A/N: For those returning to this fic, as some of you I know now are (squee!), I added a few lines to the end of the previous chapter; they fit better there than here. Just so you're aware. ;) For those who have been begging me to "not be mean" (or similar) and post soon, I beg your patience and forgiveness. I know cliffhangers are suspenseful and that you want to keep going, but sometimes, you have to wait for dessert. Good things don't often come right away. That how writing is for me. But enough philosophy. Chapter 16. -bows-

Yours forever, Tsona

The unilluminated hallway seemed longer than it was as Draco raced along it, for once glad of its depth, because he doubted the pounding of his feet could be heard beyond this underworld to which he alone had been assigned. Special privileges from the Dark Lord.

Draco knew what to do as if he'd been planning it all along. Maybe he had been. He remembered- it seemed ages ago, and in truth, it had been months- sitting on the steps, calculating the distance to the forest's edge. He hadn't been bold enough then to test his guesses, to step off the edge of the stone. Now, he thought, his footsteps slowing as his ill-adjusted eyes sought the first flight of stairs in the dark, I'm not bold enough to stay.

What would his father think when he found out Draco had fled? What would he do? Draco shivered to hear the sneer in his father's voice, as clear as if he stood beside him in the arctic tunnel, Cowardice. Weakness. Qualities unbefitting a wizard. No, my lord, do what you must to the boy. He's yours. Contact Severus. He will no doubt be able to find some way to- Draco tried to swallow past the fear that had sunk claws into his throat, that blocked air, made his breathing shallow, ragged.

Qualities unbefitting a wizard... He lit his wand and raised it high, away from his eyes, to find the stairs. After the Stygian darkness, the bright light was a blazing star and blinding. It was not the first time Draco wondered why no one had ever invented a spell to dim a wand's light.

Draco mounted the stairs, keeping his wand on his feet now, holding his free hand out to the frozen stones of the close wall, feeling the rough scrape of them even through his glove. He ran as fast as he dared. One step, five, a flight...

What would the Dark Lord do when he found out? Would he track him? Could he break into Hogwarts? But if Dumbledore did send him to Azkaban- he'd broken into the prison before...

No, Draco told himself firmly. Dobby said I'd be fine. He said Dumbledore wouldn't-

But Dobby's a house-elf and Dumbledore's his master. If Dumbledore says-

Draco tightened his grip on his wand and turned his face toward the ceiling, toward the closed door at the end of this last flight of four, seeking the drafts, the light that might seep through the cracks around its edges.

Upon the first glimmer, Draco muttered the counter-spell to put out his light and edged up the last few steps by the dim blue shafts of moonlight making shadowy thorns grow out of the rough stones of the walls. Draco wondered fleetingly if this was what the hedges of the third task had looked like to the champions- to Potter. But at the end of that- He remembered seeing Potter lying flat on the ground, his leg torn to shreds by the Acromantula, his face pale and the scar vivid, one hand closed tight on the Triwizard Cup's handle and the other on Diggory's dead wrist as he looked into Dumbledore's worried face. He remembered Diggory's wide staring eyes, like milky frog's eggs. "He's back. Voldemort." The slits of blue moonlight made the clouds of Draco's ragged breath shimmer. He stretched out his hands and put them against the wood, cold beneath his fingers. He pushed.

The moonlight was as blinding as spellwork, as Avada Kedavra.

Draco stood on the threshold, blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

Slowly the entrance hall came into focus, darkened, the shadows gathering in the corners, the beams of moonlight narrowing, shrinking, leaving most of the hall in darkness once more, still enveloped.

Draco slunk out into the semidarkness, pushed the door shut behind him. No point in leaving evidence behind... keep the Dark Lord off my trail for as long as possible. The small, square windows were set above the main door and it was toward these Draco set his course, but now slower, not daring to run lest someone hear the slap of his boots on the stone.

"Who's there?" The words echoed around the empty hall and Draco froze, not even daring to look for the speaker. He sounded young. Some boy out of bed for the loo?

"I'm armed," came the voice. It was coming from some way above him, to his right. Draco tried to blend in with the walls.

"Speak!" it said.

After still no response, this time it shook, just a little, "If you're a Death Eater..."

"If I weren't, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

"Draco?"

Draco turned and looked up along the open upper storeys till his gaze landed on a pale face peeking through one of the pointed arches that held up the ceiling of the second storey. "Theodore," Draco breathed.

