Summary: Instead of taking Harry's hand, Draco vanished through the Vanishing Cabinet and ended up in a world where good genes triumphed over all.
Warning: Slash(meaning this is your last chance to leave before and anything that happens after this point is NOT MY FAULT.)
Flames surrounded him. They fed off the lost and forgotten of the Room of Requirement and burned. Smoke rose in droves as it blackened the walls and ceilings, shifting in displacement as one Harry Potter soared through the room on his broom. The damned Golden Boy, Draco thought with a sneer as he climbed higher on the apparent mountain of chairs Hogwarts had lost in the thousand year it had stood. At the top was the Vanishing Cabinet, one of a pair of cabinets that was probably large enough for two large males to fit inside, that he was supposed to repair before the bloody-nosy Boy-Who-Lived had found them. He was glad that Potter had stopped them before Crabbe and Goyle forced him to attach the final piece.
Luckily, during their 'so-called' duel in which Potter had with his two enforcers, Crabbe had lit himself up with an accidental spell of Fiend Fyre. Goyle fainted when his best friend began screaming and Potter must have dragged him out since Draco hid himself within the oddities that randomly appeared in the Room.
Unfortunately, the Fiend Fyre had spread to the point that most surfaces nearest to the bottom had caught on, forcing Draco to scramble upwards. He could have easily levitated himself but his wand was long lost and even if he had it, major spells were out of his range. His magic, sealed within the blood-made ink that formed his Dark Mark, lies dormant, stirring only for the briefest moments when Potter thought he was willingly letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts and was about to attack him.
Otherwise, he was helpless. And Malfoys hated being helpless.
Within the smoke, he caught sight of Potter, on his broom, holding onto a large body that must have been Goyle, heading for the door. Draco bit back a bitter retort, knowing that allowing more smoke into his lungs was unsafe. He did blamed the soft tears that stung his eyes, however, at the smoke. Yes, Potter was Potter and Draco was a Malfoy. His friendship was refused; why would Potter save him?
Shutting out unwanted thoughts, he focused on the task at hand and continue climbing, breathing in short intervals when he can clasped his sleeve over his nose and mouth to filter out the ashen air. The wood beneath his fingertips were warming from the heat rising off the flames that seemed to licked its way up faster than he could climb. Several already broke under his weight and only his Seeker reflexes saved from plumbing to his death.
He was perhaps a meter from the top and the Cabinet when a he heard his name called out. Glancing back, Potter was flying towards him, dodging flames and fallen objects in the air. Quite impressive, for Potter at least.
However, the flames seemed reluctant in letting the Gryffindor closer to Draco, flaring up every so often that forced Potter to veer out of the way and therefore farther from where Draco cautiously holding onto a weakening arm of a chair. Draco rolled his silver-blue eyes. If Potter ever got to him, this whole place probably burned down already. Shaking his head in exasperation, he resumed his climb and at the top, he balanced himself carefully against a wooden bench for the small key concealed in his Mokeskin* pouch.
Finally, what seemed to be hours but perhaps only seconds later, his hands latched around a cold, iron object. Pulling the key out of the pouch, he stuck it into the keyhole of the Cabinet and yanked the door opened. A black hole of what seemed to be endless night confronted him. Draco hesitated at the sight.
Glancing behind him, he rolled his eyes again when he spotted Potter still wavering in a desperate attempt to get nearer to where he was. Draco felt appeased for that time years ago when Potter refused his hand, his mouth curving slightly. He would never admit this out loud, even if he survived this.
Dragging a deep breath from behind the sleeves of his cloak, which was begin to smell slightly uncomfortable in the heat, he raised his voice. "Save yourself! I can save myself!"
Frustration seemed to permeated the actions of the boy on the broom as he dodged another random flare that nearly seared his side. Draco swore he saw something went up behind all the smoke. He shrugged. He did not know if Potter had heard him but that was his problem and quite frankly, he did not quite care anymore if he gets out of this place for not. He had to attempt, his pride would not let him go if he had not even tried to escape. Nevertheless, his last regret had been appeased (Potter refusing his handshake) and both of his parents were out of Voldemort's reach. His father was dead and his Mother safely tucked away in a safe house of the Order of Phoenix, thanks to his Godfather.
