Author's Notes: This story was written for Dramione Couples Remix 2012 on Livejournal. The fest's prompts are famous couples in history, literature, movies, etc. My couple was Jareth and Sarah from the movie, Labyrinth.

I focused on the oubliette in that story. An oubliette is a dungeon that only has an opening at the top. It is from the French word oublier, which means "to forget". According to Hoggle in Labyrinth an oubliette is a place you put people to forget about them.

I used direct quotes from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Thank you to my wonderful Beta, Niteshine/ Blythe!

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize I do not own. No profit is being made by me.

READ THESE WARNINGS: Very dark elements, angst, graphic sexual content, dubious consent, drug-like references, brief mention of rape, bad language, torture via Cruciatus Curse, OOC due to plot, alternate universe (split from canon during the Skirmish at Malfoy Manor, seventh year). If you wish, read my Profile/Bio to see the kinds of warnings I do not make.

This story has a much darker tone than others I've published on Fanfiction so far, but I hope you enjoy it.



Draco remembered the oubliette as he watched his aunt torture Hermione Granger.

Malfoy Manor had many secret rooms and hidden passages, but its darkest and most mysterious architecture was the oubliette. It was silent, subterranean and completely undetectable through layers of magic and stone, a dungeon inspired by the legendary tombs of the pharaoh wizards with one notable exception. If he could find a way to get her there, Granger would be safe.

Draco knew he shouldn't care what happened to the Mudblood, but he did. He'd stopped trying to puzzle it out years ago, his shameful fascination, why his eyes lingered on her when he was unobserved.

He clenched his jaw every time the vicious acid of the Cruciatus Curse burned through her nerves. She screamed in agony, thrashing on the floor. Tears flowed out of the corners of her tightly shut eyes. Weasley screamed her name, over and over, pounding on the inside of the cellar door. He was frantic. He was in love with her.

As she struggled, her shirt twisted up over her waist, revealing a strip of soft, white skin. Draco heard an animal whimper and looked across the drawing room at Fenrir Greyback. The werewolf seemed in distress, trembling and panting. His eyes were black with lust, and his hideous hand was vigorously rubbing his erection through his trousers. Draco looked back down at Hermione, at her little body. Greyback would rip her apart.

"A copy? Oh, a likely story!" Bellatrix screamed. Then Father spoke, his voice quiet but urgent.

"Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not."

"The goblin, yes," Bellatix hissed, looking at Draco.

She had eyes like a beetle's shell, black and hard and shiny. Whenever he steps on a bug, when he hears its armor pop, he always thinks of his aunt's black eyes crushed beneath his shoe. He thinks of how much he hates her.

Draco hadn't met his Aunt Bellatrix until the summer he'd turned fourteen.

Azkaban terrified him, every breath filling his body with the chill of the Northern Sea and with despair. The year before, at Hogwarts, the dementors had seemed like monsters from a folktale, the misery they caused easily banished by a warm fire and a cup of hot chocolate. But here, there was no escape from a sense of deep desolation. Draco resisted the childish urge to take his mother's hand as they walked deeper into the cold prison.

All of his aunt's portraits had been burned upon her incarceration, but his mother had kept an old newspaper clipping, a betrothal announcement. In her youth, Bellatrix Black had been darkly gorgeous, regal and haughty. When she walked out of the shadows of her cell toward him, chains rattling, she was a ruin of beauty. Filthy, her black hair wild, her teeth rotten. She smelled of piss and shit. But somehow, she still seemed graceful. As poised as Mother who looked like a luminous angel in the dark.

Bellatrix walked as far as the manacles around her ankles would allow, into flickering torchlight, and stared at Draco intently through iron bars. Her black gaze felt like insects crawling over his skin. He looked down.

"He's weak," she sneered with disgust. "A little coward. You should have thrown him into the fire when he was born and tried again."

"Bella. Stop."

"Tell me, Cissy, do you still spread your pretty, white thighs for Lucius? Can you still give him a real heir?"

"Bella," Narcissa said almost gently. "Do you want us to leave?"

Bellatrix fell silent then and considered her sister, who was only granted visitation once a year.

Despite their great differences, Draco felt like he was looking at a woman and her reflection in an enchanted mirror. A glimpse through glass into the underworld. They had the same long neck and sharp cheekbones. They held their chins at the same proud angle. Both of their expressions were wary. And then Bellatrix's gaze softened, and she reached out her hand.

He was glad when Mother didn't reach out as well, even if only because the bars were cursed. He was not a coward. Bellatrix Lestrange was an ugly, crazy bitch.

