn, but he still had to feed Harry. It would be the first interaction they'd had in hours - since Draco had used the Cruciatus Curse. The memory itself made him feel dirty.

Silently, he piled two sandwiches and an apple onto a plate, then poured a cup of tea. Biddy had indeed included a small bowl of sugar cubes on the tray, and Draco quickly added two lumps. He moved to stand, but then, thinking the better of it, added one more sandwich to the plate, braced himself, and approached the cell.

Harry was curled up against the far wall, leaning against it sideways, giving Draco a profile view of his face. His eyes were closed, as though sleeping, but the lines of his body were tense.

"Potter? You awake in there? Lunch is..."

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

I should have expected that, Draco reasoned to himself, but that didn't make it any easier. He had to say something, but what? Potter was obviously not going to listen to any sort of apology, but perhaps he would at least listen to some common sense. Draco took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

"Listen, Potter. Fighting with me isn't going to do either of us any good. I'm sure you're convinced I'm an evil, hedonistic bastard, and who knows? You might be right. But sod it, Potter! Don't make this harder than it already is!"

Draco cut himself off before emotion could begin to choke him.

"Hard? Like using the Cruciatus on an unarmed victim? Oh, I'm sure this is really hard on you, Malfoy."

Draco swallowed. "Potter..."

"Turns out your first victim was me. What a pleasant surprise for you. My fault of course, bear that in mind. Did you enjoy that, Malfoy?"

Harry was still not looking at Draco, and so he never saw the pained expression on Draco's face; the way his mouth tightened up, or the way his eyes squeezed shut as though to block out the sting of that remark.

Draco sucked in a choked breath, and his response sounded thin and strained. "No, Potter. Not that you'd ever believe me, or that it even matters, but no."

Harry's eyes finally opened, but he didn't turn his head; instead, he stared straight at the wall in front of him. His profile didn't give Draco any clues about the emotions Harry might be hiding, and his voice was just as ambiguous as he flatly replied, "Bullshit."

Frustration was beginning to push at Draco again. There was just no talking to this boy. "Fine, Potter. Have it your way, but as I said, lunch is here. Sandwiches."

No response.

Draco shook his head to himself. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, they're not poisoned."

Finally, Harry moved, turning his back against the wall and facing Draco. Draco automatically flinched, expecting Harry's stare to rip him apart as usual, but it didn't happen.

Harry's back was rigid against the wall, as before, but this time, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. His face was still hard and neutral, with the disillusioned look of someone who had seen too much, but his eyes were different. Behind his glasses, Harry's eyes looked back at Draco dully, not really seeing him, as though he'd retreated into himself.

Through the fabric of Harry's shirt, Draco could see a muscle twitching violently, causing his arm and hand to spasm, a physical aftereffect of the Cruciatus Curse. Judging by the look in Harry's eyes, the Curse had struck him deeper as well. The spasm stopped, and Harry appeared to ignore it, but Draco couldn't brush the thought aside as easily. Yet another reminder that he had caused Harry's miserable physical and emotional condition.

"Why don't you?" Harry asked, snapping Draco from his thoughts.

"Why don't I what?"

"Poison them. It would be a lot quicker. And I'm sure a lot less painful."

This was not a line of conversation Draco had any interest at all in promoting. "Potter..."

"But then, I doubt you'd do that, because then you won't get to torture me, and show off for Daddy and Voldemort while we're waiting for... oh yeah, almost forgot. That, plus you have to keep me alive for you master."

Draco gritted his teeth. This was beginning to cross from frustrating to purely maddening. "Now you listen..."

"No," Harry said suddenly, cutting Draco off. This time he seemed to be talking to himself more than to Draco. If anything, he looked thoughtful. "No... You know... They say that without food or water, a person will die in about three days. Is that right, Malfoy?"

Draco felt a shock rip through him. Of all the things Potter might have said, that was not the thing Draco had expected; certainly not what Draco wanted to hear. Not now. Especially not now. "Potter, no..."

"What Malfoy? Would that ruin your plans?" There was a definite hint of amusement in Harry's voice, and a tiny spark of determination was beginning to gleam behind Harry's glasses again. It was cold and detached, but it was alive. As much as Draco had hated seeing the deadened look in Harry's eyes, this was worse.

"But you don't want to die!" Draco blurted out, more to convince himself than Harry. "You said so..."

His voice trailed off; he couldn't think of anything else to say, and instead stared numbly into the cell. Harry's shoulders were still slumped, and while he still didn't look happy, he no longer looked defeated either. He stared back at Draco thoughtfully, as though considering the fate of the world, then sighed resignedly.

"Of course I don't want to die. But... that's going to happen anyway."

Draco found his voice choked. "No..."

"I'm not going to let him win, Malfoy," Harry suddenly said in a rush. The expression on his face shifted, just slightly, and tightly guarded hints of frantic worry made creases around his eyes and mouth. "If I'm going to die, it's going to be on my terms. I'd even rather..."

"Let me kill you," Draco said, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. Harry looked up at him in surprise, and Draco nodded once. "Yes Potter, I remember. I remember too well."

Harry's mouth hung open just slightly; plainly surprised by Draco's apparent understanding of the situation, but also perhaps by the way he was reacting to it. He watched wordlessly as Draco bent down and placed the plate on the floor, then reached into his robes for his wand. In his other hand, he held the teacup out in front of him. With a muttered charm and a flick of the wrist, the teacup rose into the air. Directed by Draco's wand, the cup floated serenely through the bars, leaving a trail of steam in its wake. As it approached Harry, it sank to the ground and landed gently by his foot.

Harry stared at the cup, then back at Draco. The thick shield he'd created around himself seemed to fall away. His eyes widened, dropping their guarded edge, finally seeing Draco. Where there had sat a cold, cynical man only moments before, Draco was finally able to recognize Harry again.

"A bit better than your hover charm during O.W.L.'s," Harry said cautiously.

Draco shrugged. "I was distracted."

Harry replied with a tight-lipped nod, then flicked his eyes back to the cup.

"Sugar?"

Draco risked a small, tentative smile. "Two lumps."

For a moment, it seemed that Harry might have forgiven him; that he might have actually broken through, but the moment passed. Harry's eyes darkened over again, and his features became hard and impassive. With a sudden kick, he sent the teacup clattering across the floor, leaving a steaming puddle and the cracked remains of the fine porcelain.

Harry looked up through the rapidly diminishing cloud of steam at Draco. "Next time, make sure it's poisoned, not sugared."

Draco felt his stomach drop down to his knees. Potter was serious. He really was going to try to starve himself to death, a last resort effort from a man who had decided there were no other options. There were worse ways to die than starvation and dehydration, but very few that Draco could call to mind just then.

Choosing that path, suicide, might seem like surrender to some people, but Draco knew better. Harry Potter did not surrender. By not letting Voldemort kill him, Potter was making the choice of self-sacrifice. He would die defying the Dark Lord, and Voldemort would never win.

Noble to the last. Bloody Gryffindor.

Not even bothering to retrieve the plate, Draco turned away from the cell and walked away. He couldn't look anymore. As if everything hadn't already been distressing enough... Draco wasn't prepared to watch anyone, not even Harry, - no, especially not Harry - starve to death in front of him.

If this suicide attempt succeeds, Draco thought miserably, at least I won't have to watch Voldemort's ritualized murder of the poor kid. That thought did absolutely nothing to ease the nauseous hollowness that was growing inside him. He felt so completely helpless. Weak and helpless.

He slumped into his chair, and stared straight forward; not really seeing anything, not really wanting to see. Shutting his eyes would make no difference, and thinking wouldn't help him, because his mind would inevitably return to the same thing. Harry, lying on the floor of the cell, dying slowly.

Maybe it was better that way. If Voldemort did manage to add Harry's power to his own, he'd be almost unstoppable. Draco could see why Harry wouldn't want his last knowledge to be that he facilitated Voldemort's eventual victory. That would almost be worse for him than actually dying. For Harry's sake, for everyone's really, Draco found himself hoping that if they didn't manage to escape, that Harry would at least succeed in his grotesque mission. It wouldn't be the best option, but it wouldn't be the worst either. Perhaps it was better to commit suicide than die at Voldemort's hand.