Taking a deep breath, flinching slightly at the flames that licked at his Dragon-hide boots, Draco climbed into the Cabinet, arm curved around the front to twist the key, locking the Cabinet. Then, he pulled the key out, tucking it back into his Mokeskin pouch. He closed his eyes as the door shuts and knew no more.
For what felt like days, Draco finally exited out of that darkness that bound his senses. Finally, he could smell the scent of grass and rain in the air, feel it moved against his skin whenever something else took its place. He could hear, could tell that he was alive. Even his magic came back, warm and comforting against his Core but without direction, it lie still, wary but contained. Some part of his mind kept him unconscious, at least physically as Draco felt himself prodded and pricked by several unknown. His pain seemed minute, however, which made him even more impatient to wake up but his body refused to listen to him.
He drifted through his dreams, waking up several times but never quite remember the experiences. Behind his eyelids constantly flashed the images of men in long white coats, curious faces and gloved hands that pried open his eyes, his mouth. Over time, he could feel the cold, smooth surface of the steel he lies on, the warmed, vise-like leather that strapped across his chest, waist, wrists and ankles, keeping him absolutely still.
Despite the idea of his strange imprisonment, Draco never felt the tightening of his muscles or flexing of his fist. His body was in a constant state of relaxation that made it impossible for him to do anything. Frustration grew and during one of the moments where his consciousness was close to the surface, his magic flared up to loosen the bindings. That was, before his right arm prickled and he sank back into blessed oblivion. It was too late, however, his magic was already on the move, adapting him to whatever it was that was being put into his body and the time between the moments of awareness became shorter and shorter. He never showed that he was awake, keeping his eyes closed and his body relaxed.
Thanks to the constant darkness and yearning for knowledge of what was happening around him, his senses began improving. He began to notice the slight differences in footsteps whenever someone entered or exited his prison cell. He noticed the scent of some type of alcohol (disturbingly similar to Fire Whiskey) in the air. He was also aware and his anger flared every time a sharp needle pierced his flesh, pouring some type of poison into his veins.
Ironically enough, his imprisonment allowed him to practice patience, which Severus had often commented that he severely lacked. He waited and waited, counting the seconds whenever he was awake and finding the time increasing more and more. He also measured the time between his consciousness and the arrival of the men (or women) that imprisoned him and nearly grinned when he found them to be parallel. In the beginning, just as he came to, someone would inject something into his veins and forced him back into his cage, but the time was increasing. He had several theories, of course, the first being that he was adapting and his body was getting rid of the poison in his body faster and faster.
That second theory was more pessimistic, in which his jail men knew exactly when he was awake and choose to lengthen them for their amusement, just to see what he do. Of course, the pride he put in his acting smothered that thought completely. Needlessly, his pride refused to let him give up, forcing him to wait and wait.
He nearly gave up several times and almost released his magic but forced it back into his core. He needed more time, more time between when he was awake and his injection, to escape this prison forever. Part of him wanted revenge, but the sensible part told him it was more important for him to escape.
During one of these bouts of frustration, his entire room shook. His eyes snapped open, revealing a room, reinforced by steel on all six sides, save for one corner where a door stood. The room shook again, similar whenever a Quake spell was cast. Alarmed, his magic responded by snapping the leather bindings, perhaps a bit too hard. Draco flinched and gently climbed off the metal table he lied on. His legs nearly gave out when he stood and long, silver-blonde hair fell over his eyes, brushing a few inches past his bare shoulders. Draco blinked owlishly and cursed when the room shook again.
He grabbed onto the steel table, which was nailed to the floor, to keep himself upright. Just how long did he sleep? He pondered as the quake subsided.
On jellied legs, he padded towards the doors, whispering, "Alohomora."
A metallic click could be heard and the door slide open with a hiss. Using the walls to support himself, Draco made his ways through the tunnels of pure white corridors. He fell several times, landing harshly on his knees whenever a quake rolled through the compound he was in. Ten or fifteen minutes later, Draco's patience had nearly run out, especially with his knees bruised and scraped. However, Apparating was out of the question because he had no idea where he was and attempting a grander scale spell without an object to focus his magic was just plain stupid. Anything hardy and nature-made can be used to focus his magic. A wand would be preferable but who would keep a free wand this close to an imprisoned wizard and he refused to believe that those stupid Muggles was his jailers.
Without much options, he trudged against the white wall and rounded the corner.
