#when will that man stop torturing my favourite twins i cannot do this anymore

[apricusapollo]

"tech had me memorise all the plans."

"... of course he did."

[kabhi-haath-pakad-k-tu-mera]

Keep Walking through the Dark (You'll Find your Light)

Three times Draco wishes he was on the other side of the war, and one time when Draco turns over to them.

Or

Draco’s redemption AU.

I.

The Carrows bring ruin to Hogwarts. Snape does nothing to stop it. It nauseates Draco. The fear on the faces of his peers, the unsettling grins on the Carrow Twins’ lips, the indifference on Snape’s face, all of it, nauseating. This isn't what Hogwarts is supposed to be. This isn't what Hogwarts stands for. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

Everywhere he goes he sees familiar faces with bruises and scars, arms and legs in slings, and fear in their eyes. The effects of the Crucio last longer than anyone would think, as nightmares and injuries and sheer terror. Now when anyone sees him approaching, they change routes to avoid him, him being the Death Eater he is. Far more often than he’d like, Draco looks into wide, terrified eyes and sighs.

But everyone quickly finds out that things can get much worse. More than anything he is scared of the new rules that the Carrows come up with—new punishments, new crimes. He is terrified, because there are people in the school—students—who are not, and the thought worries him. Crabbe and Goyle, for example, take particular delight in Crucio-ing a small, miserable first year from Gryffindor, cackling in mirth and delight when she screams loudly, being thrown in the air due to the intensity of the curse. Their grins widen when she falls with a sickening thud, and Draco can only watch from afar with growing disgust.

It is now that he's realized that he—they—were wrong all along. This is not the world that he wants. Every once in a while he comes across a heavily bruised face and sees triumph instead of fear, and he knows who these people are, what they do. For the wildest fleeting moment he thinks about what it might feel like to be one of them.

———————————

II.

He is the Headboy, and it is his duty, amongst other things, to patrol the corridors to nab any ‘mischief’ makers. What Alecto really means when she says this is that he is to find out who is responsible for the writings on various walls that tell of Dumbledore’s Army’s activities.

‘Dumbledore’s Army, still recruiting,’ the writing in red ink reads, glaring against the backdrop of drab, cream coloured walls. Draco, however, pays it no mind, wandering instead towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and pausing at its gate. This classroom, with the Muggle Studies classroom and the Dungeons, is some of the Carrows’ favourite places to torture students. He knows for a fact that there are still some injured students in there—not many have the strength to carry themselves to their common rooms after being tortured by the Cruciatus curse.

He steels his nerves and pushes open the door to the classroom, empty but for two boys who might’ve been second years at best. They recoil when they see him, huddling together through their pain for support. Draco doesn't say anything—he doesn't have to. He’s used to this by now. Instead, he draws a vial of dittany and administers it to both boys until they look less battered. One of them, the smaller one, goes to say something but then decides against it.

Draco gets up without looking their way, walking out as he stows the potion away. This is his life now, healing those that his ‘friends’ had hurt. It's the only way he can sleep at night. He sees a flash of burning red round a corner. Ginerva Weasley. She is, of course, the one behind the writing and the mysterious Stunning of students who willingly torture others. He wonders what it must be like to do something good and to go to bed without the fear that comes with doing it. He wonders if he himself could ever feel that.

———————————

III.

He loathes it. Loathes his life. Loathes being a puppet to Lord Voldemort. But it's not as if he has a choice. If he shows the slightest sign of deviation from their cause, the Dark Lord shall surely kill Mother. If he knew of how he helped the tortured students back in Hogwarts ... the thought is terrifying. And so he does everything he is asked—has been doing it since the past year—catering to every whim, every command, every order, all to let Mother live some more.

Until he kills her anyway. Draco can only watch, stricken, frozen, unbelieving, as she falls on the ivory floor of their manor, eyes open in shock. Her black robes are a stark contrast against the floor, her blonde hair fanning out around her. Draco can only hear one sound reverberate through the hall of the Manor. A loud laugh. Remorseless, triumphant.

He cradles his mother's head in his lap and shuts her eyes. Eyes that don't see grief in his own, that don't see the blur of red robes and shock that all but runs to them. Aunt Bella reaches out and takes her hand, a tear dropping onto it. If he were naive enough he would have dared to hope that she was only unconscious, sleeping. But he knows more acutely than anything that she doesn't breathe anymore, and she will never awaken again.

He daren't think of what could have been, how it could've been, had they been on the other side. Is any of the glory, any promise of a new world worth anything, if Mother isn't there with him? The answer burns in his head as tears run down his face.

———————————

+I.

'It really shouldn't be a hard decision,’ a voice inside his head tells Draco. And it isn’t. He knows what he wants to do, what he needs to do, to avenge his mother. The moon is out in all its glory and it reflects perfectly on the surface of the lake, as if it were made of glass. He turns away from the window again and seats himself at the table on which his books and parchment are lying—which he hasn't touched since he entered the library in the afternoon. How could he, when everything in his life is wrong?

