Neville stared at him for a moment, and then waved an expressive hand, indicating the stone walls, the hard mattress, the Dementor hovering outside. "This is Azkaban, Malfoy. There can hardly be worse places, and you're complaining about the time."

"You're starting to sound suitably cynical," he observed. "So, what fresh torment do you have for me today, Mr Auror sir?"

A tiny glitter appeared in Neville's eyes. "It depends what you call torment," he said, carefully.

"Well, let's see, shall we?" Draco began, trying to summon his old wit and painfully aware that he wasn't quite managing it. "The Crucitus curse, that's torment. The Chinese Water Dragon Torture. Rock-breaking. Hellfire and brimstone. The stuff you call food in this place. Having to sleep with a Dementor five feet away. Watching Ronald Weasley eat liver and onions. Being beaten at Quidditch by a set of stupid Griffindors."

"Not even close," Neville told him. "I'll give you a clue—it begins with 'f'."

"Eff… eff as in eff off?" Draco enquired. Something in the conversation was animating him—his body had relaxed, the shivering stopped, and if Neville didn't know better, he'd have sworn the edge of a smile was lurking on his lips.

Neville raised an eyebrow, thinking. "In a manner of speaking," he said.

Draco nodded, mussing his blond hair even further against the scratchy cotton pillow. "Would that be 'eff off' in the sense of 'copulate with somebody else' or 'eff off' in the sense 'remove yourself from the immediate surroundings'?"

There was a pause, which Neville allowed to stretch, watching Draco tense up again. Eventually, when he thought Draco might snap under the pressure of trying to look calm while very, very worried, he said, "The latter."

The tension didn't leave Draco, but it changed from stored energy to kinetic. He sat up so fast Neville wondering if that was really the bedstead creaking or the wind rushing past Draco's thin frame. "Run that past me again," he said.

"You're being released, Mr Malfoy," Neville told him clearly. "You're going to be free of the Dementors, of Azkaban, and of the injunction against you using magic—but, I'm afraid…"

Draco's face went from deliriously happy to panicked in a split-second, though Neville noticed that the sheer relief of freedom on the way wasn't entirely gone. "Yes? What?" he snapped—pure, unadulterated Malfoy hatred of those who didn't fully co-operate with their wishes.

"Sorry, Draco," Neville said, "You won't be free of me. The Ministry's decided you need an escort to prevent you—well, I'm supposed to tell you it's protection, but we both know it's half protection for you and half for the rest of the world."

Draco nodded his understanding. "But why you?" he asked. The tone took Neville back to his school days, listening to Draco whine about the way Harry was treated, or how unfair Professor McGonagall was. He wasn't sure if that seemed like a good thing—Draco was closer to his old self than he'd been for years—or bad—the whining tone used to set his teeth on edge, and that hadn't changed either.

"Because they can't spare anyone else—there are only about fifty Aurors working full-time these days, and between Harry and Ron and Hermione, they keep them all good and busy."

"When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning—you may not have packing to do, but I've been working here for three years, and I do."

"I know how long you've been here," Draco sighed. "Since the end of the war. Since they arrested me."

"I'll see you in the morning, Draco," Neville said (aware that, as almost always happened, he'd slipped into a more familiar mode than was technically allowed. It didn't matter anymore) and left, making sure to sweep his long robe dramatically out of the door.

Once he was gone, Draco flopped back down onto the bed. Freedom. It didn't seem to mean as much as it used to.

An hour later, Neville's fingers were swollen and sore from the irritating sap of the leaves, and about half of them were torn into rough squares. He recognised the plant from his school herbals—Inaccessible Nightwort, a common element in potions involving travel, but normally handled with dragon-skin gloves—and he also knew that the leaves as he'd torn them were perfectly useable.

Draco wasn't having that as an excuse.

"You knew what you had to do, Longbottom," he said in a voice so hard Neville thought it was probably a performance for an unseen audience. "Crabbe!"

Crabbe entered, cloaked in a creased green robe that did nothing for his complexion. He was fatter and uglier than ever, and he was carrying a plate of the best food Neville had seen since before the war.

"Here, Longbottom," Crabbe said, mimicking Draco's clipped tones. "Eat this."

He slid the tray onto the desk, still slippery with nightwort sap, and stood back, crossing his arms and grinning.

Neville looked at the tray. Sausages, eggs… real food, not cooling gruel or stale bread. There was no cutlery, so he dived in with his hands, realising only after the first sting of sap in his mouth that it was a really bad idea.

He looked helplessly up at his captors—Crabbe grinned, and Draco merely smirked. In the end, the smell of the food overcame him and he went back to shovelling it in with his contaminated hands. When he'd finished, Crabbe took the tray away, passing it to the first house elf Neville had seen since he arrived. It looked vaguely familiar, but he thought that was probably just because he hadn't seen one in so long any house elf would look like one he'd seen before.

That done, Crabbe gestured. "Come here."

He'd acquired a commanding tone Neville didn't remember from school; but then, becoming a Death Eater would change anyone, and since they'd won, it made sense he'd be more confident. Neville shot a glance at Draco, knowing that in Azkaban the occasional Dementor had suffered from Draco's occasional possessive mood, but Draco leaning insolently on the wall by the door and did not move.

Slowly, Neville got up and moved towards Crabbe.

