As We Survive: Part 1 - The Evolution of DracoU Malfoy: Chapter 2 - Ends and Beginnings (A Harry Potter Fanfiction)

(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.)

As Draco looked into his parents’ faces, he was shocked to see how worn and broken his father was. It had been weeks, really, since he had properly looked him in the face, on the night when Potter and his friends had escaped, taking the Dark Lord's most valuable prisoners with them. He realized that his father, in particular, was drastically changed. His normally pristinely figure was unkempt and there was a ragged air to him that reached far deeper than outward appearance. His mother still held her head high, but her self-control was rigid rather than proud. He felt a softening towards both of them.

There were so many things that he could have said, so many questions on his mind, but the words that he heard himself speak were, "I'm going to turn myself in to the ministry, and offer them my full cooperation."

His parents stood, for a moment, silent and uncertain. Staring at him, as though seeing him for the first time, and he smirked inwardly, realizing that the expression on his face echoed theirs. Then he thought he saw something else, in his mother's eyes. Was it pride? 

"We will as well.” Narcissa said, firmly.

"Father?" Asked Draco, knowing that Lucius had more to risk than they did. 

"We will." He said, resignedly, after a long pause, but his face was grey and aged, and Draco saw fear in his eyes. 

Draco led his parents slowly through the chaos of mourning and jubilation, strangely ignored by the victors, towards the place where Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry Potter stood talking in the middle of the crowded Great Hall. It was slow going, and as he pushed his way along, keeping his eyes fixed on his goal, he saw Potter look at them as they approached, and gesture animatedly talking rapidly. An owl swooped down through a broken window, and landed next to the Minister, holding out a letter. The minister took it, and read it briefly, while absently handing the owl several knuts. He looked up and said something to Potter, with a slightly stunned look on his face. Potter shook his hand, beaming, and clapped him on the shoulder. 

And then the Malfoys were standing face-to-face with the Boy Who Lived and Shacklebolt. "Potter, Shacklebolt," Draco said, by way of greeting, he knew the older man from the many visits he had made to the Ministry of Magic with his father when he was a boy. 

"It's Interim Minister of Magic now Mr. Malfoy," said Shacklebolt mildly, "What can we do for you?"

"Congratulations, Minister. I am here to turn myself in, as a former Death eater and one-time supporter of the Da…of L-Lord Voldemort, I would like to offer the ministry my full cooperation. I have information that will be valuable to the Ministry in apprehending and convicting remaining Death Eaters." Draco said, and he felt a slight tremble of fear as he stood before the two men, realizing that they could easily arrest him, simply for wearing the Mark. But he shoved the fear aside, and gazed firmly with his grey eyes into the eyes of the two men before him. 

Kingsley nodded slowly, giving him an appraising look that Draco met firmly, despite the vague trepidation that lingered on the edges of his consciousness. "Thank you Mr. Malfoy." The tall, dark man said in his most powerful and reassuring tones. Then he turned to Lucius and Narcissa, who stood directly behind Draco. "And what of you, Lucius, Narcissa?"

"Yes." They both said, and by the tremor in their voices, Draco knew that they, too, were experiencing some fear in offering themselves up to the Ministry.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Potter said, stepping forward, "You saved my life in the forest, I did not get a chance to thank you then. But, thank you. It was very brave of you." Draco stared at his mother in shock.

Kingsley interjected, saying, "Mr. Potter and I have been discussing your family’s roles in the battle. Narcissa, you played a key role in Voldemort's downfall. We might never have won the war if not for you." Draco felt his father shift restlessly behind him, and felt certain that his father had not known of this either, at least not fully.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said coldly, “But it was for my son…for Draco. HE would not allow us to go looking for him, unless…” But she trailed off when she saw the thoughtful look on Harry’s face.

"Dumbledore always said that love would be Voldemort's downfall. It was the one thing that he never understood, never felt." Potter said, thoughtfully, rubbing the scar on his forehead absentmindedly. “It was my mother’s love that brought about his downfall at the end of the first war, and your love for Draco along with the remaining magic left by my mother’s love that brought about his final demise. How fitting.” And there was a distant look in his eyes, half-sorrow, half-pity. And Draco wondered who the pity was for, surely not Voldemort…surely.

"And, Draco," the Minister said, turning to the tall blond man, "Madame Pomfrey informs me that you were responsible for saving the life of one of your fellow students, a Miss Lavender Brown?"