Maybe there is a way out of this.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, a wave of sadness hit him. Had things really fallen so low that suicide seemed like a favourable alternative? He wouldn't do it though, and he knew it.

Well, why the hell not? There's not a whole lot of good I'm doing sitting here.

Slowly, Draco raised one hand to the base of his throat, and gently ran one finger across the wound Voldemort had left there, down the remnants of dried blood that stuck to the skin above his collar. Dying at Voldemort's hand was definitely the worst case scenario. He thought of his own ritual dagger, the one he'd used to stab Harry. One quick cut and it would all be over, so why not?

Because I'm a bloody coward.

A week ago, the very idea of admitting something so terribly derogatory about himself would never have crossed his mind. He would have spent hours, if necessary, inventing excuses for his behavior, just as he had done for years. Now, there just seemed to be no point. He was too tired to argue, even with himself.

He needed to do something. Anything. He needed to take some action, because right now, inaction was pushing him over the edge. Kicking at the floor once in frustration, he slouched lower into his seat, as if he could shrink away from everything.

Don't slouch, Draco. It's unbefitting of a Malfoy. His father's old chastisements rang in his head.

Shut up father.

Draco's hand slipped to his belt and found the handle of his dagger. He pulled it from its sheath and held it out in front of him, watching the reflection of the firelight from the torches bouncing off the parts of the blade which were clean; fire on metal. The rest of the surface was obscured by a film of dried blood. He still hadn't cleaned the dagger.

Holding the point of the dagger lightly between his left forefinger and thumb, Draco slowly rotated the blade, not to draw blood, just to watch the light dance off the metal as it spun. It was beautiful, and bright; hypnotic to watch. There was no sound, no touch, just the reflections of the blade. As it spun, Draco not only saw the torches, but the walls of the dungeons, the heavy wooden doors, the bars of the cell, and even once, he caught Harry's face in the reflection. Harry was watching him, but Draco wouldn't look across to him. His entire awareness was wrapped up in that reflection.

As he watched, he sank even deeper into his chair, relishing the little escape he found in the reflection of the dagger, contemplating the more permanent escape that the dagger could bring.

"I've told you countless times, Draco. Don't slouch."

Draco was about to tell the voice in his head to shut up again when the reflection in the blade revealed his father's face. With the sudden shock of having his solitude so rudely interrupted, especially given the identity of the intruder, Draco jumped from his chair with a startled yell. The dagger slipped, cutting into his fingers and falling to the floor.

"Father! I'm sorry, I didn't see you enter. I..."

Lucius scowled, silencing him immediately. "Draco, considering where you are, I would imagine that you would be a little more alert, not caught in some daydream. Imagine if the Dark Lord himself had entered the dungeons to find you in such a state."

Draco almost let himself slip and say that he'd know if Voldemort were approaching, because Harry's scar would start to burn, but he caught his tongue before the words escaped it. Bowing his head with the expected amount of shame, he quickly apologized. "I'm sorry, father. It won't happen again."

"I should hope not." Lucius's eyes were hard as he surveyed his son. He reached down and picked up Draco's dagger. "And you should not be so careless with this. I gave it to you as a tool, not as a toy, and I will not have you treating magical artifacts with such negligence."

Draco automatically began to reach for the dagger, but Lucius pulled it further from his reach. Draco tipped his head sullenly. "Yes, father."

Lucius nodded once, but didn't seem altogether satisfied with the response. He looked down behind him, where Biddy was cowering, apparently having arrived with him. "Well? What are you waiting for?" he hissed at the house elf. "I told you to retrieve the tray and leave."

Biddy rushed forward to collect the tray and plates, visibly cowering in Lucius's presence.

"Draco, I gave you a house elf, and you can't even handle that properly. Between the dagger and the house elf, I'm beginning to question you readiness for the honour you're preparing to receive." He gestured towards Biddy, who was clambering frantically to retrieve the dishes, levitating the shards of Harry's teacup out of the cell, stacking everything onto the tray as she shook miserably. "This elf seems to have developed a mind-set of its own in the few days since I gave it to you. Ruddy beast spoke out of turn twice to your mother today, and once to me. I taught you how to manage servants, did I not?"

"Yes, father," Draco answered, but his eyes were on Biddy. She had a nasty welt across her face where Lucius had likely struck her, and her hands shook as she gathered the dishes, which were still all full.

Lucius glanced at his son appraisingly. "Have you been eating properly, Draco?"

Draco almost gave the automatic 'yes, father,' reply, but realized Lucius had already seen the full dishes Biddy was collecting. He shrugged lightly. "I've not been terribly hungry, father."

"Ah. Still disturbed by your encounter with the Dark Lord?" The disapproval dripped from every word. He didn't let Draco answer, as he continued, "You shall need a thicker skin than that if you wish to succeed at the tasks ahead of you. And you'll need to eat to keep up your strength."

Draco was about to ask what tasks his father was talking about when he was interrupted by the sound of shattering porcelain. Biddy had been shaking so badly that as she'd lifted the tray, the teapot had slipped off the edge, leaving Biddy standing in a puddle of tea and porcelain shards.

"Biddy! Be more careful with..." Draco began, before Lucius cut him off.

"You miserable disgrace for a house elf! I let you beyond the estate, and you serve my son pitifully. You are not fit to be a Malfoy's servant!" With that, Lucius lashed out with his cane, striking the house elf across her back, knocking her down, and sending the entire tray crashing to the floor.

Draco watched the whole event numbly, and cast a quick glance over to Harry's cell. He'd been sure Harry would be growling and glowering at Lucius, but Harry wasn't even watching. When he looked back at Biddy, the house elf was pulling herself to her feet. Lucius was glaring at her disdainfully.

"Go back to the Manor, house elf, and punish yourself properly. I want you out of my sight."

With a frightened squeak and a loud crack, Biddy was gone. A quick wave of Lucius's wand and the mess of broken flatware and food on the floor disappeared as well. He then rounded on Draco.

"Draco, if you intend to keep the house elf, then you had better handle it the way I taught you."

Draco quickly gave a short bow of his head. "Yes, father. I'll be sure to."

"Good." Lucius tipped his head in approval. "Now, I have some news for you."

Draco looked up quickly to find that the twisted smile had returned to his father's face. "News, father?"

Instead of responding immediately, Lucius reached inside his robe and pulled out an apparently ancient book. It was bound in faded dragonhide, with uneven parchment, and an embossed symbol on the cover resembling the three phases of the moon. Above the symbol were inscribed the words, "Lunar Magicke."

Draco glanced from the book back to his father. "This is from the hidden portion of our library. I recognize it."

Lucius nodded once in approval. "Excellent observation, Draco. This is once of the oldest books in the Malfoy collection. It is also one of the few books in the hidden collection that does not contain purely Dark Magic."

Draco pursed his lips. "I've not read this before. If this is part of the hidden portion of the collection, what does it contain, if not Dark Arts?"

Lucius's smile turned conspiratorial, and he held out the book to Draco, who accepted the book tentatively as his father explained.

"The spells and potions in this book are from the Old Arts."

Draco's eyebrows furrowed together questioningly. "So then, this is a type of folk magic?"

Lucius slammed the butt of his cane into the floor angrily. "Have I taught you nothing, Draco, or do you have the mental capacity of a Squib?"

Draco flinched at the insult, but said nothing as he stared at the book in his hands.

"You insult the integrity of our magical heritage by comparing the Old Arts to Muggle folk magic. They are not the same thing. You should know this, Draco."

Draco fought the urge to argue, and conceded with a nod, waiting for his father to continue.

Lucius reached out and tapped the cover of the book. "The Old Arts are a far cry from modern magic, but no less powerful, and certainly not folk magic. I wouldn't dare have you make that sort of mistake in front of the Dark Lord. That garbage is what the Muggles tried to learn from the real wizards and witches before the Wizarding world went into hiding. Folk magic always had missing elements, and was mixed up with the Muggles' inane need for a deity to worship. The Old Arts were the true works of ancient wizards."

Draco knew most of this, at least in a vague sense, and wasn't in any sort of mood for a lecture. His father had taught him some about the Old Arts, but because it seemed to be mixed up in Muggle affairs, Draco had never much cared about it. Apparently though, there was more to it than met the eye. Draco felt an urge to ask his father why he'd never really emphasized the Old Arts, but he kept his mouth shut. He'd already irritated his father twice, and he wanted to know what had brought Lucius to the dungeons bearing what seemed to be good news.

