Draco was tired of waking up in places he didn’t recognise, with his limbs feeling as if they’d been dipped in molten lava. He rolled off his side, his face brushing against damp, cold stone. Though part of his brain protested the idea of sleeping on what felt like a barren floor, another welcomed the cool sensation that eased some of the tension in his temples.

Blinking aching, sandy eyes open, he saw darkness and what looked to be a small room in a cellar or something. Without moving his neck, he could only see half of it. He didn’t have the strength to attempt more at the moment. So, he stayed where he was.

Until memories came flooding back to him, one intense blow after the other. Harry bloody Potter activating the Vanishing Cabinet. Cuckoo Bellatrix and the Death Eaters coming to Hogwarts. Their mad dash down the staircase, and the fight that had ensued—the fight in which he’d sided with Gryffindor’s golden boy against one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted lieutenants.

“Potter?” he muttered sluggishly, wondering if Wizarding Britain’s last hope was here, too.

There was no answer, and Draco pushed himself up on his hands—or tried to, anyway. He lifted his torso a few inches up. It was enough for him to turn his head and discover that he wasn’t alone in what was—judging by the iron manacles that hung from the wall facing him—a prison cell.

Heaving in a deep breath, he reached out a hand to prod the unconscious lump by his side. “Wake up, you prat,” he muttered as he poked him again, more forcefully. When his action was rewarded with a pained moan, he let his arm fall, content to know that the other wasn’t dead.

***

Draco passed out and came around two more times until consciousness took hold, and he could get to a somewhat sitting position. He had no idea how long they’d been here. It could have been minutes or hours. But his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and he could take in more of the room they were in. It was square-shaped, about nine-by-nine, with a low ceiling and floors and walls made of dark cobblestone. There was no other decoration than the manacles he’d seen before—not even a cot to lie on or a chamber pot. But he chose not to dwell on that particular issue just yet; they’d cross that bridge when they got there and not before.

Both he and Potter had been divested of their wands, and neither Hogwarts’ student was in any shape to cast wandless spells.

The dark-haired lion seemed not to have been injured as severely as Draco had been. And unlike the wounded Slytherin, he’d been able to stand and pace around the room. He’d tried the door first and found it locked. A few kicks later, he’d given up on being able to force it open, and he’d moved to sit cross-legged on the floor against the wall opposite Draco.

“What do you think happened at Hogwarts after we left?” he asked eventually, his voice loud in the silent darkness.

“No idea,” Draco replied.

“But all the ruckus we made—surely someone heard that. Do you think students came out to see what was going on?”

“How could I know? I’ve been with you the whole time.”

Potter remained silent, and Draco could have left it at that, but he realised he wanted the conversation to continue—if only to break the dreadful silence. “They were supposed to kill Dumbledore. That’s all I know.”

“It’s stupid,” Potter said in a small voice. “Dumbledore’s dying, anyway.”

That piqued Draco’s curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been cursed since last summer,” he explained, his voice becoming melancholy. “He’s badly hurt, and they can’t stop it.” A sigh. “He won’t last the year.”

Draco couldn’t believe his ears, and he wished they were sitting closer so he could see Potter’s face. “That’s impossible—he’s Dumbledore!”

“He’s just a man, Draco,” Potter continued in much the same tone. “I’ve seen it. His hand’s entirely black, like it’s been singed or something. It’s moved up his arm now, and when it reaches his heart—it will be over. He’s got months left.”

He hadn’t known, and the irony of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. “We’re all fucked, then.” The Dark Lord had already won, though he didn’t know it yet.

“Thought you weren’t on our side,” the Gryffindor said.

Draco scoffed in reply. “You know nothing about me, Potter,” he said, his tone acerbic. And their discussion came to an end as silence engulfed them once more. The chilly dampness of the cell had long since made it through his clothes and seeped into his very bones, and he would have given his wand-arm for a warm bath or cup of hot cocoa.

“You never had a choice, did you?” Potter questioned tentatively a short while later. “Your parents, their expectations—you didn’t have a choice but to side with them.”

Where the fuck did that come from? Draco wondered. What did Boy Wonder care what went on in his life? “What’s it to you?” he muttered darkly, his attempt at warning him to drop the subject.

But in true Gryffindor strong-headedness, Potter ploughed on. “You didn’t really want to kill Dumbledore, did you? That cursed necklace and poisoned Meade—it was like bad jokes gone wrong.”

“Shut up,” he said, realising that Potter was too close to the truth for comfort.

“If one day, you really want to do it, there’s a spell, you know—Avada Kedavra. I hear it’s very efficient.”

“Shut up,” he repeated. “Stop trying to analyse me, Potter. I won’t make it through the bloody night. Can’t you at least let me die with my dignity?” He hated that his last sentence had sounded like a plea, but he’d meant the words. He had earned that much, hadn’t he?

“They’ll find us,” Potter said, shuffling a little closer. “It’s going to be all right, Draco.”

He should have been offended at the use of his first name, but he let it pass without remarking on it. “If you really think that, you’re stupider than I thought.”

Silence fell on them again, and Draco returned to his dark, murky thoughts. He didn’t last five minutes until the urge to break the silence won over his resolve. “I never did have a choice,” he muttered through clenched teeth. This was a discussion he didn’t want to have, especially not with Gryffindor’s golden boy. But the words had tumbled out of his mouth before his brain had had time to sound the all-clear.

“Still, you could have done something,” Potter said. “You didn’t have to fix that bloody cabinet.”

