Found
“Goyle?” a voice whispered through the darkness.
Draco’s head snapped up, a jolt of adrenaline pushing through the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. He blinked against the dim light of the cellar, his heart pounding painfully as he struggled to focus. That voice…
“Potter?” he croaked, his throat raw and voice barely more than a rasp. Of all the people in the world to find him like this, it had to be Harry bloody Potter.
The light from Potter’s wand cut through the shadows, casting eerie shapes across the stone walls. Draco flinched at the sudden brightness, shrinking back instinctively. He could barely feel his legs, the cold seeping into his bones. He’d lost count of how long they’d kept him here. His limbs were heavy, leaden with fatigue, his wrists chafed raw against the shackles.
Draco blinked again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Potter was staring at him, mouth slightly open in shock, disbelief etched across his features. Draco almost laughed—a strangled, bitter sound that got caught in his dry throat.
“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice was tight, his expression twisting as he took in Draco’s haggard appearance, the shackles that had been biting into his wrists, and the bruises littering his skin. “What the hell—”
Draco tried to lift his head, but the effort sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He swallowed against the nausea, his mind racing even as his body refused to cooperate.
He watched, tense and silent, as Potter’s gaze flickered around the cellar, taking in every detail. Then Potter shifted, his jaw clenching, and his hand twitched toward his Auror badge.
Oh no.
Panic shot through Draco like a jolt of electricity. He didn’t need to hear Potter say the words—he could see it in the idiot’s face, the way he was straightening up, already forming a plan.
He’s going to call for backup. For them.
“No,” Draco rasped, the single word costing him more than he cared to admit. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges, but he forced himself to keep his gaze locked on Potter’s face. “Don’t.”
Potter blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What? But I—”
“No Ministry,” Draco managed, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Don’t… call anyone.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with confusion. “Malfoy, I have to—”
“No!” Draco bit out, his voice fierce despite the strain. Merlin’s beard, will this idiot listen to him? “You can’t. They… they need to think… I’m dead.”
That seemed to catch Potter’s attention. He froze, staring at Draco as if he’d sprouted a second head. “What?” he breathed, brow furrowing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Draco swallowed, the motion sending a spike of pain through his parched throat. He glanced up at the shackles dangling from his wrists, bile rising as the reality of his situation crashed over him again. Focus. Think. If Potter called in the Ministry now, they’d capture the imposter, sure—but the ones behind it? They’d disappear. Vanish. And Draco would be dragged back to square one. Or worse.
“They can’t know,” Draco whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “If they find out… you’ll lose them. All of them.”
Potter hesitated, clearly torn between his instincts and whatever thread of logic Draco’s broken words were offering. Draco’s pulse hammered in his ears, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He could see the questions swirling in Potter’s eyes, the need to help warring with the frustration of not understanding.
Of course, you’re confused, you daft idiot. But think, Potter. Think.
“We need… to get out,” Draco muttered hoarsely. “Then… blow it. Make them think I… tried to escape.”
“What?” Potter asked sharply, leaning forward as if that would make Draco’s words clearer.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back a wave of dizziness. Merlin, why does everything hurt so much? “Blow the cellar,” he ground out. “Make it… look like I—”
Understanding flickered across Potter’s face. He took a step back, eyes widening as he glanced around the dark, crumbling cellar. “You want me to—”
“Please,” Draco whispered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. Damn it. Desperate. Weak. But it seemed to work. Potter’s gaze softened, and he gave a tight, reluctant nod.
“Alright,” Potter murmured. He stepped forward, his movements careful and deliberate, and raised his wand toward Draco’s wrists. “Hold still,” he muttered.
Draco tensed involuntarily as the tip of Potter’s wand hovered inches from the iron shackles. With a soft incantation, the metal restraints clicked open, falling away from Draco’s bruised wrists and landing on the stone floor with a dull clatter.
