As We Survive: Part 1 - The Evolution of Draco Malfoy: Chapter 1 - The Battle at Hogwarts (A Harry Potter Fan Fiction)

(Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter Stories or any of the main characters, only the plot and a few momentary characters are mine. I've tried to stick as close to Rowling's stories as possible, but as the story progresses, I will deviate from it. Apologies for the swearing, tried to keep it at a minimum but the story didn't feel authentic without it.)

Draco Malfoy sat in a gilded armchair near the fireplace in the library at Malfoy Manor, his shaking hands resting over his haunted eyes. Memories of pain travelled through him in a wave, echoes of what it meant to fail the Dark Lord. In his mind, his mother's screams rang and crashed against defensive walls and iron doors, faintly echoed by the voice of another, which he quickly stifled. He had known it would come to this, as soon as he had seen Potter and his friends in Greyback's grasp. Potter always escaped, always won. There had been no room for the pity, for the compassion, which knocked at his heart when he had seen, from the corner of his eye, the two brown eyes filled with pain. 

But the part of him that he had locked away years ago, before he ever learned occlumency, whispered still, This is wrong. This is wrong. You should help. With each death he witnessed, with each death he failed to fulfill the whisper had become more urgent, more real. With an inaudible roar of rage, visible in his grey eyes, he slammed his palms against the bookshelf in front of him. A book slipped off the shelf and fell to the floor with a quiet shuffling of pages. He would control his emotions they would not betray him. He was a Death Eater, he would be cold and proud and made of stone, his life depended on his ability to control himself.

He turned towards the window and stare out at the cold, grim morning light. A star twinkled far and away, one last dwindling memory of the terrors of the night. Stars were supposed to be a symbol of home, but there was no hope, not really. The star was lying, if Potter was foolish enough to get himself caught, then Voldemort would win, he must win. And the only hope for anyone would be to serve him, and even that would hold no hope for...but he, he was stone, he was the icy cold of devotion to the cause. And still his mother's screams raged in his head like fire, and memories shoved themselves against the doors of his mind, asking to be set free. 

"No." He whispered. "I have my duty, I will do it there is nothing else for me." And though he feared death, he also longed for it. Longed to be free of the chains that bound him to his lord, to the Dark Arts. His life was never free. At 17 he was imprisoned in a world where the lives of his parents depended on his ability to carry out tasks that were completely against his nature, and he knew that one day Lord Voldemort would realize this, if he did not already. 

He turned and picked the book up off the ground, closing it as he did, and he stared at the cover in amazement. The title was Remorse and the Dark Arts by Nathaniel Prewitt. Remorse. The words sank into him like a stone, touching his soul, and calling for something from him. But he did not know what it was, so he shut himself off from it, feeling, as he did so the burning blackness that he could sense growing inside of him. It was a black taint creeping into his soul, slowly becoming a part of him, one that haunted his dreams as he slept. He moved his arm to place the book high on the shelf from which it had fallen, but his hand twitched on the way upward, and instead, half-unconsciously, he shoved it into a deep pocket in his robes. One small gesture of hope for his soul, tarnished by all the evil he had done and all the good that he had failed to do.

He stayed home after the holidays, delaying the return that would eventually be required of him. He made excuses that it was really only his NEWTs that he needed to worry about, and he could study much more effectively at home without the distractions of the other students. He shut himself off from everything, hoping to delay the inevitable attack against his soul, caring only for himself and his mother, angry with his father. It was his father who had brought this on them, with his obsession with blood privilege and purity. His father whose greed and thirst for power had brought the Dark Lord into their home, and turned their life into a living death. He shuddered as he thought of his aunt, who he avoided because every time he saw her, into his mind flashed a red line and drops of blood on the neck of the mudblood he should despise, and the memory sickened him. 

He missed his wand, yearning for its comforting presence in his hand. His mother lent him hers for his homework, but it did not have the same familiarity, the same intuitive knowledge of what he required in order to perform a spell. It did not accept him. He sat with his mother in her private parlor in the evenings, pretending to write letters to Blaise Zambini or Theodore Knott. But he never wrote anything important, it was merely an exercise to explain his presence. 

