Chapter Text
Day: 1
It was seven in the morning on the fifth of April, and Draco awoke with a start, a soft metallic, clinking sound jolting him from his sleep.
For a moment he was frozen in place, panting and staring blindly upwards. Slowly, gradually, his vision began to clear, and he was greeted not with the green velvet of his four poster bed at Hogwarts, but instead the tall, arching ceilings of his bedroom in the Manor. Recognition made him relax, but recognition made him tense.
Waking suddenly wasn’t unusual for him, not anymore, and especially not at home where everything that was once warm and safe was now cold and dangerous, with frightening strangers coming and going at all hours of the day and his mad aunt and his increasingly unstable father breathing down his neck. He’d only been home from Hogwarts a few days, and the initial relief had already burnt away.
This wasn’t home anymore.
He exhaled and willed his muscles to unwind. For his shoulders to sink and his chest to loosen.
He tensed again when he remembered what had woken him: the sound of something metallic jingling outside his bedroom door.
Less the sound of Hagrid striding through the halls of Hogwarts with his enormous iron ring of keys, and more the subtle, sliding and snicking of a clever lock being turned. And then footsteps. Muffled by the carpet outside Draco’s door, the gait faintly loping. A limp.
Draco swallowed, his ears popping, and strained to hear - listening for the steps. But there was nothing. Whoever it was had gone.
Once upon a time he’d have wondered who was stalking about outside his room. But not now. He reminded himself again: this wasn’t home anymore.
He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He pushed himself out of bed and headed for his bathroom.
He stood in the shower, his eyes shut, his head bowed, for as long as he could tolerate the scorching water pouring over the back of his neck. Then he turned the shower as cold as it would go. The shock of it helped sometimes. It gave him a few minutes respite where he was able to breathe without snatching for each individual breath. It stopped his stomach from clenching. For a moment at least. But the moment had to end.
He hesitated at his bedroom door; his fingertips frozen on the doorknob. Anxious dread turned him to stone. What if the owner of the footsteps was still outside his door? Rodolphus or Rabastan or Wormtail or some other interloper in the manor.
School had been… awful, but home? Home was almost as bad. School had the Carrows, but home had his aunt, whose idea of bonding was to have him follow her around while she berated goblins at Gringotts and tormented the Mudblood beggars in Diagon Alley or tortured people in the drawing room.
His mother had been furious when she found out what her sister had been up to, though Draco hadn’t been sure if it was out of concern for him, or because of the stains on the hardwood floor.
He had proven a disappointment to his aunt though, he knew. He wasn’t what she had thought he might be. Hadn’t been, and still wasn’t, no matter how the Carrows had tried to beat it into him. He was too soft. He didn’t think that he wanted to be like her though. Not really. He didn’t think he was capable of it.
He closed his eyes tightly. He hoped he wasn’t.
Enough.
He opened the door.
Walking through the hallway in the direction of the dining room, Draco instinctively glanced to his left where there was a short corridor ending in an enormous stained-glass window that depicted two peacocks intertwined, one as white as snow, the other bright and vibrant. He did a double take.
There was a shimmer in the air. Dust, he realised quickly, then his eyes found the carpet - he grimaced.
He knew things had been difficult on all of them, but surely the house-elves hadn’t been avoiding cleaning this corridor the way they’d avoided the drawing room and the cellar. He shook his head and continued, his hands clenched into fists by his sides as he headed first to the kitchen, and then to the dining room. His fists relaxed as he found his mother and father waiting for him.
His father, who picked listlessly at his breakfast, and his mother, who gave him a small smile.
“Good morning, little dragon,” she commented softly.
He tried to return her smile. He took the seat to her left and leant into the hand she pressed into the middle of his back. When they’d eaten (not that his father had much), Draco collected the small tray on the side table (two bowls of porridge - all that would be delivered until the evening) and carried it down to the cellars.