"You scared me," Theodore admitted. "I didn't know-"

"It's just me," Draco assured him quickly. "Go back to bed, Theodore."

Theodore shook his head. "Can't. The Dark Lord has me patrolling tonight." He seemed to throw out his chest, though it was hard to tell behind the railing, from so far down.

Draco didn't know how to respond to this, and as he had feared, Theodore continued, "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Thirsty," Draco said, thinking fast.

Draco waited while Theodore scrutinized him.

"Where are you going then? The stairs are back that way," he said, pointing the way Draco had come.

There was nothing on this ground floor save the door to the dungeons that Draco had come through, the stairs to the upper storeys, the door to the outside that Draco looked to with such longing, the great hall, and a broom closet. He had no reason to go to the great hall, and certainly none to go to the broom closet, and so he looked at Theodore sadly, his stomach all in knots as he tightened his hold on his wand.

"Are you feeling all right, Draco? You look a little green... Maybe you should go lie-"

"Confundo," Draco said quietly, unhappily to the wand. He watched the spell flutter on airy wings toward Theodore, whose face went slack, his eyes unfocused.

"Go to bed, Theodore," Draco said again.

"Yeah," came Theodore's slightly slurred words. "Okay. Goodnight."

Draco watched him stumble out of sight and looked down at the wand. He hadn't wanted to attack Theodore- Theodore, his old playmate, one of his last friends here in Durmstrang. It seemed like an ill-omen...

Draco sighed and looked again toward the front doors. Leave behind Durmstrang... leave behind the Dark Lord... He started forward again. It was now or never. There was no knowing if anyone else was patrolling tonight, nor, if anyone was, whether they would be able to recognize Theodore's symptoms as a jinx.

The pine doors looked as they had when he had come here- was it truly only a week ago?- with Professor Snape. He remembered the glittering world beyond, bathed in snow and moonlight. He remembered the Potions master's words: "Take me with you?" Draco had asked.

"You know I can't."

"I can't get out on my own."

"You're going to have to. I can't help you with this."

Draco took a deep breath, put his hand on the wood. No alarms sounded, so he pushed, blinking in the blinding light of the half moon on the snow. The cold blasted past him, almost pushing him back inside the castle, but he shouldered through it till he heard the crunch of the snow beneath his boots and knew he was outside. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder, his feet slipping on the ice, but he remained upright. Snape had made this all look so easy...

Draco's eyes adjusted, allowed him to see again the diamonds hidden in the white, the black silhouette of the Durmstrang ship on the frozen lake, the pine forest at the edge of the grounds like a line of jagged teeth, a line of black-clad soldiers standing guard.

Draco breathed in the cold air again, let it lace his lungs, filter into his blood, even as he hugged his cloak tighter about himself, even as he pulled the hood up to cover his ears, to cover his revealing blonde hair. He had to keep warm. He'd promised Dobby. He had to be warm enough to move, to run. He'd promised Dobby he'd get to Hogwarts. He hadn't said goodbye. He hadn't expressed his thanks.

If Potter hadn't freed Dobby, Draco thought, I'd free him for this, if he wanted to be free. I'd give him whatever he wanted. I will.

The snow got progressively denser beneath his feet as he proceeded down the stairs, each step a little nearer his feet, but the icy crust thankfully held his weight. He reached the snow's highest level, hesitated on the point. It was here he had always stopped, those many months ago when he would watch the sun's first rays spread across the then-green grounds. He felt again the wall of rules and warnings pushing him back, back toward the castle, back toward the Death Eaters, back toward the Dark Lord and his waiting wand. Draco looked again back at the black turrets and leering black windows of Durmstrang Institute. Then he looked out again at the grounds, judging as he often had before the distance to the forest, measuring out his steps. He left the stoop for level ground several steps earlier than he would have usually.

The snow crunched beneath his feet like regurgitated bones on the floor of the Hogwarts Owlery. He tried not to cringe at the sound as he pressed onward across the snow, tried not to wonder if his bones would crunch the same way as mice's and frogs'. The slope out of the valley was steeper than he had expected, and his feet slipped on the ice, making the climb all the more toilsome. He bent double to battle the forces pulling him back toward the castle.