It’s late in the night now, and everyone has left—even Madam Pince, the librarian, who never engages with the Slytherins anymore, especially not him. Draco sighs, putting his head in his hands.. It’s not just her, he supposes, it’s everyone. Everyone avoids him for good reason, even the Slytherins, as if he were the reason why Hogwarts has changed so much. They don't see he is just as much a victim as them. Ginerva’s words come back to him, echoing in his head.

‘You can join us,’ she had said when she had found him tending to a group of Hufflepuffs, ‘work with the Order. Spy for us.’

He suspects she had known for a long time that he was the one who healed the wounds with Dittany. Looking back it was amply clear that he didn't hold the same views as the other Death Eaters, didn't agree with their ways and measures.

It had taken effort to not show the hope he had felt. ‘Why would I do that? What if it’s a trap you lot have set up?’

‘For your mother,’ she had said simply, unwaveringly. Knowingly. She knew what buttons to push. She knew how badly he wanted to avenge her. He hadn't said anything, just gotten up and left. This was a week ago. They hadn’t come across each other since then.

When he lifts his head up there is a flash of bright orange against the backdrop of brown. For a moment he thinks it is her, but it’s not. It’s a phoenix. Dumbledore’s phoenix. Draco recognizes the markings of the bird, the pattern of its feathers. There’s no mistaking it. It stands on his book, looking at him intently.

“Why are you here?” Draco asks, although he thinks he knows. The phoenix holds out a claw. Draco looks at it for a moment.

“You’ll take me to them, if I take your claw?” The phoenix caws, a soft sound which strangely reminds him of his mother. He hesitates for a single moment before taking the proffered claw, and before he knows it he is in the astronomy tower, not just before Ginerva but also Remus Lupin and a man he recognizes as Kingsley Shacklebolt. He nods.

———————————

He doesn't know how it is that he has managed for so long to remain hidden, to keep his alliances a secret, but he knows for a fact that the Dark Lord does not know about it. He, for all intents and purposes, trusts him as much as he trusts Aunt Bella. Because murdering Mother was a test, a test of their loyalty. But now they are in battle and keeping up pretences does not matter anymore. Today they fight. It doesn't matter if they live or die. And so he fights, cursing, defending, blocking, killing. He takes down Death Eater after Death Eater but more always crop up. At least they don't know that he is an enemy camouflaged as an ally.

It all shatters when Harry Potter comes welcoming his death. Stupid, stupid Potter, always on his high horse, always the hero. But Draco knows this is his destiny—kill or be killed. He doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't even try. The Dark Lord rises, face split into a grin.

“Avada Kedavra!” A jet of green light hits Potter in the chest and he falls, but with him the Dark Lord falls too.

“Is he dead?” the Dark Lord asks no one in particular, and Draco feels himself walking to him to see. He needs to know. He holds up his wrist for a sign of a pulse. It isn't there. His heart isn't beating, he isn't breathing, and Draco finds it hard to breathe himself. This cannot be the end. After all this, after everything, Voldemort cannot win. Harry Potter cannot die. So, even though he is sure of it, he checks again, and again, and feels a pulse. Potter’s eyes open. Draco sighs imperceptibly, and shuts his eyes again.

“He’s dead,” he declares once he gets up. A deafening cheer rises, Death Eaters celebrating carelessly in the middle of the floor. It is easy to take Potter and run.

They don't speak until they are in Hogwarts again, hidden in the headmaster’s office.

“Why?” Potter asks.

“He killed my mother. He killed the Wizarding World.”

Potter nods. He is weak. Every action that he does visibly pains him. He gets up anyway.

“His snake,” he says, “We need to kill it.”

“You can barely stand.”

“It has to be done, Malfoy. If we don't kill the snake we can't kill him.”

Draco sighs, then nods. “Fine, let's go then.”

The army of Death Eaters is already at the mouth of the destroyed castle, wand at the ready. Voldemort is at their head, his snake around his neck. They stand in the back of the crowd.

“Harry Potter ran away!”

“NO!” a shrill scream. Draco knows before he sees her that it is Ginevra. Tom laughs.

“Yes. Submit to me, and you shall be spared.”

Potter begins pushing through the crowd and Draco follows him, until they are near the front. Then several things happen at once. “Harry!” a voice calls, and Granger launches herself at him, Weasley in tow; Voldemort screams in rage, drawing his wand swiftly, and Longbottom takes the opportunity to draw what looks like the sword of Gryffindor and slays the snake. The battle begins again in earnest.

Voldemort makes right for Potter but Draco intercepts him instead, fighting with vigour. He has often been underestimated in terms of duelling, but he is a Malfoy, and his aunt is Bellatrix Lestrange—he knows more than enough dark curses to keep him occupied.

“It’s you, you traitor.” Voldemort snarls as Draco dodges. “Useless like your mother and father. You think you can duel me?”

“My whole life has been pledged to this meeting with you,” Draco growls back, “It won’t be for naught.”

“We’ll see about that. Aveda—”

“Expelliarmus!” Potter shouts from behind Draco, and Voldemort’s wand flies into the sky, spinning until its tip shoots out a jet of green light towards him. Voldemort crumples in a heap, his body disintegrating before their eyes.

Harry approaches so he is standing next to Draco, watching the body turn to dust.

“You did it,” Draco says after a long moment, his wand still clenched tightly in his hand.

“We did it.” Harry replies.