"The Dark Lord," she whispered, her voice passionate and reverent. She turned her arm over, revealing her faded Mark. The snake and the skull. Draco had never seen one before. His father hid his like it was something disgraceful. Bellatrix caressed hers like a lover.

"He whispers to me in the dark," she said. "The maze. The graveyard. Flesh of the servant, willingly given." She turned her stroking fingers into claws, her dirty nails digging into her wrist until they created a ragged bracelet of blood.

"It should be me," she whined, her voice suddenly girlish and petulant. "It should be me and not the fucking rat!"

It's true. She's mad. Draco watched, mesmerized, as Bellatrix smeared her blood over the Dark Mark. The snake seemed to glisten in the firelight. She sank to her knees, wrapped her hand around her skinny arm and started to rub it, up and down, like a cock. She let out a low moan and closed her eyes.

"Draco," Mother said calmly. "Wait for me down the hall."

He hesitated, not wanting to be alone in this forsaken place. He had seen the living men with the dead, soulless eyes. He was afraid the dementors would come and suck his soul out of his mouth. The second before his mother would have spoken again, more firmly, he turned and walked away.

Bellatrix called after him, mocking him.

"You'd better find your courage, little rabbit. Find it quick, like a rabbit. He is coming back. He is coming back!"

Draco brought the goblin up from the cellar and waited for his chance. It came after Griphook confirmed the sword of Gryffindor was a fake, and Bellatrix summoned the Dark Lord, stroking her nails, now long and black, over her Dark Mark. When she told Greyback he could have the girl, a tormented shout sounded through the room, and Potter and Weasley attacked.

Greyback reached Hermione first, with supernatural speed. He had shred off his clothes as he ran and hunched over her, naked, his penis obscenely large and red. He raised one clawed hand high, preparing to savagely rip through her clothes and her skin, to expose her cunt and fuck her to death.


The intensity of Draco's spell blasted the werewolf back against the mirror over the fireplace, shattering its silver surface with a thousand tiny cracks. Greyback was on his feet, snarling and furious, within seconds. There wasn't time for another spell. Draco jumped the last five steps, reaching out for Hermione. He gripped her arm hard, closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel the heat of the wolf near his back as he and Hermione Disapparated.

They reappeared inside the oubliette.

It was pitch black. Cold and silent. He and Hermione were alone.

"Lumos," Draco murmured.

The tip of his wand glowed brilliant white, revealing a small, round room, made entirely of black stone. There were no doors or windows. No bed or chair. No ceiling that he could see. It was like the bottom of a waterless well. He had only been in this secret dungeon once before, when he was thirteen. His father had demonstrated its power to him with a house-elf. Only a Malfoy could enter or leave it or someone with a Malfoy.

Hermione lay broken on the floor, and Draco kneeled beside her.

"Granger," he said, shaking her. She was limp, bloody and bruised. Unconscious but still breathing. He performed a hasty, basic healing spell. He shrugged off his jacket and transfigured it into a black pillow before slipping it beneath her head.

Even battered, she was a beauty. He softly traced the sculpted line of her cheekbone. It was the first time he had ever touched her, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

He stood up abruptly. There wasn't time now. The Dark Lord would be here soon.

"Dobby has no master! Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friend."

His friend.

Draco quietly entered the drawing room and saw chaos. The chandelier had fallen to the floor, a heap of glittering crystal. The house-elf stood near the fireplace and took Harry Potter's hand.

"Ron – GO!" Potter shouted, tossing a wand to Weasley.

Draco was only peripherally aware of Potter and the elf Disapparating, of the swirl of Bellatrix's black robes as she flung her silver dagger through the air. He watched Ron Weasley, who held the injured goblin like a child. Griphook clutched the sword. Weasley caught the wand and without hesitation, he Disapparated, too.

There was a moment of shocked silence and then Lucius and Bellatrix were screaming at each other, about letting the prisoners escape and the vanished knife and the Dark Lord's approach. About the terror of the situation and how he would punish them. Draco scanned the room. He saw the Snatchers rushing out the door. Fenrir Greyback stood in a corner, still naked, and confused. His eyes were ice blue with pinpoint pupils. Draco smelled his mother's perfume and turned to look down at her as she took his arm.

"Draco," she whispered. "Where were you?"

He considered his answer and then said, "With Hermione Granger." His mother's blue eyes narrowed.

"Who is Hermione Granger?"

Draco resisted a triumphant smile.

"No one," he said.

Her housemates, her teachers, her parents. Her best friend and the boy who loved her. Her enemies, including the most powerful dark wizard of all time. Not one of them remembered her. She had never existed.

The oubliette was a place you put someone to have them forgotten.