Lucius paused to make certain that Draco was paying proper attention before he continued. "In the Old Arts, there was a large grey area between 'common' magic and Dark magic, and there was no Ministry to regulate their use. Eventually, so-called improvements were made to common magic, but the types of workings that were deemed 'Dark magic' were forced underground, and often no modern substitutes were discovered for those spells. The Dark Lord's plan for Potter," he jerked his head towards the cell, "uses just such a spell."

If he'd been in the least inclined towards thinking about it, Draco was sure he could have come to that conclusion on his own. So why was his father droning on about this now? "Father could you..." Draco searched for a diplomatic way of saying this, "explain the relevance of this to me?"

At this, Lucius's harsh scowl softened at the edges, creating a prideful excuse for a smile. "Draco, the Dark Lord is aware of your skills in the Art of Potions. Quite beyond your years, when you can be bothered to invest the effort. Although there are others who are perhaps more qualified for this task, he has considered giving this honour to you."

Draco shook his head once in confusion and blinked stupidly. "What honour?"

"Why, to assist in creating the potion for Potter's demise, of course."

Draco's heart seemed to miss a beat, squeezed suddenly by a ribcage that seemed too small. He became distinctly aware of the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.

"You caught the little bastard and you are aware, of course, that you will be initiated as a Death Eater immediately after Potter's death. This would be your final task, a trial before your initiation."

Oh God, no, Draco thought weakly. Please, no. Carefully setting his face with its time-worn neutral mask, Draco forced a slow nod. "What am I to do, father?"

"The Dark Lord is sure to give you final instructions at the time, but for now, learn all the details of brewing this potion." Lucius flicked the book open to a fairly central page, "Theory, ritual, and preparation. As one of the Old Arts, it will be very different from the potions you're accustomed to brewing. There are certain elements in the preparation that you've not encountered before, but I'm sure you can adapt. As I said, there are Death Eaters who are more qualified for this task, but the Dark Lord has considered favouring you with this honour. Do not waste this opportunity."

Lucius looked down on his son with a certain reserved pride, and rested his right hand on Draco's left shoulder. "You've lived up to your name, Draco. Be ready for this, now. Do not fail."

Lucius's hand felt unbearably heavy on Draco's shoulder. It was all Draco could do to tip his head forward and reply with the expected, "Yes, father."

Lucius finally dropped his hand. "Very well. Good luck, Draco. I've marked the page with the instructions for the potion. Oh, and mind that you do not find yourself daydreaming down here again, lest the Dark Lord might also find you inattentive. I'm certain he wouldn't be pleased with that sort discovery."

"Yes, father."

Lucius nodded, then held out his other hand. In it was Draco's dagger, handle presented first. Draco took it, and cautiously glanced up at his father's face. The hard features, so similar to his own, yet completely different, had already lost their shallow display of parental sentiment.

"And don't slouch."

With those last words, Lucius was gone. Draco stood still, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps as they faded away down the corridor, ending in the sharp echo of the slamming dungeon door. When the sound had faded, Draco stood staring blankly down the corridor for a moment, trying to tell himself it had all been a very bad hallucination brought on by exhaustion.

This was beyond comprehension. The Dark Lord would never have a new initiate assist in performing such an important ceremony. Impossible!

Draco felt his mouth go completely dry. That is, unless this is a test.

Draco looked down again at the book he held. A red stain was spreading under his left thumb, and it was only then that he even remembered that he'd cut himself. He quickly dropped the book on to his chair and dug into his pocket for a clean handkerchief. As he began to wipe away the blood that had smeared across his hand from the cut, he stopped and pulled the cloth away again.

Draco held his left hand up in front of his face, watching the smear of blood beginning to dry around the edges as a tiny trickle continued to ooze down his thumb and across his palm. There was nothing beautiful about blood, he decided. Nothing noble or valiant in the spilling of blood. He'd always been so proud of his own blood; pure, noble Malfoy blood. He's been convinced for years that it was different from all the "lesser" blood, but it too was the same disgusting shade of Gryffindor red as everyone else's. Same as Harry's.

Risking a quick glance into the cell, Draco saw Potter staring at him intently, searching Draco with a dark curiosity.

"Looking at something, Potter?"

"No."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Funny, you're 'not looking' pretty attentively."

Harry bypassed the verbal tap dance and went for the direct jab. "I suppose you just can't wait for this, Malfoy. You have to make it personal, right to the end."

Draco gritted his teeth and inhaled through them, listening to the slow hissing sound. Right now, he had no desire to get into another aimless argument, so he looked away from Harry and began wrapping the cloth around his finger again.

"Looks like you get to do me in, after all," Harry goaded. "That is, if I'm still alive for your amusement by then. That won't look very good for you, will it? How will you explain to Voldemort when it's time for the grand finale that I'm already dead?"

His stress running high, and his patience running low, Draco opted for the simplest approach. With his old trademark sneer staunchly in place, he drawled, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

And with that, he turned away.

He could argue with Potter all afternoon, but it wasn't going to help him one bit. The boy wasn't going to listen anyway. Pushing Harry to the back of his mind, he looked over at the book that his father had left for him, still sitting on the chair where he'd tossed it, with the red stain showing boldly on the cover. He shook his head to himself, quickly flinging a cleaning spell on the book, then a healing spell at his own fingertip, and finally flopped down into the chair with the book on his lap.

Not that he wanted to learn this old piece of magic, and he certainly didn't want to use this potion on Harry, but for now, there didn't seem to be anything else to do. His father was certain to come and test his knowledge soon enough, and the last thing he needed was to bring more problems raining down on his head.

Besides, he'd spent hours wishing for some distraction, something to do, and anything was better than sitting and spinning circles in his head. He also had to admit, he was just a bit curious about the whole thing. His father had always said that knowledge was power. Learning more about Voldemort's plans seemed to be a promising start. Not that there were many other options, or any other options really. With a sigh, he flipped open the cover of the book.

The parchment was crumbling and dusty; the ink faded in places. One corner had obviously had a potion of some sort spilled on it ages ago, but all the text was still legible. Quickly locating the marker his father left, Draco surveyed the page in question. In the margins were archaic symbols, some very obscure, others obviously depicting the moon in various phases of concealment.

As he began to skim through, Draco at first wondered why the book wasn't written in Middle English, but then realized his father must have already used a translator charm on it. He snickered. His mother could real Middle and Old English, but his father had never bothered to learn. He'd always been too busy with more practical things, such as amassing political influence and serving the Dark Lord.

Shivering deeply before scrunching back into his quilt, Draco set himself to the business of learning everything there was to know about the "Soul's Eclipse" potion.

**********

The potion itself was simple enough, Draco found, which seemed consistent with what little he knew of the Old Arts. The spell and potion had been designed in an era when dueling was not just for sport, and rival wizards often took their conflicts to the battlefield with small armies in tow. The idea was that if a wizard could capture his enemy alive, the ultimate embarrassment for a combatant, the captor would be able to absorb his enemy's power as his own. Total and complete conquest. It was just the sort of thing Voldemort would deem a fitting end for the boy who had slipped through his fingers time after time. It would be an effective and symbolic proof of his complete victory over Harry, undeniably making Voldermort the most powerful wizard in the word.

The ingredients for the potion were, like most potions ingredients from that time, basic herbal derivatives. Most, if not all of them, could be found growing locally, Draco noted. Calamus root, mugwort, hawthorn thorns, Sorcerer's Violet (called periwinkle in modern texts), mistletoe, quince seeds, and twigs from a yew tree.

The calamus root and mugwort tied the defeated wizard's power to the actual phasing of the moon, and the eclipse itself was nothing more than a catalyst for the transition of power from the conquered to the conqueror. Periwinkle and hawthorn allowed the victim's spirit to be pulled from his body. Yew, regardless of myths about reincarnation, was more importantly a powerful herb that prevented the spirit of the dead from passing to the netherworld.

Funny, Draco mused, how Muggles like to plant yew in graveyards, despite their nearly obsessive fear of ghosts.

