Burn

Chapter 1 - In the Shadows

'She wants to go home

But nobody's home

That's where she lies

Broken inside

There's no place to go

No place to go

To dry her eyes

Broken inside'

-Avril Lavigne 'Nobody's home'

***

'Unus mensa, unus MEMORIA!'

***

Draco Malfoy woke suddenly, unsure as to why. He lay as still as possible, ears straining to identify the sound that had disturbed his rest. He heard nothing save the whistling of the wind and the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth. Deciding all was fine; he rolled over and closed his eyes once more.

But sleep refused to claim him. Turning his mind to matters other then his insomnia, Draco thought of his school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and how he dearly wished he were back there. Only one more week he reminded himself. The summer had seen Draco subjected to physical and mental torture by Lucius Malfoy. His father had not been pleased at his defeat by Harry Potter and his subsequent arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban. Naturally, Lucius and the other captured Death Eaters had escaped from the wizard prison and had returned to their Lord, thirsty for vengeance.

Lucius took part of his anger out upon Draco, forcing him to do manual labour or enslaving him in the library making him learn countless potions and hexes, all the while insulting Draco's intelligence. Damn that Hermione Granger, thought Draco. Lucius would constantly remind Draco that yet again a Mudblood had bested him. How dare he bring such an abomination upon the Malfoy family? Draco wisely did not mention that in all of Lucius' years at Hogwarts Lily Evans always came out top of the class. Instead, he took his 'punishment' silently and graciously.

Despite the names he bestowed upon Hermione and all the speeches he had made in testament, Draco did not think less of the bushy haired witch for her heritage. If anything, he admired her dedication for working and believing in something she would have grown up thinking only existed in fairytales and books: magic.

But he'd rather cut off his right hand than admit to such a thing in public.

Thinking of Hermione brought his thoughts to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Harry's refusal of Draco's friendship still stung, the memory pushed deep into Draco's mind. Since then Draco had vowed to hate Potter on principle, for no one but those worthy are ever offered the hand of a Malfoy. It is not a thing to be rejected lightly. Also, how could Potter choose a Weasley over him? It was unheard of! To make things worse Potter beat him time and time again on the Quidditch field, flying with such grace on a broom; making Draco seem like an inept child next to him. Draco had finally managed to beat that particular demon when Potter had been issued a Quidditch ban to last his remaining schooling years last year.

Draco tossed and turned but succeeded only in waking up further. With a sigh of defeat, he removed his wand from under his pillow, slipped silently out of bed, summoned his dressing gown and slippers and left his room. This was becoming a somewhat regular occurrence and he didn't care for it. A Malfoy rarely cared for anything that disturbed their way of life.

Draco padded softly down the candle lit hallway, down three flights of stairs and was making his way out of the front door into the Malfoy gardens when he heard it: an unearthly pain-filled shriek originating from the slightly sinister underground portion of the estate. Draco stiffened, hand on the doorknob as he fought an internal war. Should he ignore it and pretend he never heard a thing or should he investigate and risk getting caught? Acting ignorantly came easy to Draco; he had been fooling his father for years - Lucius remained convinced that his perfect heir had no knowledge of the shadier side of being the leader of the Death Eaters and that his son only knew what he was told.

Innate curiosity won out and so Draco turned and walked in the direction of the library, habit telling him where to step to avoid the creaking floorboards.

"One of these days, Draco dear-boy, curiosity is definitely going to kill the cat!" he muttered to himself even as he smirked. 'Muggles', he thought, 'who else would come up with such idiotic phrases?'

Upon reaching the library, Draco found the room in a very odd state - as if he and Potter had just gone a few rounds of fisticuffs in there. I was not the kind of state you would expect of the Malfoy Family Library. Shrugging it off, he strode to the large mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on the south facing wall and pulled upon a book entitled 'Macbeth' by some old dead Muggle called William Shakespeare. Apparently Lucius found it amusing to use a Muggle contraption to guard the Malfoy dungeons, altered slightly of course. Only those of Malfoy blood could open the door, for all others the book would be like any other.

The bookshelf swung open and Draco snorted softly to himself. He had never been to this portion of the house before but having watched many Muggle movies (unbeknownst to Lucius of course) he could imagine what came next. 'Lumos' he intoned softly, accurately guessing that the dungeon passages were damp and dark. The tip of his wand glowed softly and Draco made his way down the slightly sloping corridors, ears trained hard for any sound. His hearing became amplified, almost superhuman like - he could hear the rustle of small creatures making their way through the shadows, the slight 'drip drip' of a leaky pipe. Shaking his head in bemusement at the very typical Muggle horror movie scene he was aware he was in, he continued his way down the main corridor searching for clues to tell him in which direction he should head.

