Story Title: The Boy Who Thought He Had No Choice
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing. But I wish this had happened.
Introduction: Hello readers! (and possible Druna shippers) I've wanted to give Draco a second chance for a long time, and I had this idea the other day. I might be a slow writer. And if you're reading, feel free to critique, because I'm pretty amateur! Anyways, no more need be said. Enjoy!
Chapter 1 - The Day She Came
Draco Malfoy lay curled in the middle of the cold floor in his bedroom, sweat droplets leaving shiny tracks on his face, mingling with another moisture, which he kept swiping away, almost angrily.
He flinched and curled tighter as an inhuman scream echoed through the Manor, tearing at him. It was a girl's scream, and Draco knew who's.
He could see her on the backs on his eyelids, her slim body writhing on the ornamental rug before the drawing-room fireplace, long, platinum-blonde curls tangled, silvery-blue eyes wide with pain.
No! He pinched his eyes tighter, trying to push the image away, and was instead confronted with one of his father, Lucius Malfoy. The strong jawline, sweeping pale hair, and crooked smirk made Draco's despair even deeper, for the same face stared back at him from every mirror he looked into.
His father, a Death Eater, perhaps even the very person torturing the girl downstairs.
The screams faded to whimpers, mixed with the harsh tones of Dolohov, McNair, and several voices he didn't yet recognize from the more recently-recruited Death Eaters.
Draco was glad he couldn't hear their words.
He rolled himself into a sitting position, head in his hands, utterly miserable. Why did I ever want to be one of them?
There was a knock at the door. "Draco?" said a voice. Mother.
"Hang on," he managed, scrambling to his feet, shaking out his crumpled robes, and running a hand through his tousled hair before unlocking and opening the door.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in the hall, her lined face devoid of emotion, wearing a set of fancy robes. "My son. I trust you are well?"
The formality was hardly new to Draco, as a pureblood, and he felt his own mask slide into place as he replied in kind, "Yes, mother," he found the words slipping off his tongue as they always did, "but I would prefer to be left alone. I'm sure you must understand."
She flinched slightly.
He knew it was wrong of him to allude to her lack of parental guidance in such a cruel and pointed manner, but the words were out now. He couldn't take them back.
"Be down for dinner tonight," she said coldly, meeting his eyes steadily. "Your father had been inquiring as to your absence the last two evenings. You would do well not to anger him." And with those words, she turned away, heels clicking on the shining hall floor, robes swishing.
Draco watched her leave, something like regret bitter in his heart. He couldn't think of a time when she'd been anything like a real mother to him, or a time when she'd stood up to Lucius, but somewhere deep inside, he knew she loved him, in her own distant manner.
He didn't see her lean against a tapestry out of sight, blinking tears out of her eyes, her breath hitching. He never heard her whispered, "Oh, Draco!" before she calmed herself and proceeded down the staircase.
Instead, he pulled out his wand and locked the door with a simple alohomora, hands still shaking a little.
The Manor was silent once more, the Lovegood girl's whimpers silenced, which Draco hoped didn't mean they'd killed her. He doubted it, however. The Death Eaters needed her to keep her crazy old father from writing things in the Quibbler they didn't like.
Loony Lovegood. The eccentric yearmate he'd often made fun of, along with most of the school. He could remember her skipping down the halls, wearing the strangest outfits, multicoloured paper glasses, and usually barefoot, chattering to anyone who would listen about her father's latest fool imaginings.
It's odd, he mused, how Potter and his lot sort of adopted her after fifth year. She was in "Dumbledore's Army", even.
Draco no longer felt pride for his role in the discovery of the secret Defense club. Instead, remorse, shame, and some regret filled his gut, just thinking of it.
He missed school. He missed the old castle, with its ever-changing staircases, talking portraits, and secret passages. He missed his four-poster bed, and the Slytherin common room under the lake.
Most of all, he missed Potions.
And he could never return, not after what he's done.
All of it, to stay alive and please his Master.
The same Master he dreaded facing tonight, at dinner. For the Dark Lord would be there. He always was.
Draco wished the Dark Lord would leave him and his family in peace. He wished the Dark Lord would-
He refused to let that train of thought go any further, and instead, the beginnings of an idea formed in the back of his mind.
In the cellar of Malfoy Manor, a very blonde slip of a girl sat, her back against the stone wall in the darkness, listening to the irregular breathing of her new cellmate, the man who'd made her wand.
Luna was tired.
She wanted to sleep, and knew she should rest her aching body, but something was keeping her awake. Despite being taken from her own home and surviving the pain of two Cruciatus curses, she wasn't tired. If Daddy were here, he would come up with a good reason for her insomnia.
Maybe it was a dabberblimp. She wished she could ask him.
But he wasn't here.
And she was glad. She didn't want him to be here, in the place Voldemort was living, watching his little Luna tortured.
She missed him.
There were footsteps on the stone steps outside her prison.
Lune slumped. She'd hoped they were done with her, and that she could be left alone down here, safe. Safe from cruel men and their illegal spells.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open a crack, a thin beam of light illuminating the floor.
Please, she thought hard, forget me. Go away.
She was surprised to see a pale, long-fingered hand and forearm curl around the bottom of the mostly-closed door, depositing two apples just inside before disappearing. The person then relocked the door.
The footsteps faded.
Luna crawled to the door and felt for the fruit, heart beating fast.
Someone cares. Someone in this nightmare actually cares.