The quince seed bonded the conquered and the conqueror to each other, opening a unidirectional channel for power to pass directly from one to the other. Finally, mistletoe served to increase the potency of the brew. Draco couldn't help but admire the elegant technique, absently feeling a mild pang of regret that some of the more poetic elements of the Old Arts had been lost in the development of modern magic. They were art really, these spells, and they appealed to the aesthete in Draco.

From what little Draco knew of the Old Arts, even the use of an astronomical event was very typical. Lunar and solar-based rituals had been some of the earliest magical practices. Most spells and potions from that time period had some element of lunar or solar magic; potions brewed at certain phases of the moon, charms performed at sunrise, rituals at solstices and hexes at midnight. To that point, the potion seemed so simple, so predictable.

However, the simplicity ended there. As he should have expected with the Old Arts, there was also an... emotional element. Where the potion itself merely opened the floodgate of power between the two wizards, and the eclipse forced a transitional state, it was the emotional component which was the key to the whole spell. Raw, unadulterated hatred. It functioned like a vacuum, an emptiness that pulled all things towards itself, siphoning the power of the defeated wizard directly to the victor. A wizard would only be able to effectively use this potion on the most hated of enemies, perfect for Voldemort to use on Harry.

Suited as the spell might be, however, it also seemed more and more like some sort of sick joke. Here was someone Draco had always presumed to be unquestionably, absolutely powerful, needing to tap power from a teenage boy to complete his subjugation of the wizard world. It sickened Draco to think of Voldemort siphoning off Harry's power as Harry slowly wasted away. It felt so wrong.

Draco closed his eyes, wanting to block out the thought, but it only became more vivid as he tried to hide the images and ideas away. In his mind's eye, Draco could see Harry, bound and gagged, as he'd been when Voldemort had tortured him, but now he was barely fighting back. His struggle became weaker, and his eyes began to cloud over. Finally, without fuss or fanfare, he seemed to wither in his bonds, sagging against the ropes as perpetual rise and fall of his chest finally stopped.

And then, Draco heard it. High, cruel laughter. Voldemort. The harsh sound caused the air to crackle darkly, as though Harry's power hadn't simply added to Voldemort's, but had multiplied it. The Dark Lord was nowhere to be seen, but Draco could feel his icy presence all around. It was a cold, hard hatred, power that took everything and gave nothing in return. Voldemort had been terrible before, but after killing Harry, it seemed he'd be unstoppable. Hogwarts would fall, Britain would crumble, and it wouldn't stop there. It would never stop.

A loud bang snapped Draco back to reality. He glanced around quickly, half expecting to see his father standing over him again, glowering furiously, but the only other person to be seen was Harry, and he was apparently fast asleep. Looking down, Draco found the source of the noise; the book had fallen to the floor while he hadn't been paying attention. After he'd been caught daydreaming once that day, and had been warned not to do it again, he'd already let himself slip. Not a good record. To his credit, at least he wasn't slouching this time.

Draco leaned over and reached down to grab the book, only to realize his hands were shaking too badly to grip it. In fact, everything was shaking, and his breathing was ragged and shallow, as though he was still absorbed in his waking nightmare. This just wouldn't do. Getting carried away right now wouldn't help him, especially as it seemed like nothing could.

He forced himself to drag the book into his lap and sat still until the shaking subsided. There was still a lot to learn about this spell, and while the eclipse wasn't going to happen for another couple of weeks, Voldemort or his father could decide to test his knowledge at any random time. And as much as he'd rather not think about this anymore, he'd be best off if he knew the material.

The bookmark had fallen out, Draco noted irritably. He grumbled as he flipped through the pages. "Foreword, Basic Principles of Lunar Magic, Counter-curse Techniques, Lunar Herbs, Calculating Cycles of the Moon, Lunar Astrology, Hexes..."

CRACK!

For the second time in less than five minutes, Draco was thoroughly startled by a loud noise. This time, however, he hadn't caused it.

"Biddy!" Draco cried in surprise, dropping the book again. "I told you, don't startle me like that!"

Biddy immediately took several short steps backwards, her tea tray tipping precariously as she moved. "Master Malfoy sir!" She squeaked pitifully. "Biddy is most terribly sorry, Master Malfoy, sir! Biddy will never do it again, Master Malfoy. Please, Master Malfoy, sir, do not be punishing Biddy! Biddy is only wanting to bring Master his tea, sir."

She bowed so low that her nose almost touched the ground. The tea tray shook in her hands, causing porcelain to clink and a couple of sugar cubes to fall to the floor. Draco blinked in surprise at her complete reversion to the pathetic cowering of the average Malfoy's house elf when he noticed the welt across her face that he'd seen earlier, and saw that there were now several others on her arms and legs to match, also obviously from his father's cane. Lucius had apparently taken it on himself to ensure that Draco's personal house elf was behaving properly. Now, however, it wasn't what Draco wanted. His shoulders drooped, and he waved his hand at the house elf, indicating for her to put the tray down.

"I'm not going to punish you, Biddy. I don't have time, and it looks like you've already been punished enough today."

Biddy was halfway through settling the tray on the floor when Draco's words hit her. Some tea spilled out of the teapot as the tray slipped the rest of the way from her fingers and set hard onto the floor. Her lower lip quivered as though she were trying to respond, but didn't know what to say, and her eyes watered as though she'd just been given the greatest kindness in the world. "Master Malfoy, sir?"

Draco sighed and forced a melancholy sort of smile. "I said it's ok Biddy. You're mine, not my father's, and I don't see fit to punish you for a simple mistake."

Immediately, Biddy's eyes overflowed, and she cried out loudly, "Oh, Master Malfoy, sir! Biddy does not deserve a master as generous as you! If Master Malfoy ever, ever needs anything of Biddy, sir, just ask, Master Malfoy, sir!"

Words gave way to the sound of a nose being blown, loudly, on the edge of her filthy pillowcase. Draco flinched at the sight - how terribly unhygienic - but quickly put the disgusting nature of her habits secondary to their more immediate hazard.

"Biddy! Shhh! Do you want to bring my father running down here? Shut up!"

The house elf's racket was more than enough to bring everyone in the castle running down to the dungeons, particularly Lucius, if the man was still in the building. As much as Biddy wouldn't want a visit from Lucius, Draco was just as unenthusiastic. The last thing he needed at the moment was another lecture on his un-Malfoy-like handling of his house elf.

Biddy immediately bit down on her lower lip and nodded her head vigorously. Draco looked around nervously, as though expecting his father, or worse, Voldemort, to appear instantaneously to investigate the racket; but nobody appeared. There was only Draco, a house elf, and Harry, who was, incredibly, still asleep. Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's better, Biddy. Now, thanks for the tea. Come back for the tray in a little while. I've got a lot of work to do."

Biddy nodded again, whispering, "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir! If Master is needing anything else of Biddy, let Biddy know, sir!"

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Biddy. Thanks. Just go now..." And then Draco froze, staring at Biddy as though he had only just seen her standing there for the first time. "Wait."

Biddy looked at him questioningly. "Yes, Master Malfoy, sir?"

Draco surveyed the house elf as he spoke deliberately, "Biddy, you just said that if I needed anything, to ask, correct?"

Biddy nodded slowly. "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir."

Starting to feel a strange buzz of excitement in the back of his mind, Draco forced himself to keep his voice slow and steady. "And my father gave you to me, so your loyalty is to me before anyone else, correct?"

"Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir." Biddy gazed back at Draco uncertainly.

Draco felt himself nearly ready to explode with the realization of this whole new realm of possibilities. He'd have to trust a house elf, but it seemed to be the best chance he had, to say nothing of the fact that it seemed to be the only chance he had. Draco leaned over and motioned for Biddy to come close. She looked from side to side, as though expecting someone to appear out of thin air to strike at her, but quickly obeyed.

Bending low over his knees, Draco whispered conspiratorially. "Biddy, everything I'm about to ask you can not be repeated to my father, or anyone, for any reason. Do you understand me?"

Eyes wide, Biddy nodded enthusiastically.

"Good. Listen carefully. I'm going to need you to search for two items for me back at the Manor. They're probably somewhere in my father's private possessions, so you must search cautiously. The first piece is a pendant that looks like an ancient Muggle compass. You do know what that looks like, don't you?"

Again, Biddy nodded, wordlessly.