Draco scoffed at that, remembering what had truly happened in the Room of Lost Things. “I didn’t—you did it, you moron.”

Once more, he regretted not being able to look at the Chosen One’s face. He was sure a glimpse of his guilt-stricken features would have made him feel a little better about their shitty situation—if only for a short while.

“I didn’t know,” the other muttered under his breath.

The words had been soft-spoken, almost reluctant, but in the silence of their cell, Draco heard them clearly. “Nice epitaph, Potter. ‘I didn’t know’. I’ll make sure they write it on your tombstone,” he mocked, his tone scathing. And it put a quick end to their discussion.

***

Silence birthed impatience, and Potter had been pacing the room for the past—well, however long that had been. He’d tried banging at the door a couple more times and messing with the lock—all to no avail.

“Where do you think we are?” he asked at last.

“Don’t know,” Draco said truthfully. This wasn’t Malfoy Manor or any other propriety his father owned. The cloister he’d been taken to during the last Summon didn’t seem to have had a basement. So, he drew a blank. “The Dark Lord stays at many different locations at random.”

“How do you know where to go when you’re summoned?” he asked.

If Potter is making a dig at me being a Death Eater, he’ll end up bloody, Draco thought. But then he passed the sentence through his inner filter once more and realised it had stemmed from genuine curiosity.

“You don’t,” he said. Then he explained it as it had been explained to him. “You just follow the Summon, and it takes you where you need to go. You only discover where once you get there.”

“So witches and wizards can Apparate to this place,” Potter asked, and if he was thinking of the rest of the golden trio swooping in for the rescue, he was in it for a rude awakening.

“This place is protected. You can’t Apparate unless you’ve been summoned,” Draco explained. “And the Floo will be warded, too. Face it, Potter. No one’s coming to save us—we’re alone.” Alone and doomed to die a slow, painful death, he thought bitterly.

“But can they walk through the door?” the Gryffindor asked.

The question was so innocuous that it threw the Slytherin. “What?”

“Can someone walk in through the door?” he repeated as if he were talking to an obtuse child.

“I don’t know,” Draco said honestly. He’d never thought to ask Severus about that. Surely, it would be guarded. But what did it matter, anyway? “I guess so—but why?”

It seemed to have been the answer the other wanted to hear. “Good. She’ll find us, then.”

Is he losing it? Draco wondered? Had Boy Wonder finally lost what little of his brain remained? “Who?”

“Nine,” he said with as much certainty as if he’d just declared that the sky was blue. “She’ll find us.”

Yes, Draco decided, the Chosen One has lost his marbles. “You’re mental,” he said.

“You don’t know her like I do, Draco,” Potter retorted. “She’s brilliant. So, she’ll figure it out. And she’ll find us.”

***

“…up!”

The ground was shaking under Draco, and it sent fresh jolts of pain throughout his body. He moaned in discomfort.

“Wake up!” a voice said from somewhere close, and a firm hand shook him up once more.

He blinked his tired eyes open, and the memories came tumbling back at the sight of the dank prison cell they’d been tossed into.

“How long was I out?” he asked, but it came out so indistinctly that he wasn’t sure Potter could decipher the words.

“Merlin, I thought you’d croaked on me,” the Gryffindor said as he knelt next to him.

Draco struggled to come to a sitting position. Shite, the cold dampness had seeped in deep, and it exacerbated the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. What he wouldn’t give for one of Severus’ potions right now—or even some Muggle painkillers.

“Hold off the waterworks, Potter,” he replied. “I’m not dead yet.” He’d meant the comment to be scathing, but his head was killing him, and he’d barely been able to force the last words out of his sluggish mouth.

“Prat,” Potter said, the answer coming so fast it sounded reflexive.

“Moron,” he replied.

“Berk,” Potter volleyed back.

The next one came tumbling out of his mouth with ease. “Wanker.”

“Snake,” Potter retorted, and Draco felt the corners of his mouth lift.

“Lion,” he replied, this time unable to stop himself from grinning. There was such a comforting familiarity to their bickering that they both smiled at each other through the tears that threatened to fall. And suddenly, Harry was holding onto his hand, or perhaps it was Draco that was holding onto his—it didn’t matter at that point. All that mattered was that he wasn’t alone. Neither of them were.

And as he forced himself to breathe through the pain, Draco realised they weren’t so different, after all. They were both the heroes of their own tragedies. He was Telemachus of Ithaca, desperately seeking the loving parent he’d lost. And Harry was Frodo of Middle-Earth, tasked with destroying the Dark Lord.

As his gaze locked with Harry’s, he could see in the emerald eyes that the Gryffindor teen was thinking along the same lines. At that moment, they were united like they’d never been before. And Draco found it comforting to know that he wasn’t alone. But the shared moment shattered into nothingness when the sound of a key being inserted into the door lock echoed through the walls of their cell.

Draco tried standing up but realised he couldn’t. His legs just didn’t have the strength for it. “Help me up,” he muttered, and Harry complied without a word.

The Gryffindor sneaked a hand under the Slytherin’s arm, reached around his shoulder until he had a secure hold, and he used his second hand to grab a fistful of the blond’s shirt to yank him up. Once Draco was vertical, he swayed a little at the change of stance. But Harry stayed by his side and continued to take some of his weight without complaint.

Draco forced his queasy stomach to settle down, even as he tried bringing up his mental marble walls. If he died tonight, he would die standing. He was a Malf—no! He was Severus Snape’s godson, and he’d been taught better.

He wouldn’t go down grovelling and snivelling like an imp—he’d go down standing, like a free man.