When he was close enough, Crabbe gestured to his hands. "Turn round. Hands behind you, wrists together," he said. He rested one hand on the concealed wand in his robes, just enough that it wasn't very well concealed any more. Neville saw the threat, and obeyed.

He felt the cold metal of cuffs around his wrists, and then heard the chink of a chain. Something clicked around his ankles, and when he looked down past the shabby rags that did him for clothes he saw Crabbe had cuffed his feet, too. The chain clicked again. With a word and a hand on his wand, Crabbe sent one end of it flying into the air, to loop through a metal fitting in the ceiling.

"Ready, Longbottom?" he asked mockingly, and gave the signal before Neville could open his mouth let alone reply. The chains jerked into the air, pulling—not as the faster part of Neville's mind expected, on his wrists, but on his ankles. His feet pulled from under him, his body hit the floor; then his head banged as the chains went on up, lifting him into the air. He felt the skin of his forehead spilt, and when he was upside down the first thing he saw on the floor was a spot of blood.

He let out a heartfelt moan.

"Comfortable, I hope," Crabbe said, grinning wickedly. "I say, Malfoy, he's a bit skinny for a punching bag, don't you think?"

Draco gave him a look. "That's why I told you to feed him first, imbecile," he said.

Crabbe, not entirely sure what 'imbecile' meant, nodded, and turned back to Neville. "Left hooks first," he said cheerfully, and began.

He was strong, and this was clearly his regular practice… but beyond that, Neville noticed little of what was happening outside his body. His stomach had started its revolt, the unfamiliar food starting to churn uncomfortably, when he'd first been hung upside down, but once he was being pounded in the stomach and ribs and sides, he couldn't take it any more.

The first rush of vomit hit Crabbe's shoes, and he stepped away fast, leaving Neville choking and coughing, and attempting to blow air through he nose to remove the bile pooled there.

Time seemed to bend: all Neville could think about was controlling the flow, staying alive in the face of attack coming literally from within.

Eventually, someone—he thought he heard Draco's voice—let him down. He lay on the floor, still gasping and spitting.

He heard the door bang behind Draco and Crabbe.

Neville looked around the crowded bar, frowning. "Diagon Alley was empty…" he said to Ron in a puzzled voice.

"Privacy spell, Neville," Ron explained, with a grin that would have fitted as well in Weasley and Weasley's Joke Shop.

"Thanks," Neville nodded, and then frowned again. "I thought zotheacus left the outside world visible to those under the spell?"

"It does," Ron agreed. "I used occulatus—but that's not the matter in hand. How's Malfoy?"

"Falling apart," Neville said simply. "In Azkaban, he was fighting, every day: I don't know what, but something kept him going. Now—well, I don't know if you heard, but…" he dropped his voice. "There wasn't a wand in Ollivander's for him. He seems… he's lost his magic."

Ron nodded. "Dementors can do that, or so it's always been said. I don't think we've ever had someone who was sane and magicless, though; and when they're crazy, St. Mungo's have tended to regard it as an advantage."

"Draco may be sane now, but I'm not sure…" Neville paused as Tom brought their drinks. "Thanks, Tom."

"You're not sure…" Ron prompted, when Tom was out of earshot again.

"I'm not sure he's going to stay sane for much longer," Neville said. "You know what the Malfoy family were like—purebloods, never a squib, wouldn't touch a Muggle with ten-foot pole."

"I know," Ron said, grimly. "Narcissa's still around, you know. Changed her name back to Black, claims to have changed sides, and pokes her nose in where it's not wanted. There's a rumour going round—I shouldn't be telling you this, but anyway—they're saying in the Ministry that she paid Harry to let Malfoy out."

"Typical," Neville said with a grin. "I hadn't heard Narcissa was still around—I'll have to break that news to Draco, won't that be fun?—but I do know why Harry decided to let Draco out, because I was in on that decision. It's not public, but I don't see why you shouldn't know. Snape came forward with new evidence—he said that Draco had helped him in the last few days of the war. Not that he was innocent of everything he was accused of, exactly, but that he'd changed sides before the end."

"Oh?" Ron raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"That's all I know," Neville said, "and it's not to be repeated, right?"

"Okay," Ron said. "By the way, did you bring those stats on the Dementors that Hermione wants?"

Neville stared at him, then slapped his forehead. "I'm sorry, Ron," he groaned. "You know what I'm like—with Draco to worry about—I was so eager to get out of there…"

"I understand," Ron smiled. "Hermione won't be pleased, she was hoping to be able to do the research without going up there herself, but I don't think she'll kill you."

"Oh, good," Neville said. "She'll use –'Cruciatus' instead."

"I doubt that," Ron said. "You might be in line for some of Fred and George's nastier experiments, though."

"That's probably scarier."

Ron thought about that for a moment, and then grinned. "You know, Neville, I'd have thought that after your grandmother, nothing would look scary."

"Well," Neville shrugged. "She does take the edge off some things, it's true."

"Snape, for example," Ron said, remembering the Boggart.

"Indeed." Their eyes met in a shared moment of almost nostalgic comradeship. "Back to task, anyway—what marching orders did the Minster see fit to send?"

"Well, the Esteemed Minster Harry Potter himself says, 'Keep that dirty Malfoy out of trouble and a long way away from me'," Ron reported. "Snape says don't let him practise any Dark Arts, Hermione says don't be too unkind to him, and Dumbledore is of the opinion that you should, and I quote, 'keep him secret, keep him safe. And on no account allow him to seduce you.' I think all the Muggle stuff he's been reading has addled his brain even further."