Wand raised (though what was the point - he wasn’t planning on using it), he unlocked the cellar door, pushed the tray forwards (though now it contained the two apples and two bananas he had taken from the kitchen) and locked it again.
Ollivander remained concealed somewhere in the shadows, but Lovegood, gaunt and pale, stepped forwards and said softly, “Thank you,”
Draco said nothing in return. He wondered if she knew that he was sneaking them extra food. She must do. He doubted Wormtail had been doing so. It was the only reason Draco hadn’t protested taking over the role of caretaker while he was here at home. It seemed like his only opportunity to do something good anymore.
He would have preferred to spend the day in his room, safe and alone, but he missed his mother, and so instead he spent the afternoon with her in the drawing room, playing chess beside the fire and rolling his eyes good naturally when she inevitably beat him - she was much better at the game and likely always would be.
They were joined after super by his father; Lucius had lingered briefly in the doorway, talking lowly with a bored looking Bellatrix. Draco had been frightened for a moment that she would join them as well, but all she did was wiggle her fingers in their direction and disappear elsewhere in the house.
His father briefly touched his fingers first to Narcissa’s cheek, and then to Draco’s, before taking a seat by the fire. His mother’s smile was faintly strained as she beckoned to him, calling him to sit at his father’s side. While Narcissa sewed and Draco read, his father stared blankly into the flames.
Their continued fall from grace had been a blow to him. First Azkaban, then Draco’s success and immediate failure, then the seizure of his wand. He was hunting for a way back to greatness, but Draco knew that short of Harry Potter himself falling into their lap, there was no way back for them.
The idea of it made him feel faintly sick though - the idea of catching Potter and handing him over to the Dark Lord. Sick, because he was a coward, he told himself firmly. He had no stomach for blood or violence. Yes. That was the only reason he couldn’t stand the idea of them turning over Potter.
And then, as if the Gods themselves had heard him, the wards let out a sonorous gong. His father’s chin lifted from his fist, and his eyes snapped to Narcissa.
Narcissa frowned lightly and tucked her sewing away. She left with a hand on Draco’s shoulder, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. His father stared after her intently, while Draco stared into the flame. He knew better than to treat such an interruption with anything but trepidation: it couldn’t mean anything good.
He was proven immediately right.
“They say they’ve got Potter,” his mother said coldly, leading a gang of bedraggled and stinking snatchers forwards; between them, and bound in a circle, their prisoners, four wizards and a goblin, followed unwillingly, “Draco - come here,”
The prisoners were pushed to their knees (the goblin toppled over awkwardly and was yanked up again by the scruff of his neck) beneath the drawing room’s great chandelier, and Draco reluctantly climbed to his feet.
Draco didn’t know what had been done to him, but even with his swollen, distorted features, his wild shoulder length hair, and the thick stubble about his jaw, Draco recognised Harry Potter in front of him immediately. Draco’s eyes skirted Potter frantically, terror bubbling up in his gut as if he would give away that he knew who this was without even meaning to. He inched nervously back, away from Greyback, creeping towards his mother’s side.
Why? Why did Potter have to get himself captured and brought to his house?!
His father was suddenly at his shoulder, his eyes brighter than they had been in months and fixed on Potter’s twisted features, “Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”
Draco shuffled back further, “I can’t- I can’t be sure,” he muttered.
His escape was halted by his father’s hands on his shoulders, “But look at him carefully - look!” He was pushed forwards again, “Draco - if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven!”
“Now - we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him I hope, Mr Malfoy,” Greyback said with a slight growl in his voice.
Two years ago, his father would have been spitting poison and curses at such blatant disrespect under his own roof. Now, desperate and brought low, he said impatiently, “Of course not, of course not,” his father crouched down and peered more closely at Potter’s face, “What did you do to him? How did he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us,” a different snatcher, this one with a glittering sword in his hands.
