Captured

Chapter Seven: Desperation

His steps fell softly as he walked through the halls of his family home, stormy eyes glancing past the rows of portraits on the walls until they landed on one of the manor entitled "Malfoy Family Home." He let out a soft snort as the word home tumbled through his mind.

It hadn't felt like a home since the summer before their fourth year. Not really. Not since the Dark Lord had returned and turned everything to such utter shit.

Not since his father had become obsessed with proving his status to his master, Draco thought with a sneer.

And to think he had once looked up to that.

He could remember when he was younger, believing that his father was the most respected, powerful man in his world. But these days his father did nothing but crawl for his master's attention like a wounded dog. And the hits he took from the Dark Lord to his already wounded pride always seemed to find their way to Draco's mother somehow - sometimes emotionally, sometimes physically.

Anger, sharp and cool lanced through him as memories of bruises lining his mother's pale skin flitted through his mind. Bruises he could do nothing about without the possibility of making them worse. Draco was a representation of the Malfoy name. Anything he did reflected back on his family, so if he disappointed the Dark Lord, his father would be punished which meant his mother would be too. When this war was over he would pay back his father for everything that he had brought onto their family. Every bruise. Every hurt. All of it.

He could feel his emotions rising up inside of him like a dark, twisted snake preparing to strike. This home and this war felt like a prison. He couldn't help the resentment that he felt towards his father as he thought about where they were. Servants in their own, once great and respected, home. This war wasn't bloody worth it. He couldn't give two fucks about the dirtybloods or the pathetic muggles, but the Dark Lord treated his own Death Eaters like vermin. Despite their pure blood and loyalty, there was never any safety or security. Only fear and anger, and festering pathetic excuses of wizards scrambling over each other like lovesick first years trying to get just a second of attention or validation from their master. As far as Draco was concerned, let the mudbloods and filthy muggles continue to dirty themselves, while he and those of the sacred twenty-eight who had not turned into blood traitors continued the tradition of purity. Before the Dark Lord had returned they'd had wealth, status, respect. And now? His father was an escaped felon with all of his wealth at the disposal of a wizard who wasn't even a pureblood himself.

Yes, Draco had heard the rumors. He'd overheard stories of the night that Potter and Diggory went to the Graveyard. He knew what many of the other Death Eaters whispered of but didn't dare to believe. They thought Potter to be a liar. But while Draco knew of many negative qualities of the one-who-barely-lived, he'd never known him to be a liar. In fact that annoying, pathetic Gryffindor morality often had him screaming the truth at anyone who'd listen even when it meant consequences for himself. Pathetic.

His hands had curled into fists at his side and he found that he had to pause for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep, silent breath as he stilled the emotions within his raging mind before finishing the walk to the large dining area that was currently serving as the Death Eaters war room. He could feel his muscles slowly relax as he willed his face into the emotionless mask he had become so accustomed to donning. He had been practicing with Bellatrix since his fifth summer, and while he had gotten quite good at occlumency, he knew that if he gave the Dark Lord a reason to look into his mind then he would be able to tear through Draco's defenses like paper.

And he didn't particularly like the thought of that. His mind drifted to Granger's twisted expression and cries of pain the day before and winced slightly. No he didn't want that at all.