Draco realised that the Cruciatus Curse was much more intricate than he’d first thought. Unlike many other, more straightforward spells, this one varied greatly, depending on the caster’s intent. For example, the first time he’d been Crucioed had been more of a sampling than anything else—a small taste of what would be in store for him should he keep displeasing his Lord. His second session had been exactly what that first sip had promised: a full-frontal assault. It had been a sheer display of raw strength—quick and to the point. Bellatrix Lestrange’s attack—with its strange ebb and flow—had been an entirely different dance. It was a study in contrast—seconds of sheer relief at the pain ending only to have it rear its ugly head back for another bite. A very manic approach meant to drive the victim insane more than anything else.

Tonight’s variant, Draco found, was more subtle in its perversity. The Dark Lord intended to inflict pain strongly but slowly, suffusing it throughout the entire system without overloading it. It was carefully measured and dealt in appropriate doses. The ultimate aim was to prolong the torture session as much as possible.

Unlike Bellatrix, though, the Dark Lord had no trouble inflicting his displeasure on both students simultaneously. Draco had tried holding back the screams for as long as he could, as had Harry. Their crazy situation had turned into yet another match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, so accustomed they were to being on opposite sides.

Harry had won—by far. He hadn’t broken yet, and Draco marvelled at his strength. There was no doubt that pain was dealt to them both in equal measures. But Harry’s lips stubbornly refused to open, remaining instead in a thin, taut line so pale it was almost invisible.

Draco couldn’t help looking at him. Harry’s display of defiance, born out of sheer willpower, was spellbinding. It was obvious that he wasn’t impervious to the pain. Sweat pearled profusely on his brow before trailing down his temples, a large rictus of agony distorted his boyish features. His eyes had glazed over in tears before Harry had shut them firmly to avoid any unwanted spillage. And yet, Gryffindor’s golden boy, Britain’s Wizarding World’s hero, the Boy Who Lived, refused to succumb to the Dark Lord’s demands. It was a silent protest, small and invisible, but a loud and explosive statement amongst the gathered crowd of black-robed onlookers.

Before the last of his muscles seized under the strain, Draco forced his mouth shut and willed it to remain so. If Harry could do it, so could he. This was an affirmation of his true self—emancipated at last. A scission from everything that had come before—his final act of defiance. He was no longer the obedient son, a slave to his Pureblood’s lineage. Freedom was his, earned fair and square in the face of adversity.

Harry’s eyes opened a slit, and his watery emerald-green orbs met a pool of quicksilver. Their eyes locked, and the message that passed between them was eloquent in its silence. “Hold on,” one of them said. “You, too,” the other replied. The connection between them was so sharp and fast that neither could tell who had spoken first and who had replied. It might as well have been both.

***

Draco wasn’t sure how he managed to maintain consciousness, and he knew that without Harry, he could not have made it back to their cell. He’d have remained in the throne room—a messy lump at the Dark Lord’s feet, a carpet of blood and tears ready to be trodden on.

Draco tried to take in some of their surroundings as Harry half-carried, half-dragged him down the corridor, but his brain was extremely uncooperative. It was a house with a throne room on the ground floor and their cell in the basement. The male Carrow had to lend a hand to help Harry get him down the stairs. And Draco almost froze in fear, stumbling in his steps, when that helping hand strayed south to grab at some parts of him that the sick Death Eater had no business touching.

Their prison cell was as barren as it had been when they’d left, but Draco realised it was of little concern. He hadn’t had a drop to drink in hours, and food was but an even more distant memory. It didn’t matter that the facilities were lacking. There was little chance he’d need to pee anytime soon.

Harry helped him sit down against a wall, kneeling alongside him, his hands never letting go until he was sure Draco could keep the position on his own. Even then, a warm hand stayed on his shoulder while the other hovered nearby—just in case.

“Thanks, Harry,” he said, forcing the words out past unresponsive lips. But he needed to say them anyway.

“Shhh—it’s okay, Draco,” Harry hushed. “Don’t talk now.”

And Draco obeyed, feeling his eyes close on their own accord. When had they stopped being Potter and Malfoy and become Harry and Draco instead? he wondered briefly before losing consciousness.

***

“I’m not sure I remember everything,” Draco said after he’d regained consciousness to discover more of the same. Harry hadn’t left his side, though, and he’d chosen to sit down next to him, cross-legged, with his back against the wall. The part of his arm that touched the other teen’s shoulder was the only part of him that felt warm.

“What do you want to know?” Harry asked, his tone as raspy as Draco’s had been.

He dreaded asking the question but feared the unknown even more. “Did he say what’s going to happen to us?”

“He’s going to kill me during some kind of special ceremony, in front of all of his Death Eaters,” Harry said, voice matter-of-fact.

“And me?”

“Same,” Harry said with a sigh. “I’m just the main course.”

“I’m sure I’ll taste better,” Draco said, forcing a smile he didn’t feel.

Harry didn’t miss a beat, replying, “I hope I give him indigestion.”