"And you?" Neville asked. "You're the one I'm actually taking orders from—what do you think?"

"As your boss, I basically agree with the Minister—keep Malfoy out of trouble. And as your friend, I have to say I think you're going to have your work cut out keeping him sane."

"But you do think it's worth trying?"

Ron paused for a moment, as if he'd not expected that question, and then said, "On balance, yeah. If Malfoy is good, he might be useful, but he can't help if he's crazy; and if he's still evil, I'd far rather fight a sane Dark Wizard than a crazy one. It's easier to predict what a sane enemy will try next."

Neville stared at his boss. "That's…"

"Fiendishly cynical?" Ron suggested. "Eminently practical?"

"Yeah," Neville said. "Look, Ron—am I right in remembering that Dean Thomas went to train as Healer? Do you know what happened to him?"

"I do, as a matter of fact. He's working in St Mungo's—second in department, I believe, on the fourth floor." He paused, wondering why Neville was asking; St. Mungo's could hardly be a place that had given Neville happy memories.

Neville caught the look, and explained, "I'm going to need some advice on how to deal with Draco. Dean and I were friends… I think he'll help, and won't go spreading rumours."

Understanding, Ron nodded. "That makes sense. Now, I don't know about the sanity side of things—you're right, talk to Dean—but I think you're best bet is to take Draco into the Muggle world. He doesn't have magic anymore, so he's going to have to learn to live without it at some point, and if he's living as a Muggle, the chance that some vindictive wizard takes it into his head to redress some wrong or other by the hands-on method is much lower."

"True," Neville said, tipping his head to one side thoughtfully. "I hadn't looked at it like that, but you're right. I'll need some help setting him up as a Muggle, though…"

"Talk to Hermione," Ron advised. "She grew up as a Muggle, and she's a lot more likely to help than Harry is."

"Yeah," Neville began, and then broke off. Upstairs, someone was screaming.

"Malfoy?" Ron asked.

"I think so," Neville said grimly. He shoved his chair back and ran for the stairs.

Upstairs, someone screamed again—that was why he'd woken.

Slowly, Neville lifted his head and opened his eyes. He was right about the vomit.

His hands were still bound behind his back, but his legs had been freed; the cracks in the stone floor had taken most of the liquid away, but a certain amount had dried on the floor and his face. He rubbed as much as he could off on the rough sheet on the edge of the bed, and then lay down to consider his position.

At first, he thought he was depressed. It had become a familiar enough feeling.

Then he thought about Crabbe—about being beaten—about how Draco had smirked as he watched—how his hands still hurt from the Nightwort—how the back of his mouth and nose stung—how swallowing was a struggle—and he found that he was burning with anger, raw and red and fiery? as his injuries.

What, he wondered, should he do? What would his hero, Harry, have done in his place?

Not got here, whispered an insidious voice at the back of his head. But that wasn't true, really—Harry had been captured by the Death Eaters and killed by Voldemort. Neville himself had only escaped that fate because Draco had called him "useful".

But Harry wouldn't have simply accepted that. Harry would have… tried to escape. That was for certain. Harry was the escaping kind, even from rules and boundaries that were put in place to keep him safe.

Slowly and carefully, Neville put his plan into action.

First, he crawled around the room, awkward on his knees with no hands to help him, searching for a place where one of the flagstones wasn't laid quite as smoothly as it might have been. There were a couple; he tested them on his cheek, and picked the one that hurt the most.

Then, patiently, quietly, he set about rubbing the ropes on his wrists until they frayed and came loose. It took what seemed like forever, and cut his left arm to bleeding in the process, but luckily it was still the depths of night and the household slept.

When that was done, he took a moment to stretch his arms; then he started to examine the door, using what little light came from the moon though the one window, high above, but more often his fingertips. The door was stout wood, with firmly attached iron hinges. He searched and searched.

There was no weakness.

In the end, dawn came. With it came Vincent Crabbe, carrying another tray; Neville was forewarned, because the scent of sausages reached him and made him retch while Crabbe's footsteps were barely audible.

When the door opened, he was ready. He grabbed the metal tray, hit Crabbe on the side of the head hard enough to knock him out, and shoved past into the corridor.

Blindly, he ran, aiming roughly for the opposite direction to last night's screaming.

The place seemed to be empty. He ran without hindrance for some time, heading as straight as he could in the Manor's twisting corridors, going down stairs always, and frantically trying to work out where the doors would be—and then something to his left stopped him.

A whimper, presumably from someone who had heard his feet.

Paused in his headlong flight, Neville listened, and the whimper came again. There was only one explanation: someone else being tortured.

Perhaps they'll know a way out, Neville thought in his confusion. He turned left, and walked—listening—until he found a door, much like the one he'd been behind. The keys were hanging on a nail by the doorframe, and he opened it without trouble.

Inside, a bony man with a shock of thin red hair lay half-naked on the bed, his chest and back dark with bruises.

"Ron?" Neville gasped.

When Draco was sleeping again and Tom's other clients had been reassured that it was only someone having nightmares, and not anyone being murdered, Neville prepared himself to speak to Dean.