Then, late one day, his father entered the room, his ashen, stubble-marred face containing the same crazed excitement in his eyes that entered them every time he glimpsed an opportunity for redemption. "Come, Draco, the Dark Lord has need of you. You must come. To the drawing room, now." And with an excited swirl of robes, he was gone. Reluctantly Draco rose slowly, but hurried away when he saw the anxiety in his mother's eyes as she rose to follow. It would not do to keep the Dark Lord waiting, punishment would be severe, and punishment was always worse than the crime. The Dark Lord seemed more and more unstable the longer Potter remained in the shadows, and now that he had escaped...Draco shuddered and emptied from his mind all but one thought. One tremendous lie behind which he placed all his power, enforcing and cementing it in his mind, until only the smallest corner of his consciousness knew that it was untrue.

He entered the room of his nightmares, and knelt before his hated lord. "I am here to serve you my lord." He said, not lifting his gaze, prepared for the onslaught that he knew would invade his mind. His defenses held, his practice had paid off. All the Dark Lord detected in him was a blank and whole devotion to the cause, and a shame at his own failures as a servant to so powerful a master.

"Good, good." Voldemort muttered, "Draco, you have learned well to bend your will to your master. But there is something I require from you yet again, and perhaps this time you will not fail me so severely as you did the last time I awarded you a special task.” The Dark Lord laid a caressing hand Lucius and Narcissa's shoulders as he hissed the words. "It would be good, Draco, would it not, to rectify the failures of your family and win back your former place of honor among my ranks?" And Draco read the barely veiled threat, and knew that if he failed one of his parents would pay a price. 

"Draco, you must return to Hogwarts tonight." 

"To-tonight my lord?" Narcissa's voice shook slightly. 

"Quiet woman!" Voldemort said. “This is not your concern. The boy is of age.” And with that small corner of his mind that remained his own, Draco felt his hatred of the monster blossom.

"At some point, possibly sooner than later, it is possible that Harry Potter will return to Hogwarts, it is your duty to find him when he does and bring him to me. Succeed and your family will be restored, fail and there will be… consequences. You must not fail." 

Draco nodded, and said with cold respect. "Thank you, my lord, for this opportunity to restore my family's honor. I will leave at once." He turned to go. 

But Voldemort's voice called him back, silky and cruel. "Draco." He rasped, "You are forgetting something, you must take your mother's wand, since yours was so foolishly lost." The thinly veiled threat against his parents was not lost to him. Wordlessly he accepted his mother's wand, hating the action in his heart, knowing that he was leaving his parents with little defense, in a house of death eaters. He listened blankly to the rest of his instructions, bowed to the Dark Lord, and left the room. He saw his aunt in the hallway and she called to him, but he pretended not to answer, and quickly turned away. He grabbed his traveling cloak from his room, and strode from the house.

Draco disapparated from outside the Manor gates, apparating into Hogsmead, he felt the cold chill of the lurking Dementors and the quietness of the formerly bustling village. He could feel the dementors, hovering on the edges of the school. His Mark burned briefly, and he knew that his Master had been called.

Blending into the shadows, barely more than a shadow himself, he crept stealthily but swiftly up to the school and let himself in, unseen. The school was filled with an atmosphere of fear and dread, but a faint defiance hung in the air. He saw the faint outline of magical graffiti on the wall in front of him, in ragged letters carved into the rock, Dumbledore's Army, Still Recruiting. "Foolish Longbottom." He sneered, but there was a sadness deep inside, a faint yearning that he quickly brushed away. In the distance he heard a faint scream, a defiant student being tortured, perhaps. And suddenly his face was weary and worn, a fleeting look that vanished instantly leaving behind a face all ice and stone. Pale as though carved from rock, emotionless as a pane of glass.

He heard the sounds of a duel break out, and silently unseen, glanced around a corner to see Flitwick and McGonagal battling with Headmaster Snape. Heard the crash as the tall, black haired man leaped through the window and flew across the grounds. He saw Potter materialize from under that damned cloak of his, but this was not the time, surrounded as he was on all sides. So he stayed in the shadows and waited, watching as the student's were gathered, and those too young, or who were suspected of devotion to the Dark Lord, were sent away. He lost sight of Potter, and the Dark Lord's announcement rang with a special menace for him, as he pictured his parents, wandless, defenseless, waiting for whatever doom the Dark Lord deemed appropriate.