"Right, then. Second is a set of two pyramid-shaped crystals. They're about as big as my fist." He held up his fist to demonstrate, and didn't miss Biddy's automatic reaction to duck. He sighed and shook his head. "Oh, and this is very important. Don't bring the crystals inside the fortress here. Voldemort will detect them as a breach in his wards."

Biddy hesitated, then asked in a quiet squeak, "Master Malfoy, sir, where is Biddy to bring them?"

"That's the other thing I need you to do. Before you even start looking for that stuff, I need you to search through the dungeons right here for a way out of the fortress. An old tunnel, a secret passage, any possible way for someone to escape beyond the wards unseen. Without an escape route, everything else is worthless. Then, when you find the compass, bring it to me here. When you find the crystals, put one of them outside the wards of the fortress, near the escape exit. The other crystal... I need you to bring it to Hogwarts. Give it to Dumbledore, if you can. Tell him... tell him just to hold on to it, that it's from me, and that hopefully, Harry Potter and I will be returning to school very soon. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Master Malfoy, sir." Biddy's response was a high, tight squeak. She was beginning to tremble again.

Draco pursed his lips. He couldn't have Biddy becoming scared and exposing him. "Listen to me, Biddy. If you can't do this, or you think you might have to tell my father about this, you let me know now. I'll tell you not to do any of it. I'll give you clothes if I have to, but I can't let you expose any of this.

The house elf stared at him, eyes as wide as they'd ever been, obviously not sure what to say. It isn't often that a house elf is given any sort of option, especially a Malfoy's house elf.

Draco gritted his teeth. He hated to admit this to a house elf, especially out loud, but it seemed the only way. "Biddy, you said if I needed anything, to just ask. I've never needed anything this much in my life. I can't do it without you. Can you do this for me?"

In a split second, Biddy's expression changed from trepidation to determination, and she whispered back firmly, "Master Malfoy, sir, Biddy is keeping her promise to gracious Master. If Master Malfoy is needing anything from Biddy, Biddy is wanting to do exactly what Master needs. Biddy will find the way out of the dungeons, and the things Master Malfoy asked for. Biddy is keeping Master Malfoy's secrets."

Draco finally allowed himself the first real smile he'd felt in many long hours. "Thank you, Biddy. Now go, and hurry. There's no time to waste."

Looking more confident than Draco had ever seen a house elf, Biddy nodded once, took a step back from him, and disappeared with a sharp crack.

Draco stared at the place where she had just been, mind reeling from the sudden turn in events.

It wasn't the world's greatest plan, not by any measure. He was putting his entire fate in the hands of a house elf. Strangely, he felt he could trust her. Not just because she was his servant and he'd given an order, but somehow, he felt she actually wanted to help him. She was just a house elf, a pitiful house elf, but maybe she could do it. Maybe... just maybe.

There's a way out.

Light-headed and a bit giddy with the sudden rush of hope, Draco leaned back in his chair comfortably. He didn't even try to hide the broad grin spreading across his face; thoroughly enjoying the complete shift in his emotions, when suddenly he sat bolt upright again, eyes wide. His head snapped around towards the cell. Harry was still curled up as he had been, fast asleep, and had been oblivious to the entire exchange between Draco and Biddy.

Potter! I have to tell Potter!

Draco practically jumped out of his chair, but only took two rapid strides towards the cell before skidding to a halt. He stood there, mouth open, ready to pour out every bit of his plan, but the words died in his throat.

His father had always taught him that giving away your plans was always a risky move. Tell a single other person, and it's no longer a secret. You forfeit your control over everything once you do that. Every so often, perhaps, Lucius was right.

Harry was, to put it mildly, in a volatile state. Unpredictable, contrary, argumentative. Who knew how he might react? He may not believe a word of it, or his anger at Draco might simply warp his perception of it. Either way, he was a man who already thought he had nothing to lose, so what would stop Harry from slipping and giving away some hint of plan to Lucius, or even Voldemort? By telling Harry, Draco would not only risk the plan, but his life too if Voldemort found out.

No, he couldn't tell Harry. This plan was the only chance they had, and to risk that chance, for anything, was suicide.

Suicide.

Draco's stomach jumped uncomfortably back again. The longer Harry's hunger strike continued, the more likely it was that his suicide attempt would succeed. Curled up on the floor of the cell, sound asleep, he looked less like the tenacious, indestructible hero Draco had always despised, and more like a small, vulnerable boy who'd been through too much. It was terrible to consider, and worse to watch; Draco couldn't let it continue if it could possibly be prevented. Yes, he definitely had to tell Harry.

Draco once again opened his mouth to speak, but again, he stopped short.

What if he failed?

This plan was only a chance at escape, and a slim chance at that. As much as the thought scared him, the probability was high that it wouldn't work, and he and Harry would still be stuck here. If Harry had put faith in Draco's escape plan, only for it to fail, he would still be hale and healthy when the time came for Voldemort to take him. It would be his ultimate failure; to let Voldemort kill him. Harry was a person who thrived on hope, and if Draco offered him any hope of escape, that's exactly what would happen.

Draco bit down on his lower lip and stomped his foot once in frustration. He just couldn't do that to Harry; give him false hope, only to betray him once again. It was probably crueler letting him die by Voldemort's hand than letting him starve himself to death.

"I would even rather let you kill me."

As he stood, staring at Harry's sleeping form, those words danced around inside Draco's head. If they never managed to escape, and the suicide attempt failed, Harry might beg that ghastly favour from Draco. If the idea of betraying Harry's trust again was a tough pill to swallow, that would be was immeasurably worse, and Draco knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would never be able to do such a thing.

Don't tell him, or do; bad option or worse; neither choice was particularly appealing, but from what Draco could see, there was only one choice he could really make. It was a huge risk, but until Harry's condition deteriorated too much, it was a risk worth taking. As much as it inexplicably hurt, Harry would just have to go on thinking Draco had betrayed him. Harry couldn't know. Nobody could know.

Draco's shoulders sagged dejectedly as he turned on his heel. He scooped up the book he had abandoned and slumped back into his chair. He felt so terribly alone, but he could live with that. It would be temporary anyway. Soon enough, he'd escape, be inducted as a Death Eater, or die. Although he'd lost track of the exact time, stuck in the dungeons without a clock or the light of day, Draco knew that there were barely more than two weeks left before the eclipse. Sixteen days at most. Now, it was all a matter of waiting.

*************

It was almost a full day before Biddy brought anything more than tea and sandwiches to the dungeons. During that time, the pages describing the Soul's Eclipse potion had been thoroughly burned into Draco's memory, not by careful study, but because he'd been staring at it blankly for so long. He'd also figured out his lunar astrological sign (Moon in Virgo), learned fourteen new hexes that couldn't be traced by the Ministry, and found potions for two potentially useful aphrodisiacs. Not a complete waste of time, he supposed. It was slightly better than staring at the wall, and far, far better than watching Harry.

The boy was still slumped against the far wall of the cell. In hours, Harry had only moved once, to relieve himself. Regardless of the crude nature of the observation, Draco could tell that Harry was becoming dehydrated. Draco found himself tempted again to tell Harry of his potential escape plan, only to become even more undecided about which course of action was more cruel. Finally, he chose to bite his tongue, and remain silent. If Harry could see the whole picture, Draco was sure he'd want it that way.

There were so many reasons why Harry couldn't lose this fight, and Draco understood that. It was his bloody Gryffindor pride. It was his fierce sense of competition; his need to win. It was so that the power Harry possessed, which Voldemort sought so desperately, would die with him. Harry's last gift to the wizard world.

That's one hell of a Christmas gift, and it's only September, Draco thought ruefully.

Still, watching Harry like this didn't make it any easier.

When the first piece of good news, an escape route, finally arrived in the form of a squeaking, squealing house elf, Draco had to remind himself not to let hope run away with him. Biddy had spent hours searching the maze of passages and catacombs beneath the fortress. Although most of them had been blocked with curses, iron bars, and even a few cave-ins, she had finally found one route, nearly a kilometer long, which exited into a natural cave with a safe passage to the woods outside of the fortress wards.

Once beyond the passage, they would be exposed and alone. For that problem, Draco was relying on the artifacts.