The relief was almost overwhelming. Draco flexed his fingers experimentally, biting back a wince as pain flared along the raw skin. He glanced up, catching Potter’s gaze for just a moment before looking away.
“Thank you,” he mumbled grudgingly, swallowing down the bitterness that always seemed to rise whenever he had to express gratitude to Harry Potter.
Potter just nodded tightly, his expression strained. He raised his wand again, this time pointing it at the floor, and whispered a spell Draco didn’t quite catch. Something flashed at the tip of the wand—faint and shimmery, like a ripple in the air.
“It’ll trigger a delayed Bombarda,” Potter said quietly. “We’ll have about ten seconds after we’re gone before it goes off.”
Good enough. Draco sagged back against the wall, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could feel the world tilting, darkness pressing in at the edges of his vision.
“Hold on,” Potter murmured, stepping closer. “Kreacher, take us to Grimmauld Place.”
The words barely registered in Draco’s muddled mind as the world blurred, twisting in a sickening whirl of green fire—before everything went dark.
-
Draco’s eyes fluttered open, his vision swimming with the hazy remnants of unconsciousness. The first thing that registered was a muted gray ceiling above him, unfamiliar and bare. His body ached dully, the sharp, raw pain that had been his constant companion for so long now replaced by a heavy sluggishness that weighed down his limbs.
Where am I?
The room around him came into blurry focus. He was lying on a simple bed covered in plain, dark sheets. The walls were empty, devoid of any personal touches or decorations. There was a single wooden chair by the bedside, a small table, and a wardrobe tucked into the corner, all of it looking untouched, as if someone had dragged in the bare minimum of furniture to make this space somewhat functional but nothing more. It felt… deserted. Lifeless.
Draco tried to push himself up, only to slump back with a groan as the world spun violently. His arms were heavy, as if filled with lead, and his muscles protested at even the slightest movement. He glanced down and blinked, surprised to see the soft glow of healing spells lingering faintly along the cuts and bruises that had once marred his skin.
Someone… healed me?
Before he could process that, a small sound drew his attention to the far side of the room. Draco’s eyes widened as he spotted a hunched figure watching him from the corner, its large, bat-like ears and bulbous eyes unmistakable even in the dim light.
A house-elf.
The creature’s gaze was sharp and unblinking, his wrinkled face set in a wary frown. The elf wore a ragged towel embroidered with the Black family crest—a sight that sent a jolt of recognition through Draco’s sluggish mind.
The elf belonged to the Black family. And the only person alive who had claim over the Black family’s house-elves now was—
Potter.
Draco’s breath hitched. He struggled to prop himself up on one elbow, ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges. “Where… am I?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and scratchy.
The house-elf’s ears twitched, and he straightened, his expression shifting from wary to something almost… affronted. “Master Harry told Kreacher to watch you, Master Malfoy,” the elf said in a low, gravelly tone, his words clipped. “Kreacher was told to call Master Harry the moment you woke up.”
Draco’s heart stuttered. “No, wait—”
But before he could finish, Kreacher vanished with a soft pop, leaving the room feeling colder and more empty than before.
Damn it.
Draco sank back against the pillow, his pulse racing. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, still struggling to catch up with everything that had happened. He was free—no longer trapped in that dark, suffocating cellar. But now he was here. In Potter’s house, apparently. Or whatever this place was.
The last thing he remembered clearly was the cellar at the Manor, Potter’s shocked face swimming in front of him as he tried to explain—tried to make him understand why they couldn’t go to the Ministry, why Draco had to disappear for good. But everything after that was a blur of pain, dizziness, and fear. He remembered Potter’s arms around him, the rush of Apparition, and then… nothing.
The thought of Potter rescuing him made his skin crawl. He didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, least of all Potter. But the facts were inescapable: Potter had found him, taken him away from the Manor, and apparently brought him somewhere safe. And now…
Draco glanced around the bare room again, frowning. There was nothing personal here—no photographs, no books, nothing to indicate anyone lived in this space. It was clean, well-kept, but utterly devoid of life. Potter’s house, then, but not Potter’s room. A guest room, perhaps? Somewhere they’d stashed him until they figured out what to do next.