“Looks more like a stinging jinx to me,” Lucius mused, his eyes flicking to Potter’s forehead; he squinted, “There’s something there,” he whispered under his breath, “It could be a scar - stretched tight. Draco, come here, look properly!” Lucius reached back, caught his wrist, and encouraged him down into a crouch at his side; he was so close to Potter that even in the darkness, he was able to see the other’s familiar green eyes; green, and frightened, “What do you think?”
Draco swallowed. He could hear Potter breathing; hear its frantic almost rasping quality. His eyes flicked to the prisoners he had been bound to and recognised three of them immediately; Weasley, Granger, and Thomas. He looked back into Potter’s eyes. Frightened yes, but there was something hard there too.
Draco licked his top lip, and rocked back onto his heels, “I don’t know,”
His attempt to back away was halted by his father’s hand on his shoulder, its grip claw-like and unforgiving, “Look again, Draco,” Lucius hissed in his ear, pulling him closer, “Look again,”
Fear spiked in Draco’s gut. He looked into green eyes, and this time he saw resignation. Potter knew that his courage had failed even before Draco did.
His father stared at him intently, his grey eyes piercing to the heart of him.
Draco took a shuddering breath, and whispered, “It’s him,”
Triumph flashed in his father’s eyes, and the grip on Draco’s shoulder was released as his father stood abruptly, “Take the others to the cellars!” He said fervently, “We must call him!”
Draco stayed where he was though, pinned in place by bright green eyes and the naked fear that filled them.
Draco almost said sorry, but what good would sorry do?
And then the snatchers were reaching for their prisoners and their bonds to separate them from Potter and Draco found himself forced back. His mother caught him by his shoulders and pulled him into her.
“Well done, little dragon,” she whispered into his ear, stroking the side of his head.
Draco watched, his hands trembling as the others were dragged away - Weasley and Thomas were roaring in fear and rage, while Granger screamed Potter’s name desperately. Only the goblin with them was silent.
Potter tried to turn to look their way, but Greyback caught his hair and twisted him forwards so that Draco had no choice but to stare into his face. He was panting now, his chest heaving furiously with his every breath - and there it was again. Draco’s impulse to apologise. He hadn’t apologised to Potter even once in all the time he’d known him, and here he was wanting to apologise twice at a time when apologies meant nothing.
Potter was jostled by Greyback, “Was’ this?” He growled curiously, reaching about Potter’s neck; Potter grunted as a bag was tugged violently against his throat, Greyback making no effort to lift it above Potter’s head and choosing instead to simply yank at it until it came free.
“Be careful,” Narcissa snapped, “The Dark Lord wants him for himself,”
Greyback ignored her though, his brow furrowed as he tugged at the mouth of the bag but found it impossible to open it any more than a hole big enough to admit only his little finger, “Why won’t it open?” He muttered, irritated, struggling with it.
“What’s this Cissy?”
Draco stiffened at his aunt’s deep rasping voice; she stalked forwards with a curious tilt of her head.
“Potter, Bellatrix,” Lucius cried triumphantly, rolling up his sleeve, “I’m about to call him!” He declared.
Bellatrix’s eyes flashed with a sudden keen interest, “Can it really be him?” She whispered, creeping closer.
“Draco confirmed it,” Narcissa said, a hint of pride in her voice, her hand squeezing Draco’s shoulder.
Draco hated it. Pride for killing Potter, for Potter would surely die. Potter knew it too; Draco could see it in the fear in his eyes, and the way he began to struggle in earnest against his bonds.
“Stop it,” Greyback said gruffly; he lashed out, kicking Potter in the back and knocking him down.
“You’re sure that it’s him, Lucius,” Bellatrix said softly, crouching down and tilting her head to one side to better see Potter’s swollen features.
“We’re certain,” his father said firmly.
Bellatrix gave a single nod; her mouth spread into a mad grin, “Call him,” she said softly.
His father pressed a single finger to the mark on his forearm. Potter’s reaction was instantaneous; on the floor, he cringed as if a brand had been pressed against the side of his neck, grimacing and groaning and writhing against his bonds.