"Y...yes..." He said, surprised, "I didn't think anyone knew...She'll live then?"

"We believe so. We will need to get her to St. Mungo's as soon as she is stable enough, but Madame Pomfrey is very hopeful that the girl will not only survive, but will return to full health in time. Of course, she will bear those horrible scars for the rest of her life. Sadly.” Shaklebolt said, ignoring the way that Draco sagged in relief, then turned to Draco's father. "Lucius, you did not join in the fighting at the end, in fact, you have not been seen joining in the battle at all today."

"I did not have a wand, Minister." Draco heard his father say, "At least...not one I could use. I was not capable of fighting, even if I had wanted to." his voice trailed off but Draco sensed a not of something he could not recognize in his father's voice. Regret? Sadness? But for what? He was not sure, but his father had been cunning and politically driven for so long, that it was hard to tell his genuine emotion in relation to anything outside their own family.

"Very well, I believe that we can get a full acquittal for all three of you. However, we will have to take you and Narcissa into custody, partly for your own protection.  As to your son…" Shacklebolt turned a speculative eye on Draco. "Draco, do you have the Mark?"

Draco's mouth was suddenly dry, but in answer he pulled up the left sleeve of his robes, revealing the slightly fading mark. He was surprised to find that the skin around the mark was red and inflamed, as though it had been scorched.

"And how old were you, when you received the mark?"

"16 sir."

A flash of disgust and pity crossed the man's face. "Since you were underage when you received the mark, and you clearly did not go to Voldemort when he called, you may have a choice. You can either choose to come to the Ministry with your parents, or remain here under the watchful eye of Minerva McGonagal and the other teachers, assisting in the clean up and repair of the school."

Draco looked around at the broken room around them, at the dead and dying and wounded. And he felt the book deep in the pocket of his robes, hanging there with a weight that seemed to be calling to him. "I'll stay here, Minister." He said, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears. He heard an indrawn breath from behind him followed by a sigh of relief, and wondered what his parents were thinking, but he realized that they had both relaxed slightly, and he wondered why.

"Very well, Draco." The Minister said, "If the three of you will find yourselves a seat somewhere nearby, an Auror will come eventually and give you more details on how we will proceed. Food will be served as soon as the house elves have had a chance to recover from the battle."

Draco nodded, "Thank you Minister, Potter." He said, bowing slightly to both in turn, before preparing himself to walk away, but his father stepped forward.

"Mr. Potter." Lucius said, "I have something belonging to some friends of yours. Perhaps, if you would be so good..." He drew three wands from his robes and handed them to Harry.

"I...thank you, Mr. Malfoy." Harry said, a startled look on his face, "They will be...very pleased to have these back."

"It is...the least we can do..." Lucius voice trailed off, but once again Draco heard that strange weary emotion in his voice that was puzzling.

Then Draco heard his name, and turned to find Potter standing in front of him, holding out his hand. Staring at him, in surprise, Draco slowly grasped the proffered hand and his grey eyes met Harry's green ones and he was shocked to see respect reflected in his old enemy's face and knew that his own eyes were showing the same. "I can give you back your wand, later, I think." Potter said, "There's, just...something that I need to do first." Draco nodded reluctantly, feeling the stolen wand in his pocket, then turned and followed his parents to the old Slytherin table, which stood nearby.

They sat in awkward silence for a long time till, at last, Draco turned to Narcissa, "Mother," he said, "What happened in the Forbidden Forest?"

Narcissa stared blankly out the window for a long time, and then recounted, "The Dark Lord was not pleased when you did not rejoin the others in the Forest when he called. He ignored your father's pleas to go and find you, while the battle was waging. He said that you had shown a lack of loyalty...as though your life had no significance except where it was used to serve him." And her face twisted and as she clenched her teeth together tightly on the last words.

"I did not return because I had not apprehended Potter yet, as he had instructed me to, and I did not want you to suffer because of my...failure." Draco said, disgusted.

"We know...knew...and then Harry Potter walked into the Forest, and he confronted the Dark Lord, but he did not pull out his wand or attempt to use it, he just looked the Dark Lord in the eye, and accepted death. The killing curse hit him directly in the chest." Draco could feel the blood drain from his face as he listened to the story, but his mother continued, "He fell, and the Dark Lord was flung backwards. When the Dark Lord rose, he...requested that I check if Mr. Potter was alive. I felt his heartbeat and saw that he was still breathing. I asked if you were alive, and he said yes. So I lied to the Dark Lord, and told him that Potter was dead, because I knew that was the only way he would allow us to return to the castle to find you."