Draco genuinely chuckled at that. Harry’s answer had been better than his. “Didn’t know you had a sense of humour, you prat.”

“Didn’t know you knew how to laugh, what with the silver stick you’ve got stuck up your arse.”

“Platinum, not silver,” Draco replied, and boy, did the banter feel good. “Diamond-encrusted.”

“Ouch,” Harry replied. “Hope those precious studs don’t chafe at your dainty, porcelain skin too much.”

Laughter bubbled from Draco’s lips at that. Only it morphed into something else mid-way—something that sounded much like sobs. He hadn’t broken down before. Draco had stood his ground in front of the Dark Lord, but now—he just couldn’t hold on anymore. He leaned more fully into Harry—needing the warmth and the comfort of another human being. And Harry let him, closing his arms around him as he shook under the weight of pain and fear. Draco might have said something then—something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry you’re here, but I’m glad I’m not alone’. But with the way his brain had become mush and his throat wracked with sobs, he wasn’t sure he’d gotten the words out. And even if he did, he probably hadn’t been that coherent.

***

It had taken them both time to get some semblance of control back. And even then, they had remained close. They weren’t exactly hugging anymore, but Draco wasn’t ready to let go of the warmth that radiated against the entire length of his right side. Though Harry had removed his hands from around his shoulders, he hadn’t made a move to untangle them further. If the Gryffindor didn’t mind their proximity, Draco decided he didn’t, either.

Letting his gaze wander about the room to pass the time, he frowned when it settled onto something he hadn’t seen before. Reaching a hand up, he snatched at the small silver chain he’d just discovered around Harry’s neck.

“Didn’t pick you as the jewellery type,” he commented, pulling back a little to better inspect his finding.

Harry tried swatting his hand away. “Let go, Malfoy,” he said.

The return of his surname was almost warning enough to convince him to drop the matter, but his curiosity overruled his sense of self-preservation. In one tug, he pulled the small chain free of Harry’s undershirt. Not just a chain, he realised—a chain and a pendant. And—

Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the sight; he had seen that necklace before—the same one, he was sure. The memory came back to him, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

It had happened on a hot summer afternoon, years ago, at the Manor. The weather had been humid the whole week, but it had peaked that day. And Severus, who’d stopped by to spend the afternoon in the gardens with his godson, had uncharacteristically removed his frock coat and spent the entire afternoon in his white undershirt with the top buttons undone.

As he’d bent down to pick him up, little Draco had caught a glimpse of something unexpected around his godfather’s neck—something silver that reflected the rays of sunshine. He’d reached for it without thinking twice about it, his tiny fingers grabbing onto the silver chain before his godfather had the time to realise what was going on and put a stop to it. And Draco’s impetuous tugging had revealed an elegant S-shaped pendant dangling at the end of the simple chain.

His hand had been rudely slapped away; the necklace returned to its hidden confines as the white shirt’s buttons fastened themselves at once with a nonverbal spell. Severus had never explained the striking piece of jewellery, and he’d left the Manor moments later with barely a goodbye.

The two of them had never talked about that event again, but Draco had never forgotten it had happened. He’d never forgotten that day and knew he never would. For he had never seen such intense pain on Severus’ face as he did the moment that silvery ‘S’ was revealed for all to see.

Looking at the similar pendant that dangled from Harry’s neck, he knew it was identical to the one he’d seen years ago—even the chain looked equally thin and modest. Like the other one, this ‘S’ had been magically carved by a hand both sure and deft. The curves of the single letter were both simple and elegant. It was Severus’ work—he could swear it. He’d recognise his touch anywhere. That man was extremely able with a wand; Draco had a box full of miniature carved wooden animals to prove it.

“Where did you get it, Potter?” he asked, voice thick.

For an instant, he feared he wouldn’t get an answer. But then he realised Harry’s curiosity was as piqued as his was. “A friend gave it to me,” he said cautiously.

“A friend? Who?” Surely he couldn’t mean Severus. His godfather loathed the Gryffindor golden boy, and he’d die before giving Harry anything.

“Just a friend,” Harry replied evasively. “She gave it to me for safekeeping. She said it was very precious to her.”

Draco didn’t push him further; he knew he wouldn’t get a name, anyway. But his brain latched onto the feminine pronoun. Had Severus given it to someone else who had then passed it down to Harry?

“Why, Draco? Have you seen it before?”

Unlike Harry, he had no problem telling the truth, and the words came out quickly. “Yes, this—it’s Severus’ necklace. He has the same one,” he said, his brain still trying to form hypotheses. “He keeps it hidden all the time, but I swear it’s the same one.”

A gasp escaped the Gryffindor’s lips, and Draco stopped looking at the pendant long enough to stare at his face. There was a look of understanding on Harry’s features as if he’d just come to some grand realisation. But Draco had no idea what it was.

“What?” he asked, curious.

“Holy Merlin on a Hippogriff,” Harry muttered after a pause. “She’s his sister.”