He could hear chanting that became louder as he descended, but couldn't make out the words clearly. Draco began to get a rather sick feeling, and almost turned around to go back the way he came when he heard the scream again, this time filled with even more agony then the previous, if such a thing were possible. Something inside Draco twisted as he realised exactly who was screaming - Narcissa. What was Lucius doing to his mother? He picked up his pace and followed the chanting to the source.

As he drew closer, Draco realised that Narcissa and Lucius were not the only ones in the dungeon; the chanting was obviously being performed by a group of people. It sounded very much like 'unus causa', which made very little sense to Draco. A feeling not unlike fear began to pool in his stomach, his body shivering involuntarily. Light from the room in use filtered into the musty corridor so Draco ended his own spell with a soft Nox, placed his wand in his pocket and crept closer to the doorway. He peered into the room with fearful curiously.

Oh. My God. Draco had the good sense to cover his mouth to prevent the gasp (and bile) lodged in his throat from escaping at the sight that beheld him. The room, circular in shape and lit by oil torches in the walls, had one large stone table in its centre. Standing around the edge of the room were wizards in jet-black cloaks and wearing macabre masks - Death Eaters no doubt. They were the source of the chanting, swaying slightly from side to side as they did so. Draco could see Lucius at the head of the table, his mask lying negligently on the floor, a terrible twisted smirk gracing his aristocratic face. His robe was open, exposing his naked form.

But the worst sight of all was Narcissa: naked, bound and bleeding she lay on her back on the table, her arms and legs splayed open. Blood covered her pale white skin, both from wounds inflicted upon her and wounds inflicted upon herself by her fruitless efforts to escape. The heels of her feet were a livid red from rubbing against stone, her wrists chafed with rope burn. Astride Narcissa sat the Dark Lord himself, clothed only in an open robe, hood thrown back revealing his hairless head, sunken red eyes and a terrifying smirk that made Lucius' look like child play. He thrust madly into the bound form beneath him, all the while maintaining unblinking eye contact with Lucius. Narcissa, beyond pain now, could do no more then moan weakly as she was violated, her head rolling from side to side, her eyes rolling back.

'Mother!' Draco screamed in his head. What were they doing to his mother? Knowing he should run now before he was seen, Draco could only whimper low in his throat, rooted to the spot in fear.

Voldemort's rocking motions sped up slightly as he approached his peak, the chanting of the Death Eaters increasing in volume as they sensed this. As Voldemort thrust one final time, his eyes still boring into Lucius's, Narcissa let out an unearthly shriek, her head snapping back in a very painful manner against the stone of the table and then she was still. Abruptly the dungeon room was plunged into silence as all motion and chanting ceased.

Slowly, Voldemort climbed down from the table, retrieved his wand from within the folds of his robe and intoned 'imitari! Unus mensa, unus memoria, IMITARI!' whilst passing his wand over Narcissa's prone body. The chanting and swaying began again, and suddenly it was too much for Draco to bear. Marshalling his legs into action, he turned and fled the dungeons, desperately trying not to heave his stomach contents. Back in the library he paused his full-tilt run to carefully close the dungeon door. Making sure nothing else was amiss (not that it would have been noticed with the state of the library being what it was) he ran to his bedroom and then through to the adjoining bathroom where he finally released his evening meal.

Don't cry, don't cry, come on Malfoy, you can deal with this. Weakly, Draco rested his head on the mirror above the sink, waiting for the rest of the nausea to pass. Never before had he witnessed a scene so terrible, so damning, so... so... so inhumane. Draco knew his father wasn't a prince among men, but he never thought him capable of such evil as he had just witnessed. The look in Lucius's eyes as the Dark Lord broke Narcissa could only be described as evil and even then the description fell short. And Narcissa...Draco dry retched painfully once more. Narcissa had never been the world's perfect mother but she had never harmed Draco in any way, sometimes even helping him. For example, she would slip Draco food when he was locked in his room without sustenance as punishment served by Lucius for various transgressions.

Was she dead? Draco wondered. He hoped not, but he knew there was no way he was going to stay in the Manor any longer to find out. He would be of no use to her anyway, underage duelling hexes and curses would not get him very far against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Pushing himself upright, Draco worked his way back into the bedroom, his legs slowly regaining their strength. He would have to return to Hogwarts, put his life in the hands of the one person above all he had been brought up to mistrust - Albus Dumbledore.