He almost jumped out of his skin when a man went flying right past him, slamming into the corner's wall, crumpling with a soft moan. Blinking, he looked up to find himself under the scrutiny of another man, this one in a pair of black glasses that was strangely enough, darkened and glowed with an eerie red. Perhaps a year or two older than his own seventeen years, the man's dark hair was quite nice, both silky and soft-looking. His height and muscled body underneath the leather jacket and Muggle jeans he wore was intimidating but even with the concealing glasses, his face was expressive and handsome…for a Muggle.
The man's mouth, which was shapely enough in Draco's opinion, seemed to fell open in surprise as he looked Draco up and down. In any other situation, Draco would have appreciated such scrutiny.
"I know I'm naked but its quite rude to stare," Draco rasped out softly.
The man flushed just as another rounded the corner at the other end of the hallway, a woman this time. Her movements matched an unseen force as she slammed another man, one dressed in a black vest and suit similar to the unconscious man at Draco's side, into the wall, knocking him out as well.
While the man looked normal enough, the woman was not like anyone he'd ever seen, with a mane of shocking white hair that seemed to clashed fantastically with her darkened milk-chocolate complexion. She looked to be about mid-twenties to early thirties though he leaned towards the former. Her body was also pleasing, he if was attracted to women, slightly muscled without an ounce of fat, firm breasts and shapely legs encased in purely leather. What really amused him was the came she wore, dark blue on the outside and white inside. She had a flare for dramatics, he supposed, much like his own. With azure blue eyes, she peered curiously at Draco and gave the man with the sunglasses a questioning glance as she walked towards them. "Mutant?"
Maybe not a Muggle, he thought, and the relief took all the strength out of his legs and he collapsed.
The man caught him before he hit the ground, holding him upright as he slung one of Draco's flimsy arms over his shoulders. Blinking wearily, he allowed himself to be half-carried, half-dragged by the man in glasses.
"He's not a guard or a scientist." the man in the darkened glasses replied. Draco assumed that the man must be American since he lacked the European accent. "The Professor only sensed one right?"
The woman nodded, appearing as a jerky movement from between Draco's desperate blinking to stay awake. "I'll keep going to make sure we don't miss anyone, take him out." She said with a slight twang to her voice but again, not British nor any of the European country by any means.
Nodding, the man with glasses shifted Draco in his arms until his free arm was hooked beneath his knees and he was carried through the barren hallways in bridal style. He was tempted to give in but he had slept enough so he forced himself to stay awake as they exited the compound through a small, metallic doors. Outside, Draco only saw trees, trees, trees and behind them, a door against the side of a mountain. A secret base? he thought and mentally shrugged. He had learned long ago that secrets were bad, but they were necessary. He was out, the secrets of his prison did not concern him as long as they do not come after him again.
A grim smile pervaded his thoughts, they will regret it if they ever come after him.
They walked for a while. Well, the man with dark glasses walked and Draco watched, both the man and their surroundings. They entered a clearing and the man stopped at the edge. He looked down at Draco and he nearly shivered at his own frail reflection within the glasses. "Can you stand?"
"Yes," Draco replied.
The man set Draco on his feet, keeping one arm around his waist, hands warm against his bare skin, as he rummaged through the pockets of his jeans. "What's your name anyway?"
"Draco," he replied, closing his eyes and leaned back on the heels of his feet. His voice was still raspy. Draco could feel the dirt beneath his feet and despised it. Clothes was probably the top of his list of 'things to-do,' right behind some pumpkin juice and a warm bowl of soup. Though he was not really interested, Draco asked anyways. "And yours?"
"You can call me Scott." He replied absently and shot him a grin as he finally pulled out a set of Muggle-looking keys. "Found it." The keys were attached to a black, plastic object with small buttons on it. Scott, or Cyclops, pressed one and to Draco utter shock and amusement, a huge, flying Muggle utensil appeared in the clearing.
"What, is that?" Draco said, gaping that the monstrosity even if he will never admit it to good company.
A grin tug at Scott's lips. "This is the SR-71 Blackbird. The best and probably the fastest thing you can find in the in the sky. It can go over 32 hundred miles within an hour."
"Miles?" Draco nearly rolled his eyes at the American. He assumed 'miles' was a way to measure distance, much like kilometers, which sensible people (both Muggles and Wizards) use. There were inches, of course, but only wand-makers like Ollivanders use them since a foot, or twelve inches is the average length for a wand. "What is that compared to kilometers?"