The land leveled as he approached the lake that harbored Durmstrang's ghostly ship. Draco stopped, panting, his breath escaping in great, billowing clouds, as smoke rose from a ruined potion. Was it the late hour that made him so tired? He remembered as he stood there, turning his gaze to the black sky, alight with a thousand diamond stars, the twinkle in Dobby's great eyes as Draco proclaimed his desire to return to Hogwarts. Those stars were like the floating candles in the Great Hall that made the golden plates and goblets sparkle, that shimmered in the loose hair of students sitting beneath them, laughing often, or just chatting. A smile began to spread across his face. He saw the castle's tall turrets; its glittering windows. He remembered pulling velvet curtains shut around a soft bed covered by a downy quilt. He remembered sitting with Dobby by the kitchen fire, sipping a cup of hot chocolate made by the elf's recipe. He started forward again through the snow.

He had not made it into the shadow of the hull, however, when he froze again, his head craning around at the distant shout of, "There! There I see him!"

"Well, get after him!" Draco would have known that voice, now, anywhere. He knew it by the shudder it sent down his back, by the shiver it sent through his suddenly leaden legs. The Dark Lord. He'd been found out.

A horde of unmasked Death Eaters- the rabble who had guarded Durmstrang all along and, in front of these, the band that the Dark Lord had freed from Azkaban- was running across the snow, the cold air carrying their shouts across the grounds to Draco's numb ears. One or two fired curses, but they were too far to reach him yet. They would be able to soon.

Draco stood frozen like that, watching the Death Eater battle the hill, when a fire broke out on his arm. It made him clutch at his forearm with a groan as it spread its long fingers through his every nerve. The Dark Lord had pressed the Dark Mark of one of his Death Eaters. He was calling the others to him. Soon they would all be here and-

Draco tore his boots from the snow, forced all his excess energy and all his will into his legs. He stumbled forward into the ship's shadow. He was tearing through bars of light and dark, never enveloped in one or the other till he tore past the ship's stern into an unbroken field of bright, white moonlight. But now the Death Eaters were close behind him. One sent a Stunning spell at him. The jet of red light passed so close to Draco's shoulder that he felt its heat like the slice of a knife. Another passed close to his ear on the other side, ruffling his hair. Their shouts seemed amplified by ten. Draco darted a quick look over his shoulder as he ran and saw that, even as this first group gained, a second, masked and with wands ready, was not far behind them.

And at the head of the second group ran the Dark Lord himself, his bone-white face a beacon among the black of those he led, his red eyes fire in a world of ice.

Draco felt his feet slowing and a wonderful warmth seeping into every part of his body as he met those eyes. His suddenly blessedly empty head drooped on his neck and he saw his own shadow, dark on the white of the snow trailing after him, tugging at his feet, imploring him to slow down further.

Just stop running, he seemed to hear in his head, gentle, bewitching, cooing words. Just stop. Why should you run? There's no reason for it. Nothing to fear.

Draco's feet slowed further. He was plodding along through the snow now.

Just stop. Stop running.

There was laughter in his ears, wild, high laughter. A woman's, he thought.

The laughter seemed to trigger another voice, more insistent, echoing in his hollow mind. What are you doing? Idiot. They'll kill you if you stop. Run. RUN!

Draco's eyes grew wide as that panic infected him and he obeyed. He fled.

And stumbled. Something caught at his ankles, tripping him. He fell heavily forward, his body breaking at last through the layer of ice to the densely-packed snow beneath, falling through shards of glass into a cushion so deep it rose to ensnare his body, like the six-foot walls of a grave.

"Oh no you don't!" screeched a woman.

Draco, the warmth, the emptiness in his head gone in an instant only to be replaced by the aches of his fall, the sharp sear of his cut face and hands, wiggled onto his back, fighting the snowy arms that held him to the ground. The Death Eaters had closed around him, forming the circle he had seen, had joined in the great hall. His eyes flew from masked face to unmasked to masked, from wand to wand, some raised, some in fisted hands held at Death Eaters' sides. He thought he heard a low sob. He pushed himself upright, into a seated position, and only succeeded in cutting his hands further on the shards of ice and gaining a better view of the Dark Lord, standing not a meter from him, towering, his red eyes ablaze. Draco's shadow stretched to cling pleadingly to his ankles, even as Draco sat in the snow and stared.

"Draco. You are stubborn and rebellious. As ever."

"My lord-"

"Don't. You have flaunted my rule at every turn, Draco. What lord am I to you?"