Draco stared at his mother in horror and awe, "You could have been murdered!" He whispered violently.

"We have made many mistakes over the years, Draco." Said Lucius, "But we do love you...we have always loved you."

"I know." Said Draco quietly. And then he looked around the room, because he could not bear to look his parents in the eye any longer. The tortured looks on their faces were like knives in his heart. Around the walls lay the bodies of the dead. The Weaselys were standing huddled in a group around one figure, and he wondered who it was. "This..." He said hoarsely, waving his arm around, "This should never have happened. It's a school. Some of those bodies are the bodies of sixth years. This cannot happen again. It can't. Did you know that the Carrows made us use the cruciatus curse on the other students, students as young as first years? And the students who tried to resist were tortured instead. Can you imagine if that was in my first year?"

"Draco..." there was pleading in his father's voice, but he couldn't stop.

"I saw them carrying in a body. It was a sixth year student. He worshipped Potter. Just, worshipped him. And now he's dead. Can you imagine?" And suddenly, Draco felt cold and worn and empty, "16 and dying in a battle that should never have happened? How could anyone, even him, ever attack a school. And just imagine what would have happened if they hadn't been able to get the younger students out, with Greyback roaming the halls? This can never happen again. Never. Sometimes, I wish I had died last year, rather than see everything I've seen this year." But he whispered the last part, so that it was barely audible.

Lucius and Narcissa stared at their son, pale and ill, their hearts twisting within them…shocked, "What are you planning?" Narcissa asked fearfully.

"Whatever I have to." He said cryptically, almost viciously, because at the moment he only had a vague idea about what to do himself. "Whatever I can..." And his face was hard again, cold and remote, and he saw fear reflected in his parents’ faces. But an overwhelming and overpowering guilt had seized him, and he could not feel anything else.

Several hours later, Draco said a polite, but loving goodbye to his mother and father. They both whispered their love to him, and if their whispers were a little cool and lacking in emotion, the emotion in their eyes was enough for him to understand their meaning. But, it made him painfully aware of the sensation of emptiness and guilt that was slowly numbing him. He thought about the raw and opened grief and the deep affection that he'd seen the Weaselys displaying from across the Hall and the burning pain that was visible on the faces of Potter and Granger. And he pondered how strange it was, that the same love, love of family, could show itself in so many different forms.

Feeling out of place amongst all the grief-tempered celebrations, and half wishing he had gone with his parents to the Ministry, he wandered down to his old room in the dungeons. Guilt shot through him with every step he took, piercing his heart with agony when he saw blood spattering on the walls, or dead acromantula. Sometimes he paused, his head hanging, knowledge of everything that he had been involved him scorching through him like a living flame. He longed to run, to go into hiding, to run back to the Aurors and ask them to take him to the ministry, but that would be worse. He had made his decision, and he would have to follow it till whatever bitter end.

He found the dungeons strangely untouched, and there was an eerie quality to them. A sensation of stepping back in time seized him as he entered the common room, sending a physical pain through him, as it recalled to him the snide and cruel comments and conversations that had been held by him in this very place. He had to force himself to walk at a steady pace through the common room; the skulls were no longer familiar but sinister and troubling. They seemed to stare at him, accusing, reminding him of the death and suffering above him.

Finally, he entered his room. His trunk still sat there, just as he'd left it when he went away at Easter, which now seemed to have been years ago. He removed his ashy, battle-worn cloak, and sank into a chair in the corner. He stared at the wall for many long minutes, and then drew the book from his pocket and looked at it. It was bound in green leather, faded, but not worn, and it smelled of disintegrating parchment and dust and age. He opened it, and it creaked slightly in protest.

Holding the book in one hand, he gazed that the first word, transfixed. 

"Remorse," he read, "Is a very strange and powerful thing. Even now, there is very little information on its magical properties and potentials. What is known is that it is the only remedy to reunite a soul that has been rent apart by murders, especially those murders perpetrated by the soul in order to create a Horcrux. Horcrux, that most abhominable of evils, that can only be accomplished by those who have successfully erased or removed from their minds all awareness of guilt, and every sensation of love from their hearts."