Pulling out his wand, he summoned his Hogwarts trunk and began piling his textbooks, clothes and other necessities within it. He didn't know how long he had but he knew haste was the order of the day. Satisfied he had gathered all he could and knowing full well that returning to his childhood home was not an option, he hurriedly changed his clothes. Gathering up some fruit from the basket on his desk that Narcissa had sent to him the night previously, he donned his travel cloak and grabbed his Nimbus 2000 from its perch in the corner by the window. Intoning Reducio softly, he shrank his trunk down, placed it in his pocket and with one last glance he left the room. Thank God the wards surrounding the Manor made his use of magic while out of school undetectable by The Ministry

Quietly, Draco made his way to the entrance hall of the Manor, pulled up his hood to cover his silver-blond locks, and let himself out of the front door into the waiting night. Flooing to Hogsmeade was out of the question, Lucius kept the Floo powder locked up after an incident in Draco's childhood when he had taken some powder and Flooed to Knockturn Alley against Lucius's wishes. Nor was he able to Apparate yet. The only option Draco had was to pick his way across the impressive Malfoy gardens and then fly to Hogwarts from the servants' gate. Flying directly from the Manor was also out of the question, Draco didn't know the exact logistics, but Malfoy Manor was surrounded by some sort of magical bubble due to the extra high strength wards so flying into them would result only in him rebounding back in a Very Painful Manner.

Draco slowly made his way down the front steps outside the impressive front door of the Manor and crept around the house, keeping in the shadows to avoid detection just in case someone happened to be looking out of a window. The night was deathly silent. Not a cricket chirped, and no moonlight permeated the blanket of death that seemed to envelop Draco: the new moon had been born only hours before. There seemed a foul touch to the air, the mood echoing the bleakness and despair settling heavily in Draco's heart.

The servants' gate was much easier to reach than the main gate, as not many people knew of its existence and so fewer obstacles were placed along the path leading to it. Darting from shadow to shadow, Draco kept low to the ground, ears strained to make sure no one was following. He made his way past the wildflower garden then picked his path through the rose bushes - rather go through the rose bushes then along the path lined with Venomous Tentacula's, Draco preferred his legs without spikes imbedded within them thankyouverymuch. He avoided the poisonous mushroom patch and made his way through the Shifting Forest. This was the hardest part, as the trees moved location every now and then and Draco did not wish to risk using his wand as a torch as this would act as a homing beacon...both in the physical and magical sense. By the time Lucius finally noticed that Draco was no longer in the Manor, a simple magical tracing spell would locate the last place Draco had used his wand. Therefore, it was not safe to use his wand until he reached Hogwarts, where his magical signature could not be detected at all.

Finally, Draco reached the wrought iron gate, rusty and no doubt squeaky from years of disuse. The servants' gate was merely a prop; house elves obviously had no need for such constructions. Cringing slightly, Draco pulled his sleeve over his hand and gingerly drew back the seven deadbolts one by one. He pulled the gate inward using his covered hand and wincing as a squeak permeated the otherwise silent night. Stepping outside of the Manor, Draco closed the gate behind him and sighed with relief. Brushing away the rust flakes coating his sleeve with a grimace he prayed that no one noticed the fact that the gate was unlocked until after he was long gone. Mounting his broom, Draco took off into the night.

*****

Elsewhere...

*****

Harry Potter's summer holidays had not fared any better. Forced to re-decorate the Dursley family home with very little equipment and even less help whilst the Dursleys enjoyed the summer sunshine, Harry bore impressive scars from his labour.

Both physically and mentally.

Why hadn't the Weasleys or any of the Order come to fetch him yet? They had promised him and they'd let him down.

Again.

Mrs Weasley had said, 'we'll have you away from there as soon as we can'.

Ron had agreed and told him that he'd see him soon. Hermione had added, 'Really soon. Promise.'

So where were they? It was a repeat of the previous summer, but infinitely worse as this year, he had no Sirius to correspond with.