"Sir, I-"

"No. No," the Dark Lord breathed, looking pensively toward the horizon, "perhaps I am wrong. I am still the lord," he said more firmly, swinging his red eyes back to pin Draco to the snowy ground, to lash his face again. "You are the wicked servant. The wicked servant that I, as master, must punish. Now, Draco. Not later. Not anymore."

"As I've said all along," Draco heard his father mumble from somewhere behind him, safely masked.

The Dark Lord raised his wand, steady in his hand, aimed it at Draco's heaving chest.

"Wait."

The Dark Lord shut his eyes and, for one wild moment, Draco thought he might win mercy, but then, "No. I cannot."

Draco stared, panting, his eyes beginning to sting as much as his frozen hands. He trembled. He shut his eyes. He didn't want to watch. But he could not stop his mind from flashing again the ends he'd seen for himself, from replaying the different ways he had imagined death to feel, even now: the twist and tug of his reluctant soul; the burning in his bones, intensified a thousand times beyond the magnitude of the Cruciatus' effect; the ice that rushed through him, steeling warmth from his limbs and leaving him still, dead; the sudden hardening of his blood, leaving him whiter than the snow; the-

"Still..." Draco peeked and saw that the Dark Lord had retracted his wand, was running a pensive finger along its wood as he stared at Draco. "I would have you die like the servant I would have had you be. Stand up, Draco."

Draco didn't resist, didn't hesitate. Just as he had he didn't know how many times before, just as he had when he had first arrived at Durmstrang, he stood before the Dark Lord, looking at the hem of his black robe, so contrasted against even the snow made grey by Draco's shadow. He half-expected the finger that crept toward him, that pressed, a knifepoint, against his chin, raising it till Draco's eyes met his.

"You could have been great, you know," the Dark Lord said, so quietly that Draco doubted any of the circle heard him. "You were destined for greatness, to rule by my side. You could have power beyond anyone's wildest imaginings."

Draco, looking into the Dark Lord's red eyes, though they burned, though it hurt to do so, felt something shift inside of him at the words, raise a weary head to sniff at the air, stretch its long neck and flex powerful wings like a dragon's. The power reared up inside of him, touching every point of his body with a sudden fire, dragon's fire, hot and deadly, but still running now through his veins, leaving him unharmed, exhilarated. His skin might have shone with the fire's blaze. His already shallow breathing grew heavier on the drug and the Dark Lord's thin mouth turned upward, watching his face.

"That's right," the Dark Lord cooed. "You feel it?" he whispered. "It could have been yours, Draco. It could all have been yours. And you chose this," he finished, releasing Draco with a hiss of disgust.

The wand swung upward again, but even as it did, the new power in Draco roared. It made Draco's blood boil more fiercely than it had when his father had threatened him as a child and he had grown petulant, had crossed thin arms over a thin chest and narrowed his eyes in a glare identical to his father's. He had stood that way through his shouts. He had tried to hold it as his wand came slashing through the air. But the Dark Lord wasn't punishing him with minor jinxes now, Draco realized, even as his hands clenched and he realized they were empty. He was not even going to punish him with his father's worst- the Cruciatus- the worst because the curse wasn't to be used on human beings; his father had told him so; Moody had told him so. Draco's boiling blood, the hammering in his ears, the thrill of power heightened his senses. His eyes flicked to the ground and he saw his wand lying in the snow behind him. He could fight, the power told him, but not like this, not unarmed.

"Avada-"

Draco dived sideways.

"- Kedavra!"

The snow melted straight to the brown grass below, leaving a great crater where Draco had been. The Dark Lord shrieked, an unearthly sound that sent shivers through Draco's whole frame even in this heightened state, almost stopped him. But he made a lunge for his wand, grabbing it back just in time, as another jet of green burst through the snow just where it had been.

Draco straightened, panting, but pointing his rescued wand steadily back at the Dark Lord, who met his even stare now with narrowed eyes, the calculating stare of a particularly aggressive hippogriff, watching as some fool approaches it with bravado, without respect. Draco would only make that mistake once. He knew this adversary too well. He respected the Dark Lord's talents, he respected his power. He watched and waited, wand still aimed.

The Dark Lord laughed a slow, low laugh, the froth and hiss of a bubbling poison over cauldron-fire. "What are you going to do, Draco? Curse me? You wouldn't dare."