Draco gave a great start, and gazed in horror at the page in front of him. What was it he had heard Potter say to the Dark Lord at the end, "There are no more Horcruxes." It was plural, wasn't it? Could the Dark Lord...could Voldemort, have actually made more than one Horcrux? He felt a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach, but he fought against it and continued to read. "Although little else is known about this most interesting experience of a witch or wizard's soul, it is believed that the same experience can serve to heal a soul of any and all damage wrought by the Arts of Darkness. This is believed to be especially true in regards to those cases where the witch or wizard seeks out the experience, intending to rid him or herself of said relations with Darkness." 

He looked up and gazed at the room of green and silver and stone that surrounded him, and relished the beam of hope that opened in his heart. He could feel the blackness; feel the stains left by his unforgiving tendency and cruelty, and the agonizing burn of black flame that had begun the first time he had dared to use an unforgiveable curse flared in protest at the direction of his thoughts, but he ignored it.

"It is said," He continued to read, "That remorse may be made more possible by an experience of undeserved mercy, especially when it is wrought by an enemy. But I know of no occurrences where this has been done with a true motive. This would be most valuable for the one who wishes, who seeks to experience remorse, as the experience has been described as one of the greatest agony. For, in order to experience true remorse, the one who has committed themselves to the Dark Arts must fully devote themselves to know real compassion, a compassion so great, and so deep that it will take them through every act of cruelty and pain that they have committed in their path towards the Dark Arts, and they must know the suffering they caused."

Draco stared at the page, his face grey, but he read on and on, until the evening closed in and still he read. One sentence, at the end of the book, stood out to him, amidst all the others, "It is said that, if captured, the tears shed in remorse can help to heal those wounded by even the darkest arts." He closed the book and put it down, and sat in the silent darkness, lit only by the erie green light of the lake above him. Then, with deliberate movements, he opened his trunk, and took out a set of vials, bound in silver, that his parents had given him when he received the O for his OWL in potions. He placed them on a table next to the chair he had been sitting on as he read.

He turned back to his trunk and nearly yelled in shock, when the ghost of the the Bloody Baron appeared, materializing through the wall above it. He started back, and stared at the horrifying figure, but felt the fear melt away. A year in the presence of Lord Voldemort had left him with little fear for a figure so familiar as that of the Bloody Baron.

"The Headmistress requested that I be so good as to come look for you, Mr. Malfoy." the Baron said coldly in his icy rasp. "You were not present at luncheon and dinner is almost finished."

"I'm not hungry." Draco said, "I need to sleep. I will come up for breakfast in the morning."

The Baron rolled his eyes in what would have been a droll gesture in any other ghost, but in him it was, if not terrifying, at the very least intimidating. He floated around the room, observing it, until his eyes lit on the book at the table. If a ghost could look sharp, the then Baron's eyes were like needles, as he turned his haughty gaze on Draco.

"Remorse." He rasped. "This is a very powerful magic for one so young. I have neither seen it nor heard of it being used since the first rise of the Dark Lord. It is rare indeed that one who has sought the Dark Arts, should in any way seek out an experience of remorse?" He looked at Draco as though seeing him for the first time.

Draco's mouth was suddenly dry as he asked; "Someone else did this, during the last war?"

The ghost nodded his head slowly, observing Draco with his piercing eyes. "Our most recent Headmaster, Severus Snape, experienced true remorse many years ago. Found it after he betrayed the woman he loved, and brought about her death and the death of her husband, and nearly caused the death of their infant son."

"Potter." Draco stared at the Baron with an expression of a drowning man, who has just seen the branch of a tree within his grasp.

"And…and do you know of any others?" He asked, half-shocked at his own abruptness.

"I did, in my own way. Not as powerfully, I suppose, as you will, for I had just taken the life of the woman that I loved with my own hand. And the experience so tortured me that it drove me to seek out my own death before the magic could be completed. But you are the first, in many years, over a hundred, perhaps, that has read that book. The first to have discovered it in centuries, I believe. I did not know what my own experience was, until I had passed many centuries in the form you see me in now."

"But it...it can be done?"

"Of course, you foolish child. Have I not just told you that Severus experienced it? Your soul, I believe, is not so tainted as his had been. Twisted as it was by bitterness, it continued to be for many years. He did not know that his constant pain and irritability was due to his lack of commitment to remorse in regards to one of the deaths he caused. Had he accepted remorse for the one, he would have found himself fully healed. But he did not…although maybe he has now." As was the habit with ghosts, the Baron seemed to have lost himself in the past and turned to drift towards the door, but Draco stopped him, "Wait, Baron, what are you going to tell the headmistress?"