Harry's heart ached just thinking about it. It wasn't like he had met with Sirius on a regular basis, he had never known when he was going to see him next - but now it was so final. Sirius was gone. Victim of Voldemort (if indirectly), just like Harry's parents before him. Oddly, it felt like as though Harry's last link with his Dad had been taken away from him, even though the last true Marauder still lived: Remus Lupin. Over the summer, Harry had grown closer to his old professor, both of them grieving the loss of their friend. Owling as frequently as possible, Harry had kept Remus apprised of his summer and whilst Remus had replied, he had included as little news about the Order as possible, frustratingly enough. With each owl, Harry asked when he was due to be taken away from this hell-hole to Grimmauld Place. It was his now after all, as Sirius had left two-thirds of his estate to Harry and the other third to Remus. With every reply Remus had said soon.

But it was now a week before the end of the holidays and soon had yet to arrive.

Harry tossed on his narrow bed, trying to ignore the pounding in his head that seemed to have taken permanent residence ever since that fatal day at the Ministry. The headache, whilst ever present, fluctuated from tolerable to blinding. Even though he had been practicing his Occlumens dutifully every night, Harry fancied he could actually hear Voldemort from time to time. Laughing, chanting, moaning. Fortunately, he hadn't experienced any new visions. Yet.

But on this night, his headache was the worst yet. Giving up all pretence of sleep and knowing he would pay for it in the morning, Harry got up, grabbed his glasses from his nightstand and sat on the window seat with a book of Dudley's that he hadn't claimed when Harry had moved into his second bedroom. Due to the new moon, there was very little natural light filtering in through the open window so Harry lit a small magical candle (charmed to never run out of wax) with a Muggle cigarette lighter and settled down to read. This had become a regular occurrence since the start of the holidays. On the nights when Harry suffered from insomnia he sat with a book until he inevitably fell asleep in a slouched position on the window seat, his face firmly planted between the pages of the book he was reading. He had finished reading all of his fifth year textbooks in this manner (he had yet to make the trip to Diagon Alley for new ones), his Quidditch through the Ages countless times and even Hogwarts: A History. Having run out of magical books Harry had turned to the bulging bookshelf gracing one wall of his room, full of books Dudley received as presents but had never read.

On this night, Harry had selected James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl, an author he had rather liked as a child. He had never read this particular story before, however.

Until he was four years old, James Henry Trotter had a happy life.

'Well, good for James,' muttered Harry. 'I got until I was eighteen months.'

He lived peacefully with his mother and father in a beautiful house by the sea. There were always plenty of other children for him to play with, and there was the sandy beach for him to run about on, and the ocean to paddle in. It was a perfect life for a small boy.

'Yeah, and I lived at Godric's Hollow, every wizard's ideal holiday retreat. There was my perfect life.' Harry stated.

Then, one day, James's mother and father went to London to do some shopping, and there a terrible thing happened. Both of them suddenly got eaten up (in full daylight, mind you, on a crowded street) by an enormous angry rhinoceros which had escaped from the London Zoo.

'Gutted. Well, at least his parents death sounded much more cool then they died in a horrible car crash now shut up and cook the breakfast.' Harry mimicked his Aunt Petunia high-pitched voice. His headache was making him irritable, and the fact that he was tired after a hard day's work wasn't helping.

Now this, as you can imagine, was a rather nasty experience for two such gentle parents.

'I beat you there, buster, my parents had it worse.'

But in the long run it was far nastier for James then it was for them.

Fervent nod. 'That I can agree with.'

Their troubles were all over in a jiffy. They were dead and gone in thirty-five seconds flat. Poor James, on the other hand, was still very much alive, and all at once found himself alone and frightened in a vast unfriendly world.

'This is a kids book? For real? It's like a strange parallel of my life...' Harry trailed off and continued to read, massaging his temples with one hand.

The lovely house by the seaside had to be sold immediately, and the little boy, carrying nothing but a small suitcase containing a pair of pyjamas and a toothbrush, was sent to live with his two aunts.

'At least you got a suitcase, from what I know I got a blanket and a letter.' Harry informed James. The pain in his head was increasing; if it kept getting worse reading would be out of the question.

Their names were Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, -

*snort*

-and I am sorry to say that they were both really horrible people. They were selfish and lazy and cruel-

'Sounds familiar'

-and right from the beginning they started beating poor James for no reason at all. They never-

Harry stopped reading for a moment; his eyes had begun to throb behind his glasses. Putting the book down on the windowsill (propped open to mark his position), Harry removed his glasses, placed them on top of the book and held the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. All of a sudden, an intense burning in his head, centred at his scar, caused Harry to arch his back and open his mouth in a silent scream. Oh God, it was like being torn in two. Harry whimpered low in his throat but then the pain became, mercifully, too much for his body to handle and he slumped forward in a dead faint.