He took a pinch of Floo powder, scattered it on the fire, and leaned into the flames, taking a deep breath as he did so, trying to calm himself.

The problem was that he got a lung full of Floo smoke.

When he'd finished coughing, he cast a nervous glance through the open door to the next room, where Draco slept fitfully. Luckily, he was still asleep.

Neville tried again, taking his deep breath outside the flames this time, and managed to say, "St Mungo's fourth floor," clearly enough to get through.

The fireplace he found himself looking out of faced a small office—desk, chair, and Dean's back, his head bowed in concentration over a sheet of paper.

"Dean?" Neville began.

Dean jumped visibly, and turned around. "Neville! Hi!"

"Hi, Dean. Look, can I talk to you?"

"Of course," Dean said, and then added in a teasing tone, "I'm surprised you remembered where I was."

"I asked Ron, actually," Neville told him sheepishly. "Thing is, Dean—this is complicated—you heard they let Draco Malfoy out of Azkaban, right?"

"I did indeed," Dean said. "Not a good move, if you ask me, though I'm sure Harry had his reasons."

Neville nodded, a slightly odd move in the fireplace. "Good reasons. I expect they'll make them public at some point soon. Now, I'm the goon they'd decided to put in charge of keeping Draco out of trouble—of his making or anyone else's."

"Heavens, Neville. That must be quite a task."

"You're not wrong, Dean. You're not wrong—and that's sort of why I'm talking to you. In Azkaban, Draco must have been holding onto something, because he stayed fairly sane; but now he's out, and he knows the Dementors managed to suck his magic away… he's losing it."

"Going nuts, you mean?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Well… I'm not an expert, but from what I know—the Dementors suck all the happy thoughts out of you, right? Draco's problem is probably two-fold: firstly, he hasn't many happy memories left; and secondly, whatever—presumably unhappy—thought he was holding onto in Azkaban is changed or gone forever. If it was doing magic again, for example…"

"I see what you mean—I'd been thinking something similar myself, only not as logically," Neville said. "The next question, really, is—what do I do about it?"

"Um…" Dean closed his eyes briefly, thinking. "I'd have to think that one through, Neville. Is there a time you could Apparate over here?"

Neville thought, and shook his head. "I don't think so, Dean. I've got to stay with Draco until I'm sure he can't get himself into any trouble, and I doubt he'd be happy at being carted over to St. Mungo's for a conference he couldn't be part of."

"Where are you now, then?" Dean asked. "Just out of curiosity."

"I'm in the Leaky Cauldron; Draco's asleep next door, in hearing range—and in sight if I get my head out of the fire."

"Right. Err… common sense says that finding out as much as you can about Draco's condition is the first step. Has he really got no magic at all? Has he got any family left? You could try renewing happy memories—he may have some left, or some that will return with time and the right prodding. Let me think… there must have been other cases…"

"Sirius Black?" Neville suggested. "He stayed sane enough to escape, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Dean said, nodding, still deep in thought. "Sirius Black survived by holding onto the idea of his innocence—not a happy thought, and yet a strong one; and when he got out, I think he never really lost that mentality, being forced into hiding and all. So that's useful as far as it goes, but it doesn't actually tell you what to do with Draco."

"I think he's waking up," Neville said, hearing a change in the stirrings in the next room. "I'll try and find out more about exactly what we're dealing with. Get in touch if you think of anything, okay?"

"Okay," Dean said, and added, "Neville—be careful…" but he wasn't sure Neville stayed to hear the last part, he vanished so quickly.

Dean shook his head—how Neville had changed—and went back to work.

Years of training had apparently not deserted him. The sound of Ron's voice was unfailingly associated with orders–which-must-not-be-disobeyed in Neville's mind. He shut the door gently, and went to Ron's side.

"We have to get out," he said, the fire still burning somewhere in his chest. "Help me."

Ron sat up slowly, and regarded him. "Running was a brave thing to do, Neville," he said, "but it won't actually help anyone, and it'll make your life worse."

"Not if I succeed," Neville said, but the enthusiasm was dying down. Ron was always right.

"You won't," Ron said firmly, and Neville wasn't sure how he could know that, but he accepted it. "Now look—before they catch you, listen to me. The world out there isn't one we can live in, Neville—it can't be, not now. What we've got to do is stay in here and fight from the inside: and the first step is to make them trust us. Do you under…" Ron never got to finish his sentence; Crabbe, clutching his head, Draco, and several other black-robed Death Eaters burst into the room.

"Trying to have a lover's tryst?" Draco asked, sneering at them. "You forgot to hang the keys back outside."

Neville stood up, assuming a guard position in front of Ron, just as he had in the final battle. Harry had asked him to help, and that was what he was going to do.

"No heroics here," Crabbe snarled. "Hit him, boys."

The Death Eaters flowed into the room, and knocked Neville out within a minimum of fuss, though he flailed at them with the heavy key-ring for as long as he could.

He thought the connecting door to Neville's room was probably open; he could hear deep breathing from that direction.

The dark seemed stifling. Against his will, he shuddered, then forced himself to sit up, letting the slight creak of the bed be a reminder that there were things out there he couldn't see. Years of habit made him whisper, 'Lumos', though he knew that it would work no better now than it had in prison.

He shuddered again, and this time he couldn't stop. He tried to calm himself, breathe evenly, think; but somehow the breaths became sobs, and he was crying. Merlin, how embarrassing, he thought vaguely, the darkness pressing down on him and his own inability to do anything about it scaring him deeply.