But why would Potter bring him here instead of a hospital? Or call the Aurors the second they left the Manor?
Because he didn’t. Because you convinced him not to.
The realization sent a shiver of mingled relief and fear through Draco’s chest. He’d actually managed to get through to Potter. Somehow. But that left an even bigger question hanging in the air:
Now what?
He didn’t have time to dwell on it. From somewhere below, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on wooden stairs, drawing closer with every beat of his hammering heart.
Potter.
Draco’s hands clenched weakly at his sides, his throat tightening. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the way his vision swam. He needed to be ready, needed to—
But what was he going to do? He was still too weak to fight, barely able to sit up on his own. Running was out of the question, and he couldn’t exactly threaten Potter into silence, not when the other wizard could easily overpower him.
The footsteps grew louder, echoing in the silence of the house. Draco took a deep, shaky breath, his mind racing as he tried to formulate a plan—any plan—that didn’t involve collapsing like some pathetic, helpless victim in front of his childhood nemesis.
He was Draco Malfoy, damn it. He wasn’t going to let Potter see him cower.
The door creaked open, and Draco stiffened, bracing himself for… well, he wasn’t entirely sure what.
But when Potter stepped into the room, his face set in a tense, determined expression, something in Draco’s chest twisted painfully.
“Malfoy,” Potter said softly, his gaze sweeping over Draco with a mixture of concern and something else Draco couldn’t quite place. “How are you feeling?”
Draco wanted to snap back with some cutting remark, but his throat was too dry, his body too drained. He settled for a glare instead, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “What… do you think?”
Potter didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression softened slightly, a flicker of something almost like pity crossing his face.
Draco’s stomach churned. No. He didn’t want that look. Anything but that.
“Right,” Potter murmured, as if sensing Draco’s thoughts. He glanced away, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. “Look, I—just… stay put, alright? You’re safe here. We’ll… talk later.”
And with that, he turned sharply on his heel and left, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Draco stared after him, his heart pounding, anger and confusion roiling in his chest. What the hell was Potter playing at?
Safe. As if anywhere with Potter could ever be safe for him.
He slumped back against the pillow, exhaustion dragging him down. But even as his body screamed for rest, his mind kept racing, thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic whirl.
What was he supposed to do now?
He needed Potter’s help—Merlin, how he hated that. He’d sworn, sworn, he would never be in a position where he needed Potter to save him again. And yet here he was, lying helpless in a strange house, relying on the last person in the world he ever wanted to owe anything to.
Pathetic, his mind sneered, bitterness curling in his chest. He’d promised himself after the war that he’d take care of his own messes, that he’d never be so weak, so useless. But what choice did he have? He wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t survive on his own right now, not like this. Even if it meant enduring Potter’s pitying glances and his endless, infuriating sense of duty, Draco would have to play along.
For now.
The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth, and fury simmered just beneath his skin—anger at Potter, at himself, at everyone who’d put him here. He wanted to scream, to fight, to demand answers, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. He was too drained, too broken.
Later, he vowed silently. When I’m stronger. Then I’ll figure out how to get out of this mess. Then I’ll—
But his thoughts were slipping away, unraveling at the edges as his battered body betrayed him once more. He could feel the pull of sleep, the heaviness tugging at his limbs, and no matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he raged and fumed inside his own head, there was no fighting it.
Damn you, Potter, he thought viciously, clinging to that last spark of anger as if it were a lifeline.
But even that was fading. His eyelids fluttered, and the world around him blurred. Slowly, inevitably, he felt himself sinking back into darkness, his anger and frustration swallowed up by the numbing embrace of exhaustion.
He needed Potter’s help.
And that was the hardest pill of all to swallow.
With one last, shuddering breath, Draco gave in and drifted into unconsciousness once more.