As the battle broke out, he stayed away from it, knowing with a strange certainty that Potter was not engaging in the battle. Potter who had always fought bravely, Potter who stood up for his friends, Potter who he knew, from the strange instinct born by years of rivalry, would never allow others to suffer unless there was a greater need to be filled by staying away from a fight. He searched the castle, finally making his way up to the hall where the Room of Requirement used to be. He sensed Crabbe and Goyle's presence before he saw them. Seeing their feet sticking out from the bottom of what looked like a couple of tapestries hanging in the hall, a botched disillusionment charm. He smirked and approached them from the side.

"I have a mission from the Dark Lord." He drawled, enjoying the sight of the charm melting away as they started at the sound of his voice.

"What'd'ye think you're doing?" Crabbe muttered, hazily. "Thought you were in prison."

Draco gave him a scathing look, "The Dark Lord has sent me to find Potter and capture him. You can help if you like, but otherwise keep out of my way." It was a mistake; he knew it was a mistake when he saw the look on the two friend's faces. His hold over them had been wavering since he had forced them to disguise themselves as girls sixth year. With his family in disgrace his only hope was to move more quickly than them and keep them off balance.

Goyle's face twisted, ugly with resentment. "Don' have to do what you say." He grunted, "Your family is dis...dis...out of...not the favorites any more. You can't tell ME what to do."

"Shut up." Draco said coldly, "Someone's coming." And he cast a more powerful disillusionment charm over the three of them, so they blended into their environment.

Potter and his friends appeared down the corridor. They turned to the wall and a door opened up and Harry vanished inside for a moment, the door dissappearing before they could follow. Then the youngest Weasely girl appeared, looking oddly triumphant, followed by a young woman with purple hair who looked vaguely familiar, Draco wondered who she was, but then heard Potter roaring at the Weasely girl...Ginny, that she had to come, back in the room once he was done finding...something, a diadem? What did Potter want with a diadem?

Potter turned and the door changed to one that Draco was all too familiar with. Potter entered, followed by Weasely and Granger. As soon as they were gone, the Weasely girl took off towards the growing sounds of battle on the grounds and the floors below them. Draco threw off the charm like a cloak, and headed towards the door, wand at the ready. A beefy hand clasped his shoulder, halting him in his tracks. He turned to Goyle, his eyes like daggers, and said, "Remove your hand from me this instant."

Goyle grunted, "We go first. We're going to kill Potter for the Dark Lord."

"You idiots." Draco said, with deep scorn. "The Dark Lord wants Potter for himself. Do you really want to cross him? Or would you rather have that curse that you're so fond of turned on yourself?"

Goyle hesitated a moment, and Draco turned rapidly on his heel and entered the room silently. Once inside, everything moved so quickly, he hardly knew what was happening before he found himself wandless, standing on top of a pile of charred desks, listening with horror to Crabbe's death scream, knowing he was going to die. Knowing that he had failed, just hoping that his death would mean his parents would be spared. And then, from out of nowhere, Potter swept down on a broom and pulled him out of the flame, and Weasely and Granger lifted Goyle up. And, as they fled to safety, towards the opened door, Potter dove and swept something out of the flames, without touching the fire. And they were through the door, and the corridor was cool, and the air was clear. And Crabbe was dead because he used Dark Magic he couldn't control.

The pointlessness of everything, the war, the Dark Lord's hatred, the cruelty of his own past, covered him, chilling him to the bone, melding with the horror of Crabbe’s death. And, as though from a long way away, he heard Weasely's voice saying harshly. "He's dead." And he realized that he had been saying Crabbe's name. And the three turned from him and the unconscious Goyle, and discussing their own plans and the fall of the Dark Lord. And then they were gone.

With great effort, Draco dragged his one time friend to a hiding place behind a tapestry, and turned and ran. He did not know what he was doing, he only knew he had to find a safe place. Wandless and without hope, but with a sudden intense desire to live, he found a place on a stairwell, and sat. Knowing that no matter what the cost he could never fight for Voldemort, never follow him again, because now, he owed the others his life. How long he stayed there, he didn't know, but then a Death Eater found him, in the midst of his thoughts. He knew that he would die, and he heard himself begging for his life, proclaiming his allegiance to Voldemort, all the while hating himself for his cowardice but knowing that he had to fight to live, despite the despair that now encompassed him.

Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the Death Eater fell. He looked around in amazement, searching for the one who had saved him. And he felt a blow to his face, which sent him sprawling across the man who would have killed him. And heard the voice of Ronald Weasely berating him for his cowardice, and knew that Weasely was right, and it irked him to his very soul. Despairing, but full of a strange light that flared like a beacon inside him, he remembered the book that still hung in the hidden pocket of his robes. He stood, and the death eater groaned and stirred, grasping his wand and trying to rise. But Draco stooped and, with a great effort, wrested the wand from the man's hand with a force he had only ever used before in his life to torment the innocent. Then he turned the man's own wand on him, and stunned him again, and ropes sprang from the wand, and the man was bound. Draco turned on his heel and melted into the shadows; racing down the stairs, he followed the newly awakened flame within his heart.

As he rounded a corner, he saw bodies littering a corridor, and he heard the Dark Lord calling his challenge to Potter, and the mark on his arm burned with a fiery pain. But the flame inside him seemed to fight the pain and it was dimmer than he remembered, less intense, and he shut his mind to it, pushing it to the edges of his consciousness. He watched the Death Eaters retreat, and whispered a silent apology to his parents, knowing that the only hope they had was if he did not return, because now he could not return with Potter.

Draco searched the bodies of the fallen, hoping to find one person still alive. To somehow begin to repay Potter for even a small part of what he owed him. Following the sensation of the cool, clean burn within, he looked around and saw one figure faintly twitching. He rushed to the body, and the wounds he saw filled him with horror. It was the Gryffindor girl, Brown, Lavender Brown. And he could see by the ragged gashes on her neck and shoulder that she had fallen victim to Fenrir Greyback. Nausea washed over him, as he crouched over her. But shoved it away, conjuring a bandage over the worst of her wounds and a stretcher underneath her, and he levitated her through the passages of Hogwarts, which were strangely silent and empty.

Here and there, he spied a war-ravaged figure carrying or levitating a wounded body. He slowly, cautiously, entered the Great Hall, and saw Madame Pomfrey on the platform, working among the wounded, her kind face severe with worry and an effort to hold back the tears, as she stooped among figures that were too small to have been fighting...but he knew they had been.

Quietly, he whispered a command, and the stretcher floated gently across the room, past sorrowing families bending over broken bodies that he could not look at because he knew they must be dead. He waited, hidden, or so he thought, in the doorway of the room, and watched as the stretcher bumped gently against the matron, who let out a sharp cry, and bent over the girl who he hoped he had just saved. He saw her look up, and suddenly meet his eye, and as quickly as he faded back into the shadows, he realized that she knew. And a kind smile, a smile that strangely hinted of pride, broke gently across her tired face, inexplicably drawing a painful jolt into his heart.

He hid, fearful that someone from Potter's side would see him and try to kill him. He could see their eyes as they walked past, carrying body after body, many of which were too young to have fought, too young to have stayed. And many which were dressed in the uniforms of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, although here and there he saw a Ravenclaw. He wondered where Potter had gone, what he was doing, and his hidden ramblings took him outside, and as he passed through the door, he recognized the old Gryffindor quidditch captain, Oliver Wood, carrying a body that was far too small, and he saw the camera and knew that it was Colin Creevey. He looked up and saw Neville Longbottom, his face ravaged and bloodied; looking older than any teenager should. And his start of surprise echoed Longbottom's, as Potter revealed himself.

And Draco heard Potter's hidden words to Longbottom, and knew what Longbottom did not. He knew that this final mission that Voldemort had sent him on was a wasted one, and that Voldemort with all his intelligence, had known the futile unnecessity of it when he had given it to Draco. Potter was walking to his death, and even as the realization hit him, Potter vanished and he knew, with absolute certainty, that Potter would die.

He sank down amongst the other shadows against the castle wall, and stared into the black night, and despair gripped him. And he sat like that a long time, waiting for the end, and flame that had filled him earlier seemed to die, and he felt like the black sky, and knew that the stars must be lying; there was no hope or light in the darkness. The world was ending, the hope of the wizarding world had gone to his doom, and Voldemort still lived.