"Draco?" a voice said. He knew he should respond, but he wasn't quite ready. "Draco, it's okay," Neville said from the next room. Draco heard the clatter of wood on wood—Neville finding his wand, probably—and then the 'Lumos' that brought a shining light into the darkness. It made the tears on his eyelashes glitter so that he couldn't see.

Neville's footsteps sounded across the floor. The bed dipped as he sat by Draco's side, and out of the corner of his eye Draco saw the light on the wand-tip move. "Here, here," Neville said, awkwardly.

Draco tried again to take a deep breath and calm himself. It sort of worked; he was able to look at Neville and scowl, though he was still shaking.

"Here," Neville said again. "Have your own light." He stood, briefly, and lifted a candle in a brass holder from the dresser on the other side of the room. He handed it to Draco.

Bemused, Draco stared at it. Candles—fires—had to be lit with magic.

Neville caught the look. "Muggles use fire too, Draco," he said, delving in his pocket. "Matches."

The small cardboard box didn't look that hopeful, so Draco just sat there. Neville sighed and showed him—slide the box open, take out one of the little sticks, and rub it hard against the side of the box until, after a couple of tries, it bursts into flame.

"There," Neville said, when he'd lit the candle and placed it safely on the bedside table. "I'll leave the matches there, and you can light it again if it goes out."

Draco nodded, and Neville stood up as if to leave.

"Stay," Draco said, more quickly and more desperately than he'd intended.

Neville looked at him. Under the intense brown gaze, Draco shrugged. "Just… talk to me," he said.

"Okay," Neville nodded, and sat down again.

Draco fell asleep to the sound of Neville relating some hideously boring tale about Ron's siblings getting into trouble for building a boat made of liquorice.

"Not from you," Draco replied, his voice contemptuous. "Go and tell my father I'll be upstairs in about an hour."

Crabbe's footsteps echoed away down the corridor, and Neville heard the key grating in the lock. Draco entered the room, his footsteps slow and firm. On the bed, Neville tensed, though he knew that getting up would only be taken as a willingness to fight.

"Morning, Longbottom," Draco said. "We had an exciting night, didn't we?"

Neville knew he'd be better to stay clam, stay still, because a visible reaction of anger or hatred was exactly what Draco was waiting for. The trouble was, last night's failed escape attempt had damped the fire for a little while, as he spoke with Ron, but when he'd woken to find himself alone again, hunger for a friendly voice had stoked the flames once more.

He sat up, trembling with rage, and said, "That wasn't the end of it, Malfoy."

"No indeed," Draco said, his eyes filling with a cold, steely lust. "There are lots of excitements to come, Longbottom. Starting with whipping." From somewhere in the depths of his black robes, Draco produced a five-stranded leather whip.

He shook it in front of Neville's face, and then muttered a few phrases of spell-Latin. Neville, still shaking—though now with fear and disgust layered over the anger—found himself flat on his belly, nose pressed into the musty mattress and hands tied above his head.

Draco cracked the whip a couple of times, getting the feel of it, before beginning in earnest.

One of the things Neville never understood about these sessions was how his clothes seemed to melt off it. It had to be some sort of spell, because at the start he'd be dressed, albeit in rags, but when Draco wanted him naked the clothes left without waiting to be undone. Afterwards, they were back, before he really registered what happened.

He never understood how Draco could get so hard, be so aroused, by seeing someone in pain, either. And most of all he didn't understand why, even if he didn't respond to the whipping, once Draco's cock was inside his arse he'd be hard, too.

Neville didn't understand it; and he hated it. Most of all, he hated his traitorous body which moved without his mind's consent.

Behind him, Draco was quieter than usual; and when, at the end, he fell forward to rest his sweaty body on Neville's torn back, he whispered, "Seeing Weasley was a bad idea, you know. My father's expecting me to make things worse for you from now on."

Neville wanted to spit in his face, but he couldn't turn around to do it.

On his way out, Draco tossed over his shoulder, "If you're not useful enough, I'll have you killed."

Draco nodded, though he didn't look very convinced.

"Not back to the Manor, okay, but you can't stay here forever."

"What's your suggestion, Longbottom?"

Neville looked blank.

"You're clearly leading up to something—just spit it out. What have you and your cronies cooked up as the closest thing to prison you can put me in without actually taking me back to Azkaban?"

Surprised at the vehemence in Draco's tone, Neville studied his face closely. There was dislike there indeed, but there was something else. Fear, perhaps. "No-one's going to lock you up, Draco. I'm trying protect you from the parts of the magical world who want to kill you, and find you somewhere you can live for a while, until you decide what you want to do."

"Like what?" Draco asked, bitterly. "Take some menial Muggle job and live out the rest of my life poor and miserable?"

Neville shook his head firmly. "No, Draco. You're clever, you can study… you can start over again, if you want to. Even if…" Neville winced just thinking the words, but knew he had to say them. "It's still possible that you can re-learn magic; but if you don't, you could still have a decent life in the Muggle world. Not all Muggles live in squalor, you know."

"I don't plan on finding out," Draco said. The arrogant tone—even though Neville knew it was just an automatic defence—pushed him over the edge.