The compass didn't locate a direction; it was a Mislocator, magically altered to prevent the person wearing it, and anyone else within about twenty meters, from being located magically. He'd worn it the night he'd captured Harry, and now it was his key to saving both of them. With it, Draco would be able to move through the passages beneath the castle and the wards without being tracked by magic. If someone physically caught up with him, it wouldn't help one bit, but with a head start, Draco hoped it would be enough.

Then, of course, there was the small matter of being marooned in the woods, kilometers from help, kilometers from Hogwarts. That's where the crystal pyramids were needed. They were a sort of hybrid between a Portkey and a homing device. When one side was activated, it brought a person immediately to the location of the other crystal. Because it didn't need to be charmed for a specific location, it couldn't be tracked by the Ministry like a normal Portkey. Very handy, very illegal. As handy as it could be, the magical connection between the two halves would be detected by Voldemort as a breach in the wards, so it couldn't be brought into the fortress. However, if Biddy managed to plant one half at Hogwarts, all Draco would have to do would be to travel beyond the wards, undetected, and use the Portkey from there.

So simple, yet so cunning. Of course it would work. He, Draco Malfoy, had devised the plan.

That is, it would work, if only he had the pieces. Until then, thinking ahead was premature. For now, all Draco had was the word of a house elf that there was a safe passage from the fortress. That wasn't much.

With a sigh of frustration, Draco shut his book and tossed it aside carelessly. At the moment, all he really wanted was to be able to talk to someone. He needed to vent his building frustrations, but also to be able to get something off his chest he'd wanted to say for countless hours. Unfortunately, his only potential audience wasn't particularly conversant. Besides, what Draco wanted to say, as much as he'd like to say it, couldn't be said to anyone. Not even Harry, although the message was for him.

Sparing a glance in Harry's direction, Draco surveyed his captive. Harry was still slouched against the wall, but now his body seemed relaxed and his eyes were closed. Asleep again, mostly likely. With all that he'd been through, it was no wonder. Draco chewed on his lower lip for a moment, indecisively.

"Potter?" he whispered as quietly as he could. Harry didn't respond.

Draco cocked his head. A bit louder, perhaps? "Potter?"

Harry grunted in his sleep, turned and curled up with his side against the wall, and began to snore softly.

Draco pressed his lips together. This might be the only chance he'd get to say it, even if Harry wasn't aware of it. He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

"Potter, you probably don't care a damn about this, but I have to say it, even if you're not actually listening. Maybe if we get out of here alive, I'll tell you for real. And if we don't, it won't matter anyway."

Draco paused and opened one eye. Harry hadn't moved, and he was still snoring. Draco sighed and stared down at his hands, folded in his lap.

"I don't know whether to thank you... or to blast you out of existence before 'Avada-Kedavra-ing' myself. You fucking ruined my big chance. I finally thought I'd got it right, but you fucked it up. But I should expect that. You've always fucked up everything for me.

"Why'd you have to do it? Hell, HOW did you do it? I don't even know what you did, but I'm sure it's your fault. You told me to blame you, so I guess I will.

"You uproot me, then leave me hanging like one of Professor Sprout's bloody Mandrakes. Now I know why they scream so loud."

Draco shook his head in dismay at his incoherent thoughts and rambling. "God Potter, what am I even trying to say? I don't even know what to think anymore. I hate you for this mess you've got me into. I've hated you for every fucking thing you ever did to ruin my life. In the end though, whatever happens to us, I want you to know that for some bloody, unknowable reason, I'm sorry. I really am sorry. And despite everything, even though I don't really understand why, I hope that somehow I get the chance to prove it to you.

"I just don't know if I can."

And Harry kept snoring.

Draco blinked once, and wasn't really surprised to find a warm tear dribbling down his cheek. This time, he didn't bother to wipe it away.

******************

Another day passed, maybe more. Draco couldn't quite tell. Biddy continued to arrive with food, but no news, and no pendant. If it wasn't depressing enough to have a distraught house elf arrive with bad news, watching Harry was worse. He was now spending nearly all his time asleep, or at least, apparently asleep. Every so often, Draco would look closer to see if he was alive. Harry's chest continued to rise and fall steadily, and Draco would quickly look away again.

Lucius visited once, not to see how Draco was faring, but to test his knowledge of the Soul's Eclipse potion. Although Draco had lost track of time, he knew that there had to be about two weeks left.

Father must simply want to be absolutely certain that I won't fail him, Draco thought as he answered all his father's questions. He cited step-by-step procedures, listed ingredients, described the theory, all while maintaining a calm, confident manner, as befitted a Malfoy. He even threw a few well-placed sneers in Harry's direction.

When Lucius seemed satisfied, he left, leaving Draco with nothing but the company of a sleeping prisoner, and the occasional visits of a house elf. Draco had actually begun to look forward to these visits, even though Biddy had arrived each time nearly in tears because she hadn't found the artifacts.

So, when Biddy appeared this time with the usual sharp crack, Draco hardly glanced up from the book in his lap as he gave her a tired smile.

"'Lo Biddy. Did you bring me anything good to eat? Lobster? Truffles? Arsenic?"

An excited, muffled squeal finally made him take a good look at her. Instead of crying, she was hopping from foot to foot, bursting with excitement. In her hand, she carried a small box.

Draco's eyes went wide, and he leaned forward to grasp the box from her.

"You found it," he whispered breathlessly. "Where was it?"

"Master Malfoy, sir, Biddy was looking under the library, sir, when Gabby sees Biddy, and asks Biddy, 'What is you looking for in Master's things, Biddy?' And Biddy is telling her, Master Malfoy sir, that Biddy is looking for the pendant for Master Malfoy. Biddy tells Gabby what the pendant is looking like, and Gabby says to Biddy, 'Gabby is seeing that pendant in the Master's bedroom.'"

At this, Draco sat back and sucked in a sharp breath. "You took something from my father's bedroom?"

Biddy's excitement was almost immediately overshadowed by trembling. "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir. Biddy had to do it, sir, and when Biddy is caught, Biddy will be punished bad, but you is important to Biddy, Master Malfoy, sir. Biddy had to help. Biddy couldn't let Master Malfoy be unhappy, sir."

Draco opened his mouth to say something, only to find his throat had choked up. For an offence such as taking something from his father's bedroom, Draco knew that even he would be physically punished. Biddy, on the other hand, had probably just forfeited her life.

Draco opened the box to reveal the unusual artifact, shaped like nothing more than an old, dingy Muggle compass. It looked so pathetic, so insignificant; the second piece in his three-pronged escape plan.

"Biddy, thank you. Thank you so much. I... I... just be careful, ok? We still need..."

The loud crash of the dungeon door swinging open froze Draco mid-sentence. There was a second sound, a sharp gasp of pain coming from the cell. Draco snapped around, and saw Harry awake, with his hand clutched tightly to his forehead.

Voldemort.

Draco jumped to his feet as he shoved the box deep into his robe pocket. "Biddy!" he whispered hoarsely. "Get out of here! Go!"

Biddy disappeared without another word, only an instant before Voldemort swept around the corner of the corridor with Lucius and Wormtail in tow.

Draco dropped to one knee. "My Lord."

Voldemort drew to a halt just a few feet in front of him. "Malfoy, your father tells me you are well versed in the preparation of the Soul's Eclipse potion."

Draco almost lifted his head in surprise, but managed to keep it down. Why would Voldemort be asking now? The eclipse wouldn't happen for another two weeks. Still, Draco answered neutrally, "Yes, my Lord."

"Very well." The toes of Voldemort's boots turned away.

Draco glanced up cautiously. Lucius caught his eye and signaled with a nod that he could stand. He rose to his feet and saw that Voldemort was now standing in front of the cell, arms folded into his robes, glowering down at Harry disdainfully. Draco braced himself, expecting to see the beginning of another epic confrontation between Voldemort and Harry. His expectations proved false.

Harry, who had before shown his defiance to the Dark Lord in the most violent manner he could manage, hadn't even moved. Instead, he was sitting on the floor, glaring back at Voldemort coldly.

"What's this, Potter?" Voldemort gestured with his hands, taunting. "You're not going to dance for my entertainment today? Have you no fight left in you? How terribly boring for me."