“My, my… how handsomely he shall reward us,” Bellatrix said in a whisper.
“We’re the ones who found him!” Greyback barked, still wrestling with the bag in his hands and wrenching at its neck in his attempt to open it, “Don’t you forget it! Mr Malfoy said so himself!” With a frustrated shout, Greyback finally gave up with the bag and tossed it down to the floor.
Bellatrix’s eyes flashed, and she stood slowly until she was towering over Potter who was still twitching and gasping on the ground, “You best mind how you speak to me, dog,” she said dangerously, “Under other less joyous circumstance, I’d have your tongue out your mouth for such insolence,”
Greyback bared his teeth but was wise enough to stay silent - or perhaps rather, anything he had to say was interrupted by the drawing room door creaking open again, and Wormtail joining them.
“I felt my mark,” he simpered, shuffling forwards nervously, “What has happen-?” He froze at the sound of Potter hissing in pain on the floor.
What was wrong with him? Draco had heard that his scar hurt in response to the Dark Lord - did he know that he was coming? Was that why he was in pain?
“Potter, Wormtail,” Lucius cried triumphantly; Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen his father address the man with anything more than a sneer before, “I’d have thought you might recognise him - isn’t he meant to be the spitting image of your old friend? Though admittedly his face isn’t at its best at the moment,”
“Yes… what did happen to him?” Bellatrix said curiously; she grabbed Potter by the hair and wrenched him up by it so that she could see his face more clearly. Potter yelped and hissed in pain; his face scrunched up into a grimace.
“They brought him in this condition,” his mother said cooly, nodding towards the snatchers that had rejoined them; they looked as if they couldn’t quite decide whether or not they should be excited or terrified by the Dark Lord’s imminent arrival.
“Told you, didn’ I,” the one holding the sword said gruffly, “It wasn’ us. Reckon they was tryin’a disguise him in a pinch,”
Bellatrix giggled madly and squeezed Potter’s cheek harshly; she was so close to him, that as she spoke, their lips almost brushed against one another in a kiss, “You’re going to be seeing dear cousin Sirius soon enough, baby Potter. You’ll say hello to him for me, won’t you? Tell him that his cousins miss him,”
Potter bared his teeth, and without even a moment’s hesitation, spat in her face; Draco’s heart sank in his chest.
Bellatrix hissed in rage and backhanded him, “Count yourself lucky that the Dark Lord wants you for himself!” she let go of his hair, and he collapsed back down to the floor, “If he didn’t, you and I would be having some fun in the cellars together for that insult,” she straightened reluctantly and glanced towards the snatchers; she froze, “What’s that?” She said in a frightened whispered, “That… there in your hand,” she stepped past Potter and advanced on the increasingly nervous snatcher, “WHAT IS THAT?!” She shrieked suddenly.
“We found it!” The snatcher said defensively, holding it close to him, “I reckon its mine now,”
“Found it wear?!” She demanded.
“They had it on them,” the snatcher nodded towards a panting Potter.
Bellatrix, who had been cool and pleased, turned frantic and frightened, “He’s going to kill us - oh Gods he’s going to kill us all!” She turned to Narcissa, “Cissy - we must hide it! He can’t know - he can’t know that it’s here!”
“Hey now!” The snatcher said, backing away, “It’s mine! Keep your mitts off it, woman!”
Bellatrix snarled and drew her wand back, but before she could cry out a curse, the gong of the wards sounded again. She froze. They had run out of time.
Bellatrix shuddered, her eyes wide and frightened; she reached out a hand to the snatcher, “Give it to me,” she demanded, “Give it to me if you want to live,” she repeated more harshly when the snatcher hesitated. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to protest, but the sound of the manor’s doors opening in the distance had him reluctantly handing it over, “Now get out,” she growled, her spittle spraying over his face, “Not you,” she said sharply, stopping Greyback before he could turn away, “You stay here,” the other snatchers didn’t need to be told twice however, and they scrambled to escape as quickly as they could. Bellatrix worked the weapon anxiously between her hands, rocking from side to side. The sound of banging beneath their feat had Bellatrix snapping, “Wormtail! Check on our guests!”