"Well, tough shit, Malfoy. You don't have magic; you're going to have to learn to live without, for a while at least. And you'll be much safer as a Muggle. We're going to go and talk to Hermione this afternoon—Ron thinks she may well be able to find somewhere for you to stay for a few months."

Draco stared at him for a moment, shocked, and then said, definitely, "I don't have to like it."

"No," Neville agreed sharply, "you don't."

Aware he was about to lose him temper again, Neville left the room, leaving Draco to stare out the window at the driving rain.

Neville did the work; Crabbe and Draco stopped by often enough to keep him fearing for his life if he did not.

Then, perhaps four days after the escape attempt (one of the plants he'd been forced to squash into a pulp for use in potions had a slight hallucinogenic effect, and he'd lost the careful track of time that he'd nurtured while in Azkaban), he was sitting at the desk, dripping blood onto the latest leaves and wondering if the flash of white he'd seen deep in his finger was really bone or not, when a house elf materialized on the floor by his side.

"Neville Longbottom!" the wretched creature squeaked—it looked like she'd been beaten, too, or kicked. "Kerbie is bringing message for Neville Longbottom!" She held out a scrap of paper, but Neville, staring, hesitated. "Quickly!" she urged. "Kerbie is being punished soon!"

Something jarred him into action. He snatched the paper from her just as she disappeared.

Carefully, trying not to bloody the already smudged words more than he had to, he laid it on the desk and tried to read the faint, scratchy quill marks.

Neville,

I heard Ron shou[blood drip] your name last night, so I'm tr[water smudge]is on the offchance. Kerbie's oka[illegible letter] in her way, and loyal [water smudge] ook, send messages if you have to, but it's bet[blood drip]o pretend that you're co-operating with them. It's our only [illegible word]: resistance by infiltration.

Trust me.

Dean.

Dean. Dean Thomas. He remembered the name; the face and voice were gone, along with most of his other memories of Hogwarts, but the name was still there—and, probably because checking someone's essay for spelling errors isn't the happiest way to spend an hour, he thought the writing seemed familiar, too.

Neville smiled, ripped the note to shreds, and went back to his work.

"You'll be able to buy something better, soon," Neville told him. "These'll do for now."

Draco shrugged, and went back to staring vaguely into the air as if trying to ignore everything that was happening to him.

He kept that attitude—distant, uncaring, as if he were wrapped in glass and nothing could really touch him—as they walked down a curving suburban street, lined with detached and semi-detached houses, cars parked on drives or the roadside, and gardens of neat lawns and concrete pots.

"Here we are," Neville said with a satisfied smile, checking the address on his bit of paper one last time and then striding boldly down the garden path. "Come on, Draco, you need to see how the keys work to open the door."

"It's not hidden at all," Draco said, sounding stunned—and Neville took a moment's delight in having broken through Malfoy's facade. "It's…"

"It's a Muggle semi-detached suburban house," Neville repeated, turning to face Draco. "And you don't have to say weird things like that in the open, when anyone wandering past can hear you. Let's get inside."

When Draco still didn't move, Neville went back up the path to fetch him. "Listen, Draco, you're going to have to get used to this. It's entirely possible that you will live the rest of your life in a house like this one."

With Neville's guiding hand on his shoulder, Draco eventually walked down to the front door, though not without a series of shudders—some, Neville was sure, mostly for the theatrics of it, but not without a genuine element. "It's still horrible," Draco muttered, under his breath. "I wasn't born to be demeaned in this sort of way."

Neville had to bite his tongue to stop himself asking what Draco was born for—to be a Death Eater, or just plain evil and rich?

"The door's got two locks on," he said instead, "the top one's a Yale, and the lower one's a deadbolt. You undo the lower one first—it turns sunwise to lock, so it goes widdershins to unlock." Neville slipped the key in and demonstrated. "The top one locks itself when you close the door—you can open it without a key from inside, but outside you have to use the key and a quarter turn sunwise. Okay?"

"Didn't get a word of it," Draco said, but the flippant tone was such a remarkable contrast with the expression of concentration that Neville thought he'd probably understood the basics.

"Well, you can try it later, while I'm still here. If you have a problem, you'll just have to ask." That, he thought, was fairly likely to make Draco pay attention; asking for help was hardly his favourite thing.

He let Draco precede him into the house, mostly to see that expression of mixed disgust and curiosity as Draco looked at the typical Muggle furnishings—brown carpet up the stairs, cork tiles on the floor, and a slightly sad pot plant in the corner.

"Just enough to make it look authentic, master," Dean replied. He knelt at Draco's feet, as the Death Eaters did to those superior to them in formal setting such as this.

"Kerbie did as you told her?"

"Yes, master."

"And you're confident that he will co-operate because of this?" Draco asked.

"Yes, master," Dean said. "It worked when you needed Ron to show me the way—because we were friends, and that friendship remains now we've both changed sides. Neville will take it—and eventually, he will take the Dark Mark."

"You are sure—both of you?" asked another voice from the doorway behind Draco.

Dean bowed his head instantly, and Draco spun on his heel and went to one knee in a single long practised movement. "Yes, father. Longbottom will be broken."

"How soon?" Lucius enquired, something slightly mocking in his tone.

"By Yule, if not sooner," Draco answered quickly. "We have a plan in motion already."

Lucius nodded and left. The second he was out of sight, Draco stood up again.

"So, Thomas—what are we going to do next?"