"I cursed Theodore tonight," Draco told him bravely.

A bent Death Eater just in Draco's periphery vision stiffened.

The Dark Lord laughed again. "The Confundus Charm will hardly work on me, Draco."

"I've killed before."

"Once," the Dark Lord reminded him. "And then, I think, by accident."

Draco's breathing was still heavy. His heart still hammered against his chest, clamoring for escape. The power still told him he could do it.

"You could still come back," the Dark Lord hissed, again as quiet as falling snow that makes the world white and clean. "You could still rise to power alongside me."

"And on a chain!" The words ripped from Draco's throat on a roar. He grasped the wand with both hands now. "I'm leaving! I'm going home!"

"Home?" the Dark Lord chortled. "Draco, you've no where to go."

"Dumbledore won't hurt me," he said, repeating Dobby's conviction.

"He won't protect you either." The Dark Lord lowered his voice, "You can't escape me, Draco. I'm as much a part of you as your own being. I'm so deeply entwined with your own self that-"

"SHUT UP!" The Dark Lord was repeating the whispers of Draco's worst nightmares and, from the slow, satisfied curve of his lipless mouth, he knew it. "Stay out of my head," Draco added.

"So you admit it, then? You know?"

"No. I worry. I might even suspect. But I don't know."

"And you'll trust chance?"

"I'll trust myself." Draco, hands still on the wand, began to back up. He didn't dare turn from the Dark Lord, who stood, a dark tombstone in the snow, watching him with catlike eyes. "I'll trust whoever can keep me away from you."

The Dark Lord's head tilted. He took a step forward. "Keep you away from me? Not the other way around? Is this a confession that you don't truly wish to leave me?" He stretched forth one, long-fingered hand, white as the snow.

"Keep away from me!" Draco cried, scrambling backward now. A Death Eater's arms caught him, held him upright, inside the circle. The man squeezed his shoulders lightly before pushing him forward, back toward the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord gave a twisted smile. "Ah fear," he said, still advancing slowly, a cat creeping up on a cornered mouse.

Draco flashed a quick look at the man who had caught him: long fingered hands in dragonhide, a long, masked face, and eyes like black tunnels that bore through Draco.

Now, Draco, he heard in his head.

"Stupefy!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Draco took flight even as he shouted his jinx. He ducked. The Death Eater he had jinxed fell into the snow. The Dark Lord's green jet, sailing just past Draco so that he felt its heat at his back, sent the Death Eater's scattering, Goyle and Crabbe lumbering stupidly backward and sideways; Draco was surprised they didn't collide in their panic. Mr. Nott, between them and the Stunned Death Eater, flung himself to the ground; Draco hoped he wouldn't be trampled. His aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, on the other side of the Stunned man, shrieked, and made a wild grab for Draco's arm, which he dodged by leaping Mr. Nott's back. He landed outside the circle and kept running.

"Fools!" the Dark Lord shouted. "Get him! Get the boy! Stop him!"

Draco heard the squawks of Death Eaters spurred to action as he ran, his footsteps like the crackle of flame on the snow.

The pine forest was just up ahead now, up the steepest bit of the climb. He could see its green now in the light of the moon, see the darker shadows beneath the trees' feathery arms. He didn't worry about dignity now, but willingly used his hands to claw up the mountainside as he dodged more curses, as the Death Eater's shouts clawed at his ears. One red jet exploded just where his hand had been, causing Draco to gasp and drudge up even more energy to spur his climb.

He was in the blue shadow of the pines now. They were just ahead. He had only to make it to their snow-dusted branches and then-

He burst through the feathery branches of the pines, dusty snow cascading into his hood and down his collar. He was through. He was safe. He was-

"You little devil!"

Bellatrix Lestrange burst through the pines after him, her flyaway hair mussed on the fingers of the branches. "How dare you dishonor the blood that-" She let out of a roar of frustration and bent to loose her cape, which had also caught.

Draco didn't wait for her. He turned on the spot, focusing all his determination on Hogwarts, thinking of nothing but, and was sucked up into an airless, black tube.

A/N: I hope that was worth the wait. I'm sorry it was so long. Now I must warn that the next chapter will not be for some time as I am going on a short holiday/ choir concert tour in Venice and doubt I'll have energy at the end of the day to write anything more than the journal required for this class. So I'll see you all when I'm back in the States! Ciao!

Yours forever, Tsona