The man scarpered, as disinclined to see the Dark Lord as Draco was.
Draco’s hand trembled and his mother pulled him into her side. He had spent hours in the Dark Lord’s company, but that didn’t make him any less terrified of the man. His mother squeezed his hand, then released him, but she didn’t step away as the drawing room doors swung open yet again.
The Dark Lord stood silently in the doorway for a moment, appraising the room in front of him through cool eyes, his expression blank. Draco could feel his rage though, the pressure of it making it feel as if they had been transported to the bottom of the ocean. Draco’s ears popped and his knees threatened to buckle with the weight of it.
“My Lord,” Bellatrix simpered, bowing low, the sword held close to her bosom, “My Lord,” she stepped aside to reveal Potter behind her, lying on his side on the drawing room floor, his back to the Dark Lord, “My Lord - we have captured your enemy, Harry Potter,”
Greyback shifted but made no sound of protest.
The Dark Lord paused in his inspection of the room, his eyes snapping to the huddled figure of Potter on the ground. Draco saw Potter close his eyes. Saw his shoulders slump. All traces of fear left him, and all that was left was acceptance.
The Dark Lord crept closer, his snake following at his heels and tasting the air curiously, “Have you now?” He said softly, his voice like ice water pouring into Draco’s ear, leaving him shuddering, “Now… this is indeed a fortuitous turn of events,” he whispered, though he may as well have been shouting for how clearly his voice penetrated the air. He stalked around Potter slowly, circling like a predator waiting to pounce, until he could see his face. Draco watched, his heart in his throat, as Potter stared up at him, his eyes fierce and defiant. How could he be so unafraid? So brave in the face of death?
Draco saw the Dark Lord’s cheek twitch into a slow grin, “Harry Potter - we meet again,” he said softly, “As I always knew we would,”
Potter glared at him and said harshly, “Tom,”
The Dark Lord let out a bark of laughter, “Defiant right to the end, Harry. Good man, good man. Dumbledore would be proud of you, I’m sure,”
Potter said nothing.
The Dark Lord chuckled, and turned to his aunt, “How did you come to find dear Harry, Bellatrix?”
“That would be me, my Lord,” Greyback said, suddenly weak and nervous, “We found him and his friends camping in the woods,”
“And you… what? Just stumbled across him, did you?” The Dark Lord said sounding amused, almost incredulous.
“No, my Lord,” Greyback bowed, “He used your name,”
The Dark Lord chuckled and shook his head, considering Potter at his feet, “Did you not know, Harry? That I had placed a taboo upon my name? A shame. Imagine how much longer you might have run from me without it,” again, Potter said nothing, “And his friends?” Said the Dark Lord, still smiling in amusement.
“In the cellars, my Lord,” Lucius simpered.
The Dark Lord glanced at him, and then to Bellatrix, and finally, he noticed the sword held in her hands. He stilled, his eyes narrowing.
Bellatrix shuddered, and began to stutter as she answered the question he was yet to ask, “It was found with them, my Lord,”
“That sword is meant to be safe inside of your vault, Bellatrix,” he said dangerously, the panting Potter at his feet suddenly forgotten.
“It is- was- should be in my vault,” she scrambled to agree, “I had only just realised that this was in their possession when you arrived, my Lord. I have yet to ascertain its authenticity,”
His eyes narrowed further, “You believe it to be a forgery?”
She laughed suddenly, then whimpered at his glare, “It must be!” She insisted, “It must be!! I put it in my vault myself! As my Lord commanded,” she bowed low, “Snape put it directly into my hands!”