"That you are indisposed this evening, but that you will be in the Great Hall by the seventh hour of the morning." He said, coldly, turning around, "Be sure not to forget it, will you? I have a reputation to maintain. And, good luck, Mr. Malfoy, you will need it, I believe." Glided through the wall next to the door and Draco stood staring after him, his face waxen and green in the pale light of the lake.

There was a fire in the grate of the fireplace next to the table, which he noticed for the first time. A house elf must have come and gone while he was reading his book. He moved the chair in front of the fire and set the table next to it, taking care as he moved everything. Then he sat down in the chair, gripped its arms with his long, white fingers, and closed his eyes. As he felt the warm glow of the fire reach him, he unlocked and opened the door in his mind where he had kept his compassion, turned off and imprisoned for many years, and as he focused on remorse, and he was immediately seized with an agonizing flood of emotions and memories that were so intense they nearly threw him from his chair.

Draco’s parents lectured him, saying that all magical beings, except for pure blood wizards, were less valuable and should be committed to servitude of those whose blood was magically pure. He asked about House Elves, and what they were, and his father sneered haughtily, reprimanding him for even asking the question, saying that clearly all house elves were so far below wizards as to barely merit their attention. The scene faded.

Dobby hit himself over and over on the head with a rolling pin, his large eyes watering as the child, Draco looked on. Draco could not remember what it was that the House Elf had done, or really if he had done anything at all. But as he watched in disgusted amusement, he told the elf to be sure to slam his fingers in a drawer, just in case there was something he’d missed. But this time, the pain and hurt and the bitterness in the elf's eyes consumed the older and more mature Draco, and he felt the bruises and the agony as though they were his own...

Draco listened to his father telling him about being a pure blood, and how that made him superior to others in the wizarding world. That half-bloods were not to far removed from purebloods, so they were worthy of respect and time and attention, if they were of the right sort. But muggle-borns were less than they were, that they were dangerous and not to be trusted. That muggles were little more than animals, and a disgrace to the world, and not to be tolerated. The younger Draco had listened with rapt attention, accepting and taking in every word as truth, but Draco now, who sat in agony in his chair, saw the cruelty of the words and the falsehood of them, and what those beliefs had done to his already tainted soul...

The small girl with the bushy hair stood in front of him, defying him with her sharp brown eyes flashing fire. And he spoke the word that should never even exist. Saw the confusion, in her eyes, and mocked her in his heart for being so ignorant that she did not even understand this one important, vital part of wizard culture. That she was worthless, less valuable, less pure, than he was. But as the memory crashed over him in a wave, he saw the hurt, the confusion, and the fear, and he realized her value as a person, and as a witch, whose intelligence and goodness were far beyond anything that he had ever owned. 

He watched himself mocking Potter and his dead parents, and where before he'd only seen rage and anger in the other boy's eyes, he now saw the hurt and the pain. He felt his loss and the agony it brought, and it was so real, so potent that he nearly fell to the floor. He felt the pain and humiliation of Neville Longbottom as he jumped up flights of moving stair with his legs bound together with a leglocker curse. 

And on and on and on it went, till Draco was weeping kneeling on the floor, suffering the same pain that his victims had experienced through his cruelty and thoughtlessness and lack of compassion. It took every ounce of self-control that he had gained in the two years he had spent under Voldemort's watchful eye, to capture those tears and still engage in the pain and the hurt that he needed to suffer in order to change, in order to have his to be free of the marks of darkness…Hours passed, and the agony increased with each passing moment, as he felt as though the emotional pain and humiliation alone would kill him with their weight. But still it continued hour after hour getting ever more intense as he passed through years of deepening devotion to the Dark Arts, the secret lessons with his father over the summers, starting in his second year, and increasingly brought under greater control by Voldemort, until...

Two brown eyes stared out of an agonized face, framed by a halo of bushy brown hair. The screams that were torn from her by the curse ripped through him as though they were his own. And he felt her pain and the desperate yearning to be free of it, and even though he had not cursed her, he saw how his cowardice and devotion to the Dark Lord had influenced his decision to stand aside while she was tortured. And, as though from far away, he could hear his own voice screaming in echo. And then he saw her unconscious form being offered to Greyback, and he felt Greyback's mind and intentions, and he vomited on the floor. Knowing what he had feared to know, that his own unwillingness would have extended to letting her be dragged away by the monster. 