"First, you're going to slowly give Neville more responsibility," Dean recited. "Then, I'm going to send him another message—possibly, if we can set it up, as part of a face-to-face meeting—telling him that he's well placed to become a trusted Death Eater, and he must go along with it in order to become a spy. When that's done, it's back to you: you convince him he's needed, and that you really want to keep him around—let him think he has some sort of hold over you. And finally, we give him the Dark Mark, and…"

"And?" Draco prompted, in the tone of one checking that his pupil has really learnt the words.

"And once he's been given the Dark Mark, he can store up as much information as he likes, but since there's no Gryffindor spying ring for it to go to, it doesn't make the slightest bit of difference."

Draco nodded. "Well done, Thomas. And when you see Weasley again, reward him for doing the right thing when Longbottom burst into his room."

"Master." Dean stood, bowed deeply, and left Draco smiling.

At first, while they were still on things Neville had done before, Draco remained aloof; but when they reached the living room—with its mysterious black boxes—and Draco realised that Neville knew no more than he did, he thawed massively.

"You press the buttons, I know that much," Neville said. "I saw Harry use the one with a screen once—a TB? TV? Something like that."

"Television," Draco said, reading the brief notes Hermione had left. "It sounds like one of those obscure Ancient Greek spells my father favoured."

Neville grinned. "Yeah. It does pretty much what it says on the packet, too: if you press the right buttons, it shows you pictures of what's going on a long way away."

Draco cocked his head, and drawled, "The question is: which buttons?"

"If I were you," Neville said, "I'd wait until Hermione comes round tomorrow and ask her."

"No," Draco said, suddenly and inexplicably stubborn. "I'll work it out. Now."

He bent to examine the buttons with their cryptic labels, and pressed one or two. Nothing happened.

Neville, sighing, sat down in an armchair to wait.

He was still playing with it when Hermione arrived, two minutes late on the ten o'clock they'd agreed and looking very flustered about it.

"Don't worry," Neville said. "I don't think he's even noticed you're here."

Hermione peered into the sitting room and studied Draco, now kneeling on the floor in front of the television and staring at it. "It needs plugging in, Malfoy," she called.

"Don’t help me," he snapped, and Neville smiled.

"I'll be back tonight, okay?" he said, mainly to Draco.

"Tell Ron that—the matter in hand—is under control," Hermione said. "He'll know what it means."

Neville nodded. "If you can…" he said quietly, waving a hand in Draco's direction. "He's…"

"It's okay, Neville," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "I can cope."

"Thanks," Neville said, and then louder, "See you later, Draco."

"Longbottom," Draco said, in a tone of deep contempt. "Get up."

Neville didn't move.

"Which is it to be—work or whip?" Draco asked sweetly. Neville rolled painfully off the bed and moved slowly to the desk, where Draco had set a tray of grey-brown roots when he entered the room.

"They need the skins scraping off—you do it, because it's hard work, a little blood doesn't matter, and if metal touches them they'll dissolve into ash. Clear?"

Neville looked at them, and nodded. "Clear. But—for one thing, this is far more important to whatever potion it is than anything I've been given before, and for another, what happens if I refuse to do it?"

A sneaky smile touched Draco's lips. "First one: yes, it's important. Someone upstairs whose name I won't say but whose initials are SS thinks that stupid Gryffindors are more likely to take the time to get it right than some Death Eater with better things to do. And secondly—that's what the whip's for. You'll do it."

His confidence annoyed Neville. "You're sure?"

Grinning, Draco replied, "I'm sure." He buried his hand into his cloak as if he was reached for the whip, and when Neville flinched he grinned wider. "Very sure."

Neville hated it, but he knew Draco was right. Slowly, he sat down, stretched his cold fingers, and started to scrape the roots with his fingernails.

"Well done, Longbottom," Draco said in an approving voice. "For that, I'll tell one of the house elves to bring you some proper food tonight—and maybe some water for washing, too. If, of course, you do the next lot as well."

He left without waiting for Neville's answer, but they both knew what it would be.

They settled into a pattern; Neville stopped by every evening, and Hermione called every morning.

For while, Draco seemed to find enough to do in the house; then he got bored, and although Neville and Hermione repeatedly offered to bring books, or suggested that he get out of the house and started to mix in the Muggle neighbourhood, he refused.

Eventually, they decided that the best thing to do—since whatever was nagging at Draco wasn't something he would talk about, and Dean suggested that the only way forward was to let him find his own way—was to drop the visits off to one a day, and then to every two days. Finally, Neville was visiting once a week.

Mostly, he found Draco watching television, or staring out of the window if the weather was bad. He wasn't sure it was healthy—but Draco showed no signs of being crazy, merely miserable and apathetic. "Give him time to adjust," Dean urged, and they did.

Then, one day, Neville found things very different to normal.

"Hello?" he called as he peered round the door. "Draco, where are you?"

The key stuck in the lock for a moment, and he struggled to get it out before calling again, "Draco, it's Neville. Draco?"

There was no reply. Puzzled now, he set about combing the rooms: kitchen, empty and with a strange lack of dirty dishes; dining room, empty; living room, empty…

Neville ran upstairs, shouting, "Draco?"

Front bedroom, bathroom… back bedroom. Draco lay on top of the blankets, trembling a little, face tinged with grey. He was holding a letter, and the cold draft drew Neville attention to the open window. Owl post.