Harry continued to stare for a few seconds, and then spoke very low, very deliberately, although his voice was noticeably thin and dry. "I wouldn't give you the pleasure."

Voldemort took a step closer to the bars, and Harry visibly winced against the pain in his forehead. "Passive protest, is it? It makes no difference. Try to deny me, Potter, and you will fail. You've lost. Dumbledore has lost." He grinned maliciously. From his angle, Draco almost thought he saw fangs glinting in Voldemort's mouth where canine teeth should have been.

"I own your life, Potter," Voldemort continued, trying to goad a reaction from the boy. "Soon, I will possess you even more completely."

At this, Harry smiled. It was a sick, twisted smile laced with malevolence. This was certainly not the reaction Voldemort had been hoping to elicit, and the Dark Lord glared furiously.

Wormtail took a short step forward. "My Lord, I believe the Potter boy has lost his mind."

"It's not his mind I came for," Voldemort hissed. "It's his blood."

Before Draco could blink, Voldemort's wand whipped through the air. Harry was abruptly jerked to his feet. His startled cry of protest was cut short as a thick gag wrapped itself around his mouth once again. He was simultaneously slammed back against the wall, and the shackles hanging there snapped tightly around his wrists and ankles. These shackles, unlike those of the Malfoy dungeons, were spaced so far apart that Harry's petite frame was stretched painfully to its limit, allowing almost no motion.

Voldemort sneered his approval. "Malfoy, open the cell."

Draco waited for his father to move, but when Lucius didn't step forward, Draco realized through his mounting confusion and panic that he was now the person expected to act. As his hands fumbled around the key and lock, his mind raced through circles.

What's going on? He can't be coming for Potter now. It's too soon!

The key caught in the lock and the door slid open. Draco quickly sidestepped, bowing his head as expected, and let the Dark Lord pass. Wormtail followed Voldemort into the cell, but Lucius stood back, indicating with a subtle wave of his hand for Draco to step back with him.

Even while he moved away from the cell, Draco's full attention was on Harry. Although Harry's movement would have been restricted anyway, he wasn't even trying to struggle. He twitched a couple of times from the pain in his forehead, and the muscles at the corners of his jaw were straining as he fought to contain the reaction, but his eyes were steady, dark, and narrowed challengingly.

Voldemort laughed. "Gryffindor bravery, is it still? You never did learn the difference between bravery and foolishness. But then, neither did your parents."

Harry started to bristle, but almost as quickly resumed his calm glaring. If Draco hadn't been fighting his own sense of panic at this unexpected turn of events, he might have been impressed. But at the moment, he was too busy trying to think rationally, telling himself that Voldemort couldn't possibly be coming for Potter already. Draco may have lost track of time, but two weeks couldn't have just disappeared.

Voldemort was merely coming to play with his favourite toy; a captive Harry Potter. Yes, this was just a diversion for the Dark Lord while he waited for it all to end. That was it. Just a diversion.

Draco's line of thought came to an abrupt halt when Wormtail reached into his robe and withdrew Voldemort's ritual dagger. He offered it, laid flat across the palms of his hands, to the Dark Lord. Voldemort's eyes glittered in the torchlight like crystallized blood as he accepted the dagger without even glancing down at Wormtail. His face twisted in perverse pleasure, Voldemort held the tip of the blade to the cuff of Harry's shirt.

Harry visibly stiffened in reaction to the dagger point so close to his skin. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, and his left eyelid was twitching madly in response to the pain from his scar. Still, he didn't break eye contact, didn't try to squirm away, even as the blade sliced cleanly through the fabric of his sleeve up to his elbow.

As Draco watched, he could feel sweat beginning to pool under his own collar. The air in the dungeons was becoming hot and heavy, threatening to suffocate him.

This isn't supposed to be happening! Not now! I'm not ready. How did I not know about this? My god... Harry.

Voldemort made a second swift stroke with his dagger, leaving a deep gash across the thickest part of Harry's forearm. Harry bit down hard on the gag, and a keening cry rose and died in his throat. Blood was already welling up through the gash, oozing rapidly down his arm and staining the remains of his shirt sleeve.

Voldemort bared his teeth triumphantly, then motioned with a wave of his hand. "Wormtail."

The small wizard pulled a small glass phial from a pocket and moved towards Harry, Harry shooting him a hateful and accusing a glare that he usually reserved for Voldemort alone. Unlike Voldemort, Wormtail faltered.

"Be done with it, Wormtail!" Voldemort hissed. "I can not have a servant who is so weak as to nurse a debt such as that. You owe him nothing, and if you make that mistake, you will pay your life to me."

In a frantic rush, Wormtail closed the gap between himself and Harry. He kept his eyes glued to the floor as he clumsily filled the phial with blood, secured it with a stopper, and quickly retreated.

Voldemort's eyes raked over his cowering servant before turning back to Harry.

"Almost a pity," he sniffed. "It would have amused me dearly to watch you struggle, Potter, but it would seem you've wasted your last chance to do so."

He suddenly leaned in close to Harry's face. Harry's eyes squeezed shut and the muscles of his jaw and neck strained. Voldemort laughed quietly in his face, then spoke, barely above a whisper.

"It's over, Potter. You die. Hogwarts falls. All Britain will follow. I won't torture you tonight, Potter. I'd rather leave you conscious to think about how I shall torture your Mudblood friends. You should enjoy that."

With obvious effort, Harry forced his eyes open and stared back at Voldemort, their faces only inches apart. Then, gradually, Harry's grimace of pain faded away, and even through the gag, it was unmistakably replaced by a harsh, strangely confident smile.

In some part of his brain, Draco registered the fact that he was probably seeing the two most powerful wizards in the world facing off. The rest of his brain was fighting desperately to keep himself from falling to the floor. It wouldn't take much; his knees were shaking so badly. Everything was falling away from him so fast. Through the fog around his head, he watched Voldemort stride from the cell with Wormtail close on his heel. He was hardly aware as he automatically obeyed Voldemort's command to secure the cell.

As the key caught in the lock, he glanced up at Harry, and found a pair of green eyes staring back for the first time in days.

The shackles snapped open. Harry didn't fall to the floor, but stood steady, like a madman gladly facing his own firing squad. His arms fell to his sides, the left arm still dripping with a steady stream of blood, but he made no effort to staunch the flow. His face was a mask of cold defiance. There was a maniac glint in his eye, and Draco knew why. Harry still expected to die before the eclipse, like a perverse practical joke on Voldemort. After a few moments, Harry leaned back against the stone wall behind him and slowly slid to the floor, exactly as he had been before Voldemort had arrived.

Not once did he take his eyes off Draco.

"Young Malfoy." Voldemort's voice grated on the back of Draco's neck, and he swiftly spun around and crouched into a low bow.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"I expect you to observe Potter carefully in the upcoming days. He seems quite convinced that he has found a means of escape. A foolish and groundless notion, of course, but take no chances. I am certain you would not permit Potter any such chance, but consider yourself advised."

Draco mentally balked. Did the Dark Lord suspect something? No, he couldn't possibly. Don't slip now, Draco. Calm. Stay calm. "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort paused, and Draco could almost feel those glittery red eyes boring into the top of his head. Voldemort spoke evenly, "I trust you did not overestimate your knowledge when you stated you knew the procedures for creating this potion. I will be sending McNair to relieve you of your guard post in one hour. Be certain that you are ready."

Draco felt his stomach twist into a hard knot. "Yes, my Lord."

"Stand."

Draco jumped to his feet as though stuck by a hot iron, but kept his eyes averted from Voldemort's face. He watched, heart thundering, as Voldemort reached towards his neck. For a terrible instant, Draco feared Voldemort was going to choke him to death, but instead, he extended a single long finger and pressed it against the slowly healing dagger wound at the base of his neck. The touch burned like ice, freezing sharply through the flesh, and a deep shudder raced up his spine. It was all Draco could do to suppress his urge to jerk away.

Voldemort appeared not to notice his reaction. "You did not heal this with magic," he stated.

Draco couldn't tell if Voldemort was pleased with this or not. His voice caught too badly to speak, so he merely nodded.

Voldemort considered this for a moment. Finally, he withdrew his hand. "You bear a mark I gave you with pride, and you do not cower from the pain." He sounded satisfied. "You will bear the Dark Mark well."