A few more memories passed through him, shattering his mind and body with pain, till it finally ebbed away and he found himself panting on the floor, barely able to gather the last tears as they streamed down his face. And, finally, the pain was gone, and he stood shakily to his feet, wiping sweat from his face and longing for a drink, to rid himself of the sour, bitter taste in his mouth. Shakily, he sank into his chair, and then felt a horrifying pain in his left arm. Frantically he rolled up his sleeve and stared at the Mark on his arm. The faded blackness seemed to be weeping, as the disgusting figure of the skull and the snake melted and ran, and oozed, until there was nothing left but the outline of the mark, the magic having been drained from it.

Elation and wonder filled him. The magic was broken, and he could feel the damage to his soul mending, the burning blackness fading away. He leaned back, exhausted, and the crippling guilt that had driven him down to the dungeons the day before was gone, replaced by a deep and solemn sense of remorse and sorrow. Vaguely, as he sat, gazing at the mark that no longer tethered him to the Dark Arts, he felt a growing sense of purpose. How long he had sat there, thinking, he did not know.

His reverie was broken by a resounding crack that sent him leaping to his feet, to see a small house elf that stood quivering in his presence. He sank down into his chair, and stared at the elf, memories of the torment he had inflicted on Dobby rising painfully to the forefront of his mind.

"B...B...Bloody Baron sent Winky to check on young master." The tiny elf said her small voice squeaking in fear.

"Thank you." Said Draco carefully, cooly, "I am well."

Winky stared at him as though he had just grown an extra head, and then glanced at the stinking spot on the carpet." Master has been sick?" The little elf asked, as she snapped her fingers, vanishing the stinking mess. "Can Winky bring the young master anything?"

"A glass of water, Winky, if you don't mind." Draco said, half-heartedly.

Winky continued to stare at him. "H...has master had any food?"

"No." Draco said, suddenly realizing that he was desperately hungry.

"Winky will bring master something to eat." The house elf said, rubbing her little hands together nervously.

"Thank you, Winky." Draco said, "Nothing too elaborate, you don't need to go to any trouble for me, breakfast is only a few hours away."

"Master must be very ill!" Winky said, wringing her hands together more violently.

Draco looked up and stared at her. "Why is that?"

"Master must not mind Winky, it's the butterbeer. Winky cannot stay away from it! Sometimes Winky is too forward when Winky has had a little bit extra." Winky said, her face terrified.

"Winky, I'm not going to be angry with you, I'm just surprised. Now, please answer the question. Why do you think that I'm ill? I am perfectly fine, it was just a bit of sick."

"Master is being polite, master is being kind and thoughtful. Oh no, oh no, oh no!" Winky shook her head her eyes nearly consuming her entire face. "Master isn't DYING is he!" She let out a little shriek.

Draco laughed humorlessly, torn between humor and disgust at his former self and stood up, "I'm perfectly fine, just tired and hungry...and sorry." He said the last more soberly, "I've been horrible to your kind, haven't I? I wish I could make up for it...I wish I had been better to...to all of you." And suddenly his mind was flooded with images of poor, hurt, humiliated Dobby and his heart filled with remorse.

To his immense distress Winky started howling. "D...D...Dobby would be so happy! D...D...Dobby would be so proud of the nice young master. Dobby wouldn't know what to s...s...say." She took out a ragged piece of handkerchief and blew her nose on it rather loudly. "Winky will get some nice breakfast for the young master who is being so sad and kind." She disaparated with a loud bang, and Draco was left staring at the place she had vanished from with a bemused expression on his face. He checked his silver and green watch that his parents had given him for his coming of age; it was five in the morning. He paced the room thinking, his chin resting on his hand. With the remorse the blackness and the guilt had lifted from his soul, replaced with resolution and true regret and sorrow for all that he had done.

He wanted to do something to right the wrongs that he had been culpable in, no, he wanted to do whatever he could to right any wrong that he or his family had been connected to, and to help mend the world that he was a part of. Suddenly, the cunning of his Slytherin roots appeared to him in a new light. No longer to be used to promote his own status and name, no longer as a tool for his own self-service, he saw the use for something better. He took some parchment from his trunk along with his emerald inkbottle and his phoenix feather quill, and he began to write. 

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.