"Oh…uh…" Scott flushed. "Five thousand km per hour?"
Draco was impressed, even if it was apparently a rough estimation. The bloody thing was faster than the most modern Firebolt. "Very nice."
This brought back the smile to Scott's face and he nodded at the plain with a smug look of male satisfaction. "Yes, it is." After several more buttons, the side of the Blackbird shifted to revealed an opening in which Scott practically carried Draco into flying instrument. The inside was quite nice, mostly black, with leather seats and blinking lights and colored buttons panels at the very front. At the very end they entered were leather benches attached to the walls of the Blackbird, where Scott settled Draco down before slipping off his leather jacket and put it over Draco's shoulder.
"Thank you," he said diplomatically as he pulled the blanket over his lap, ignoring Scott's flush when his gaze was drawn to the movements. Draco let himself smile as he looked up to meet Scott's hidden eyes. "And thank you for rescuing me as well."
Scott swallowed. "Y-you're welcome."
Leaning against the cold wall, Draco let his hands slip beneath the coat for warmth. While he did not mind his nakedness (he had nothing to be ashamed of), he did mind the silence that followed and choose to break it. "Did you know how long I was imprisoned?"
It took Scott a moment to process and he stared at Draco curiously. "No…"
"They kept me asleep constantly and it was pure chance I woke up when you and your friend arrived." Draco said in explanation before he fingered the ends of his hair. It was at least a year, he supposed, if no one had deigned to cut his hair. He released the lock between his fingers and looked up at Scott again. "So, are you a Muggle?"
This brought on a frown. "A what?"
Not a wizard. Draco almost sighed in relief. "A normal human," he answered.
To his surprise, Scott shook his head. "No, I'm a mutant."
"A mutant?" Draco asked in surprise.
"Someone with …special…abilities." he said, staring at Draco strangely.
Well this is news. "What's yours?"
"I…uh…can shoot lasers out of my eyes." he answered.
Draco's brows rose until it reached his hairline. "What are lasers and why would you shoot them out of your eyes?"
"Ah…I guess lasers are a form of concentrated energy. My eyes gives them off, destructively," he tapped his glasses. "That's why I wear these. To protect those around me."
"A noble endeavor," Draco replied, thinking of Voldemort and Fenrir, perhaps his father as well. "If only everyone could think that way about their own powers. And your friend? What is her power?"
"Storm? She can control the weather," he replied with a small grin.
"Weather?" Draco was surprised, not many wizards or witches can control weathers, they simply do not have the raw power. In his own year, perhaps only he, Potter, and that blasted Granger girl were strong and disciplined enough to even attempt that. His mouth quirked in a smile. "That's why she is called Storm. Very apt name."
"Yeah." Scott said. "So how 'bout you?"
Draco arched an eyebrow at Scott. "Me?"
"Yeah, what's your power?"
"I do not have one. At least, I don't think I do," he said. A safe, ambiguous answer that was a lie yet not. He was normal, strong for a wizard, but not abnormally so like Voldemort or Potter. Freaks the both of them. But while he was not exactly a Mutant, as the Muggle termed them, he does have powers, several, as do any witch or wizard. Since Scott was not a wizard, revealing the Wizarding world to him was out of the question.
"Really? Then why were you in that place?" Scott asked, his tone a bit wary now.
"How do you expect me to know?" Draco replied with another question, but keeping his tone even. "One moment I was in school, and the next I was waking up in apparently what seemed to be a laboratory. I've never even met my kidnapper, beside the two men you and your friend knocked out, and you expect me to know why I was there?"
Scott stared at him from behind the glasses.
"You're forgiven," Draco said before Scott could voice an apology (probably) before settling back, ignoring the indignant look on Scott's face. He drew the coat closer and closed his eyes. "Wake me when we arrive wherever it is we are going."
A/N: choices for pairing with Draco (who is obviously the main character)
Scott/Cyclops, Logan/Wolverine, Remy/Gambit, Kurt/Nightcrawler and unfortunately: Magneto/Eric. Pick one.
*Since I have seen Mokeskin pouches being mentioned in any fanfic I've read, it happens to be the name for magical pouches that was used in the books. Don't believe me? Look it up.
Otherwise, please lease leave comments, concerns, and other verbal abuse.