Abruptly, Voldemort spun in place and strode towards the exit. Wormtail followed closely, and Lucius was about to fall into step when Draco grasped the edge of his cloak.

Lucius glared at Draco irritably, and threw a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that Voldemort had moved out of earshot down the passage. "What do you want, Draco?" he snarled. "I have several important preparations to make for tonight."

Draco took a steadying breath. "Father, why are we doing this now? Preparing the potion, I mean. The eclipse isn't for another two weeks, is it?"

Lucius opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again, and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling as though utterly fed up with his son. The muscles of his neck flexed as he gritted his teeth. "Draco, you told me you studied this potion thoroughly. Incompetence is absolutely intolerable at this juncture!"

"But father, I did study it!" Draco protested. "I have every page of that potion memorized!"

Lucius took a half step towards Draco, plainly at the end of his patience. "How many times have I told you? When studying the older magic texts, you must read everything. These are not the silly recipe books you use for Potions in school."

Draco felt his jaw slacked. "But... but I..."

"Had you read the foreword, you would know that any potion involving lunar magic is most effective if brewed on the night of the new moon. Such as tonight. Sunset is in two hours."

Lucius scowled at his son, but then his scowl relaxed slightly. "You are fortunate that the Dark Lord did not become aware of your error." He sounded relieved. "It would not bode well for you right now to make any sort of mistake. Do you understand that, Draco?"

So distracted by nerves and racing thoughts, Draco hardly noticed the parental undertones. "Yes, father."

"Good, Draco. Now, I must go attend to the preparations for tonight."

He turned to leave, but Draco caught him again.

"What is it now?" Lucius snapped.

Draco cringed. "Father, the wound on Potter's arm is rather severe. The Dark Lord might be displeased if his prize were to bleed to death before the eclipse. Perhaps I should...?" His voice trailed off.

Lucius's scowl shifted into a satisfied smirk. "Draco, it's good that you are beginning to think ahead, but this time, your concerns are completely unnecessary."

Draco blinked. "Why is that, father?"

"Ah, the Dark Lord was certain that when Potter realized how hopeless his situation was, he'd try to kill himself rather than let himself be killed. Thus, the Dark Lord charmed this cell himself. As long as Potter is inside, he could bleed himself dry, rip out his own heart, or waste away to a mere skeleton, but he would remain quite alive until the Dark Lord is ready for him. The charm will be removed when the time comes."

Lucius looked so utterly pleased with that thought.

If Draco's stomach hadn't already fallen to his feet, he probably would have emptied its meager contents onto his father's boots. Speaking proved impossible again, so he nodded.

"Good. Now see to your preparations while I attend to mine."

With that, he brushed past Draco and strode down the corridor. Draco watched him go. He listened as the sound of footsteps faded, and finally ended with the slamming sound of the dungeon door. He stood there in the oppressive silence, until the stillness was broken by a tiny gasping whimper from the cell. Draco turned to look.

Harry no longer had the look of stubborn defiance Draco had seen when Voldemort left. Instead, he looked like a broken doll that had been thrown against the wall and fallen carelessly to the floor. His right hand was wrapped around the gash on his left arm in a futile attempt to stop the blood that was still oozing steadily from it, welling up between his fingers. The glistening trail of a single tear traced halfway down his cheek, and ended in a smear of blood where Harry must have brushed it away.

But worst of all were his eyes. Under his glasses, Harry's eyes were utterly dead. It had finally happened. Harry Potter had given up.

"BIDDY!" Draco's howl echoed through the dungeons.

With a sharp crack, Biddy appeared at Draco's feet. "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir?"

Draco dropped to his knees and grabbed the startled house elf by the arms. "Biddy, the crystals? Tell me, have you found the crystal pyramids?"

Biddy's eyes widened and she trembled in his grasp. "M-m-master Malfoy, sir... Biddy is searching night and day, but Biddy is not finding the crystals, Master Malfoy, sir."

Draco stared at her desperately for a moment, then suddenly released her and buried his face in his hands.

"Master Malfoy... what is happened, sir?"

After a long, silent moment, Draco pulled his hands away from his face and looked at her bleakly.

This was it. There was no more time for deliberation, and not a moment to hesitate.

He was still in his father's favour. Everything he'd ever wanted was at his fingertips. Power, glory; all for him. If he wanted it, he could have it.

Without the Portkey, the journey to safety would be dangerous at best, deadly at worst, painful and tedious no matter what. Here, if nothing else, was where he could be safe. Here, his father wanted him. Here, he had a future. Here, he had his place, his name, his promise of power.

Draco thought of Lucius, the man who had raised him, had taught him everything, had made him a Malfoy.

Then he thought of Harry.

"Biddy, we're leaving. Pack and shrink provisions for a long journey, and be back here in five minutes."

She nodded somberly, replied, "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir," and vanished.

Draco felt every muscle in his body scream in protest as he straightened his back, stood, and turned to the cell. Harry hadn't moved, but the bloodstain had grown, and his face had turned a ghastly shade of pale.

Draco's hands shook as he turned they key in the lock and slid the door open. He approached Harry slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal, but Harry made no indication that he was going to move. It didn't look as though he could have moved if he wanted to. He seemed to pay no attention as Draco knelt beside him, but continued to stare blankly at the floor in front of him.

Draco surveyed him for a moment, hesitating. Then he reached across and, ever so gently, pried Harry's hand from the wound.

At first, Harry pulled back with a grunt of protest, but he hadn't the strength to fight, and almost immediately stopped struggling. He glanced up, and the deadened gaze wrenched something painful deep in Draco's chest, almost as much as the severity of the gash across Harry's arm.

Draco pulled his wand from his robes and aimed it carefully at the injury. As he was about to mutter the healing spell, Harry whimpered, and Draco stopped short.

Harry's mouth was turned down in a confused frown, and his voice came in a hoarse croak. "But... your father... your father said..."

"Fuck him." Draco's response was firm and resolved, in surprising contrast to the fear and uncertainty that he knew simmered beneath the surface.

Harry's eyes widened momentarily, but quickly fell again, and he looked away.

Draco silently cursed Harry for his stubbornness, but proceeded to exercise his scant medical knowledge. With a few inexpertly placed spells, the blood stopped flowing and the edges of the gash melted together. Draco appraised his work. It wasn't a pretty healing job. It would leave a nasty scar, but it would do until they got to Hogwarts. If they got to Hogwarts.

When Draco finally looked back at Harry's face, the other boy was opening and closing his mouth wordlessly. Draco gave him a weak smile.

"But why... what are you...?"

Draco just shook his head. He slipped his own wand back into his robe, and when he pulled his hand back out, he was gripping Harry's wand. He held out the wand for Harry to take. Harry stared at it stupidly until Draco finally broke the standstill.

"Well, if you don't want it back, I could add it to my collection of wands from famous wizards I've captured. Yours would bring my collection to one."

As though still not entirely sure of what was happening, or if this was all some sort of cruel joke, Harry cautiously reached out and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the wand. As he took it, a hint of life returned to his face. He stared at the wand in amazement; he'd probably thought that he'd never see it again. Draco could see a bit of moisture welling up at the corners of his eyes.

Finally looking away from his wand, Harry licked his dry lips and whispered, "Why are you doing this?"

His eyes locked with Draco's, searching, questioning, hoping beyond hope.

Draco met the gaze and didn't blink.

"You said never to apologize unless I could prove I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Potter. I'm really fucking sorry. And now, I'm going to do my damnedest to prove it to you. We're getting out of here."

In one smooth motion, he stood and looked down at Harry.

First, Harry stared at his wand for another long moment, still held loosely in his hand, before tucking it carefully into his shirt. Then, he looked up at Draco, uncertainty written plainly across his blood-streaked face.

Draco held out his hand to Harry, just as he had five years before. He could feel his throat tighten, and he whispered, "Just hurry, before I change whatever's left of my mind."

Slowly, Harry reached up and clasped Draco's hand.

********

In the ink of the night, I saw you bleed.

Through the thunder, I could hear you scream.

Solid to the air I breathe, open-eyed and half asleep.

Falling softly as the rain, no footsteps ringing in your ears.

Ragged down worn to the skin,

Warrior raging, have no fear.

(~Indigo Girls)