"Draco, it's me, it's Neville." Neville moved to his side in two long strides and knelt on the floor beside him. "Draco," he said, touching the blond's shoulder, "what is it? Who's it from?"

Draco didn't seem to register his presence, and Neville's exploring hand found that his skin was cold, his pulse weak and rapid. With a quick flick of his wand, he shut the window, then brushed a strand of hair off Draco's forehead. "You really are freezing," he said, aware that it was pointless but feeling the need to say something. "Come on, Draco, talk to me."

The appeal won him his first reaction; Draco's eyes flickered open, but Neville couldn't read the emotion in them.

"You haven't eaten all day, have you? Maybe even all week," Neville went on, conversationally. "Your blood sugar must have absolutely crashed. First—you aren't wearing any shoes, are you?—get under those blankets, instead of shivering on top of them, that's right. I'm going to find some soup—I'll be a minute at most."

Neville's hands were bleeding again. He'd been given the tough stems of Unholy Mint to break into sections, and it was hard work.

To keep his mind off it, he dwelt on what had happened. First, there was the escape attempt and the meeting with Ron, when he'd been told to fight from the inside; and then came the message from Dean, urging him to co-operate. Two trusted sources, telling him the same thing.

Be good.

Co-operate, and be trusted. You're doing the most good by pretending not to be a problem.

He wasn't entirely sure that it was the only way, but he did see that if there was a flourishing spy ring and resistance movement, more people co-operating would be useful, and he was also glad that they had told him, rather than letting him keep struggling and be the sacrifice that kept the others safe.

And now—Draco was giving him more responsibility, more important jobs to do. It seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity to make himself useful to them.

Make them trust us.

If he did his work well, and was as helpful as he could be (and, almost despite himself, he had learned a lot about potions over the years), he could gain that trust and start gathering useful information. Information that, one day, might overthrow the Death Eaters and their Dark Lord.

The mere thought of it was daunting—years of lying, hiding, looking for ways to send secret messages.

He pulled savagely at a mint stem, and asked himself if he could really do it, or if he'd be better to make himself into the distraction-cum-sacrifice-cum-cover that the he'd have become if they had just left him.

It would be more satisfying. It would bring death, the fastest way out of this. And it would be a service to the others.

On the other hand… it wasn't what Harry would do.

Harry, the hider of secrets and the fighter of dark fights unseen by others, would spy, gathering information, until he had enough to formulate a plan and bring the regime tumbling down.

Not much of a choice, really.

Neville snapped the stems and wondered what sort of information would be most useful.

Neville nearly rebuked him for the language, and then thought about the one occasion when he'd met Narcissa Black. It was probably fair. Instead, he picked up the letter and raised his eyebrows questioningly, a mute request for permission to read.

Draco shrugged expressively. "I don't care if you do."

Mildly curious, Neville turned his eyes to the parchment. It was impeccably neat; harsh angular writing in ink of purest black. No smudges or blots marred the sheet, and it had survived an owl journey completely uncreased.

Draco Malfoy,

You no longer deserve the name of 'son'. A disgrace to the family name, your house and the memory of your father, I disown you completely and utterly. Malfoy Manor—henceforth known as Black Manor—is mine, as is every Knut Lucius left.

Enjoy your pardon.

Narcissa Black.

The only flourish was the extension of the second 's' in the signature until it resembled a snake.

"There's more," Draco said, waving his had. Neville turned the parchment over.

P.S. Merlin's worst curse on your ugly pointed head. May you live in misery; your lovers be loveless and your loves sexless; your children and your children's children rot in Hell by your side (though in a separate room to your father and I); your body wither and your spirit crumble; and your wife be barren.

"Splendidly old testament, isn't it," Draco remarked. Neville nodded, wordless. "I don't know how much of it will actually take effect, of course; it depends how much power she put into it, whether she could find any hair or blood of mine, and whether or not she remembered that I'm gay. And how much of that is the actual text of the curse."

"Err…" said Neville.

"Shocked, Longbottom? You really didn’t know I was gay?"

Neville shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "I… had heard rumours. But… it wasn't that I'm shocked by. Your mother cursed you!"

Draco looked at him, and shrugged. "I'm drawn to that inescapable conclusion."

"No house… no money… no family… Merlin's beard, Draco, I'm sorry."

The sympathy was too much. "Not half as sorry as I am," Draco snapped. "It wasn't any good to me anyway, so let's forget about it, shall we?"

"Okay," Neville nodded. Draco looked so desperate to wrestle the thought out of his mind that Neville took pity and changed the subject. "Did I tell you that Professor Snape wants to see you? Now it's been a few months since your release, I think he feels it's safe enough to talk to you—it won't look like he lied to get you out."

"No," Draco said. "When…"

"I gave him the telephone number for this place—so if it rings, you'd better pick it up."

Draco looked doubtful.

"Promise me," Neville said. "If it rings, you will answer it. I'm not asking you to dial out, just to pick it up. Okay?"

"Okay," Draco said, and yawned.

"You'd better get some sleep." Draco nodded agreement, shuffling further down the bed. "If I go, will you be okay?" Neville asked.

Already falling asleep, Draco didn't reply, but he reached out and grabbed Neville's hand.

"I guess I'll stay for a while," Neville said. And smiled.

* * *