The Dark Lord glided forwards and lifted her chin with the tip of his finger, “You are fortunate, Bellatrix,” he said coldly, “that you have given me Potter, or else I would have killed you for this,”
She collapsed to her knees, “You are merciful, my Lord,” she said, her voice deep and gravely, “I shall discover the truth of this - I swear it! And kill those responsible,”
He grasped her jaw and squeezed harshly, “I shall not leave this in your hands,” he hissed, “I shall deal with this myself! But first…,” he turned slowly back to Potter, who had managed to scramble back up onto his knees. The Dark Lord levelled his wand at Potter’s face. Potter stared up at him, his brow furrowed, “Have you any last words… Harry Potter?” The Dark Lord whispered.
Draco saw a flicker of light behind Potter, and looked passed him to see movement in the crack of the door - a flash of orange hair that was there and then gone again. He had no idea how Weasley, and presumably the others, had managed to get out of the cellars, but he hoped they had the good sense to escape while they could.
They went unnoticed by anyone else.
Potter’s back straightened, “I’ll see you in hell,” he promised.
The Dark Lord grinned wide, “Avada Kedvara!”
The effect was instantaneous: Potter crumbled, but so did the Dark Lord.
Bellatrix let out a shriek of alarm and rushed to the Dark Lords side; she stooped over him, her hands hovering nervously. Narcissa gasped in alarm and pulled Draco tightly into her side, looking wildly between Potter and the Dark Lord.
“My Lord? My Lord?!”
“Enough, Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord said coldly; he was wincing and sitting himself up smoothly. Bellatrix offered him a hand, “I do not require your help,” she withdrew it, and scuttled back. The Dark Lord stood, and though his expression was stoic, Draco could see the uncertainty in the corner of his mouth. The Dark Lord hesitated. He stood tall but did not approach Potter’s body.
Draco saw another movement in the crack of the door, but still he was the only one who did.
Draco refocused on Potter’s body and found himself holding his breath. For a moment, they all stared at him in silence, and then the Dark Lord raised his wand.
“You,”
Draco’s mother yelped and jerked away from Draco with a hiss.
“Check the body,” the Dark Lord said coldly.
His mother shuffled forwards and lowered herself carefully at Potter’s side. She worked a hand beneath his shirt and pressed her palm against his chest. No sooner had she touched him, than she was snatching her hand back and gasping, “Alive!” She cried, scrambling back and retreating to Draco’s side, “He’s- how can- he’s alive!”
In front of them, Potter opened his eyes and grimaced.
“Impossible,” the Dark Lord hissed.
While the Dark Lord panted with fury, Potter pushed himself up gingerly until he was on his knees again, “Kill me if you want, Tom,” he rasped, “Kill me. But it won’t save you. I’ve seen what’s waiting for you on the other side,”
The Dark Lord screamed with rage; he snatched the sword from Bellatrix’s hands, and before anyone could even think to react, he had driven the blade through Potter’s throat, and then his chest, and his stomach, again and again and again, roaring in horror and fury until he was leaning against the pommel, the tip impaled in Potter’s belly.
Potter was still once again, his blood spreading out sluggishly from his body with no heartbeat to propel it outwards.
The Dark Lord’s rage had not been appeased however. He released the pommel with a scream, and whatever good will he had had towards Bellatrix for presenting Potter to him had been killed with this strange turn of events.
“CRUCIO!!”
Bellatrix screamed and begged and pleaded for mercy, whimpering and crying out in pain on her belly, her hands clutching at the Dark Lord’s robes. Narcissa took a step forwards - Draco wasn’t sure why. Perhaps to try and speak in her sister’s defence? It didn’t matter.
The Dark Lord snarled and threw a curse in her direction, but it went wide.
Draco’s world exploded. Any thought he had had for his mother and father or his aunt or Potter’s body on the ground disappeared as white-hot burning agony strangled him. He collapsed with a shriek, reaching for his throbbing left knee, his trembling fingers skirting about it, too terrified to touch for the fear of what he would find.
His mother and father were suddenly there on either side of him, leaning over him on the floor, their expressions pinched and worried. His mother stroked his hair and reached for his knee; Draco let out a scream of agony as her fingers skimmed across his skin, but it was drowned out by Bellatrix’s screams of pain.