Draco sat in despair, staring up at the night sky, wishing that he could escape into it, for surely the end of everything had come. Voldemort would win, and Potter was going to give himself up to save those in the castle, but the rest of the world would burn. He remained there, still and quiet, he did not know for how long, until he heard Voldemort's lies, and saw the great procession of Death Eaters, with Hagrid, great, brave, ugly Hagrid, crying like a child as he carrried a body, lanky and thin, with a shock of black hair and a gleam of glasses on the face. He heard the despairing screams, more horrible than any he had yet heard, that echoed his own soul's cry, and penetrated the walls inside his mind. He followed the crowd with his eyes, wanting to see what was about to happen, but with a tremendous fear in his heart. He noticed his parents and grimaced, they were still alive, but for how long? Surely the Dark Lord would punish them for his failure. The procession of Death Eaters on one side, and the limping and bedraggled band from the castle on the other, met parallel to where he sat, and directly in front of him stood the Dark Lord, and Potter's body was on the ground, and the huge snake nearby. 

He heard Voldemort's cruel lies and was surprised out of his horrified reverie to see Neville Longbottom step forward and challenge the Dark Lord, with an air of permanent defiance on his ravaged face. He saw the sorting hat placed on Neville's head and burst into flames, and knew that another brave soul was going to die. But then, Longbottom broke out of the body-bind curse on him, and drew a sword, the sword Potter had had with him at Malfoy Manor, and with a great swing he swiped the head off the giant snake. And at the same moment, an echoing movement occurred on the ground, and Draco saw what no one else saw, Harry Potter leaped up, vanishing as he did so.

Draco sprang to his feet; his eyes flashing icy fire and elation encasing his heart. He saw the shield spell that Potter flung between Longbottom and Voldemort. He moved through the shadows, quietly hidden, and watched Potter's progress towards the Castle, following the shield spells and curses that came out of thin air. And he followed suit, smirking at the irony, as he sent curses and jinxes from the shadows, keeping himself hidden because he knew that otherwise he would be a target for both sides. And then he was in the Great Hall, and he could hear his parents screaming for him, as he continued to cling to the shadows on the edges.

And then, all the fighting was over, except for two battles waging in the center, Aunt Bellatrix and Lord Voldemort battling their adversaries viciously. And, as he watched in horrified awe as the three girls from his year battled his aunt, his parents finally stopped their frantic search right next to where he stood, and he grabbed them, and dragged them into the shadows with him. And his mother grasped his arm with an icy hand, as though unsure he was real. And his father, his face sagging and worn put an arm around his mother’s shoulder, laid his hand on Draco's shoulder, and they continued to watch from the shadows. 

He saw Bellatrix almost kill the Weasely girl, and saw with amazement as Mrs. Weasely, threw herself into the battle, and killed his aunt. And as she died, he saw her crimes and her undying devotion to her Lord and knew that her death had to come, because she would never bend. Still, a small slice of pity pierced his heart, but before he had time to ponder it, The Dark Lord turned his wand on Molly Weasely, and a giant stag patronus erupted in the middle of the hall, deflecting the killing curse. And Potter threw off his cloak, and he stood before the Dark Lord, calm and unafraid. And as the two wizards circled each other, one with the demeaner of a snake, ageless in his hideous evil, and one young and defiant, their words penetrated Draco's mind like a physical shock.

"It's your one last chance...it's all you've got left." * Potter spoke with power and confidence that Draco had never heard from him before. And there was a note of compassion in his voice that shocked Draco, as he stared at the scene before him, listening to Potter's next words with a fearful wonder. "I've seen what you'll be otherwise...be man...try for some remorse." And Draco's soul stirred in a way it never had before, and his hand convulsively reached for the book that had stayed with him all this time. 

Then, words reached him once more, and he drew in a sharp breath as he heard his name, "The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy." And the thoughts that had entered him a moment ago, vanished as he gave a great start and stepped back. He could feel his mother's nails digging into his arm, and his father's intake of breath echoed his own. He heard the Dark Lord thrust aside his life with a word, as though it had never mattered, never been important. Then... more words..."You're too late...I overpowered Draco weeks ago..." ad he flexed his fingers around his stolen wand, unconsciously, as his mother's grip relaxed and he felt her sag against his father. 

And then with a shout the Dark Lord fell, Voldemort was gone. And the mark on his arm that had burned all through the cold, violent night was suddenly cold and numb and free of pain. And he knew that Voldemort was finally dead. And, for the first time in weeks, he turned and looked his parents full in the face, as the hall around them errupted in jubilation. He was free.

* Italicized words indicate a direct quote from the books. References to come.