“Avada Kedvara!”
Bellatrix’s screams were suddenly stopped, and the drawing room fell silent but for Draco’s choked sobs.
“We need to get him to St Mungo’s,” his mother muttered anxiously.
“No,” the Dark Lord snapped, “You go nowhere until I say you can leave!” He strode forwards and reached for the pommel of the sword, wrenching it free. Potter’s body lifted with it and then settled again, his eyes open and empty and staring directly at Draco, “I have business to attend to,” he growled, “You shall do nothing until I return,” then he bent low to grab Potter by the throat, and he began to drag him out of the manor, his snake following at his heels.
“What are we going to do?” Lucius whispered frantically, as if the Dark Lord might still be able to hear them, his hand constantly stroking Draco’s hair, “He needs a healer!”
Narcissa pressed her lips into a thin line, and called out, “Yo-yo!”
A tiny house elf appeared with a crack, and bowed low, though Draco could barely see her, his vision beginning to turn dark and spotty, “Mistress?”
“Collect all the potions in the house and bring them to Draco’s room - immediately! Come Lucius, you must carry him,”
Draco made no effort to hold in his scream of agony as his father, his face pale and sweaty, lifted him into his arms. Draco’s last view of the drawing room was of Potter’s dark and still spreading blood.
Draco was barely conscious on the journey to his room, drifting in and out of awareness as his agony overcame him. If he’d been able to, he’d have gnawed his own leg off to try and escape it.
“I’m sorry, son,” he heard his father whisper to him; Draco cried out as his leg was jostled, “I’m sorry,” a hand stroked his hair again, “Do we have any skelegow?”
His eyes closed, Draco whimpered, barely aware of anything around him beyond his knee. He was in his bedroom he thought - he recognised it by its smell - and he knew his father had carried him, but it felt as if one moment he was in the drawing room, and the next he was here. He felt the surface he was on dip, and he grunted as his knee was jostled again. His teeth chattered loudly as he began to shiver, though he wasn’t cold. He didn’t think he was cold, at least. It was hard to be sure of anything beyond the agonising pain in his knee.
“A pain potion then - anything!” He heard his father cry.
He felt a hand stroking his cheek, “Draco… Draco darling, you must drink,” he felt something cold being pressed against his lips, and he tried to do as he was told, but it was hard to relax his tense throat long enough to swallow anything, “Drink Draco… drink,”
The first mouthful was a wash of relief. The agonising burning became a painful throb and his throat unlocked itself. The second had him shuddering. The throb became a dull ache. The third mouthful turned the ache into a strange, numb absence, as if someone had simply removed his leg for him.
He opened his eyes slowly and found his mother and father on either side of him, their hands buried in his hair. They both relaxed at the sight of him.
Draco opened his mouth, and whimpered, “Mother,”
She tried to smile through her tears, “There you are little dragon, it’s alright… it’s going to be alright,”
“We need to get him to St Mungo’s,” his father said anxiously, looking to Narcissa, “We don’t have anything to mend it - the bones need vanishing and regrowing. If we leave it too long the damage might be permanent,”
“Hush, Lucius,” his mother snapped; her tight expression relaxed as it turned to Draco again, “It’s going to be alright darling - mother and father will look after you,”
Draco let out a shuddering breath and whispered, “Mother,” again. It was all he could think to say.
She smiled tearfully at him, “You should get some sleep darling,” she said softly; Draco didn’t - couldn’t - argue, “Lucius - the dreamless sleep,”
“Yes… yes, of course,” Lucius disappeared and reappeared in a blinking of Draco’s eyes. He cradled the back of Draco’s head and lifted him gently until his lips were touching the mouth of another potion bottle, “Drink son… sleep… we’ll sort this in the morning,” he promised.
Draco drank once, then twice. Sleep caught him as gentle hands about his shoulders, dragging him down into sweet oblivion before he could take a third mouthful.