A/N: For my dear J, lover of all stars, even the exploding ones, and beta-ed by the perfectly amazing dormiensa, who had this beast back to me within two days.
Disclaimer: I think it's pretty obvious that Draco, Hermione, and anything else Harry Potter related is not mine.
Supernova: Violent stellar explosions that are caused by the core collapse of massive stars.
He was ready for it all to end.
He was staring at the end. Finally, it would be over, and he had no fear. At least, none for himself.
"You know what you must do."
Whatever pain he was to endure, it would be deserved, for he would inflict it no longer.
"Draco."
If no one ever spoke his name again, it would be too soon.
"I will bear you no ill will."
When he was remembered with scorn and hatred, it would be the truth.
He stared at the box in front of him. He stared at the man in front of him.
He had waited for this moment. He had stared at this point on the horizon too long, knowing eventually, it would again come to a choice. But this time, there was no way out. No escape. No tender touch.
Supernova. That was what Muggle scientists called it. When a star exploded. He hoped when he burst from the inside out, as if he were a star from his own constellation, it would be magnificent in its fire and light, destruction and death.
Draco was in a pissy mood. Sent out by the Dark Lord to keep watch over a possible Order hideout, with a babysitter. Two weeks in shit accommodations with shit company. This Jorgan fellow was a complete arsehole—and cruel fuck, too. Callously talking about how he killed an Order supporter and left his body to rot in the back of one of those Muggle automobiles. Didn't matter if the bloke had been siding with the Light or not; Jorgan may have just killed him for fun.
They were on their third day in, and Draco thought he might not make the full fortnight. Self-absorbed, sadistic, and idiotic. Jorgan was like his father, aunt, and Goyle all rolled into one.
"I'm going out."
Jorgan lounged in a chair, one leg draped over the arm, and glanced up from Witch Bitch.
Classy. Just like such a low-life to read such a low-brow magazine, Draco thought.
"Why? I just was out for a look around."
"Perhaps I want another one. Just to make sure." It sounded weak to his ears, but it was partially true. He was trying to get in better favor with the Dark Lord. His father had been punished terribly, and that was before . . . Draco was desperate to protect his mother.
As if Draco actually spoke the words aloud, Jorgan laughed cruelly.
"Like you can ever make up for how you royally fucked up at Hogwarts. But go ahead, darling. Try to make yourself look good. Protect that Mummy of yours."
Jorgan gave another short laugh and buried himself in his classless naked women.
Draco fumed but said nothing, instead, slamming the door on the way out. And he fumed all the way through an uneventful survey of the area. And never saw the spell that rendered him unconscious at the door of his hideout.
Initially, he was sure it had been his irritation that led to them being caught. He hadn't properly concealed himself until later into his walk, and though he was no scout, he hadn't covered his tracks. Draco would later realize that they had wanted to catch Jorgan. Draco had just happened to have been the unlucky bastard that was with the prick they wanted.
"Boy, are you awake? What's your name?"
Draco thought the voice must be talking to him—it was right in his ear—but his brain wouldn't connect to his mouth. He wondered if possibly they had hit him with something large and heavy in addition to a spell.
"Looks like a pretty boy. Like his mum might still dress him every morning."
Since Draco couldn't see anything—apparently his brain couldn't function well enough to open his eyes either—he could only imagine what the man speaking looked like. Although the comment sounded like something Weasley would say, the voice didn't match the red-headed twit. It was high pitched and wavering, and Draco pictured an out-of-proportion cartoon character—perhaps short and squat with long arms—from the section of the Prophet he used to read as a child.
"Donald, quit admiring his clothes and turn him over and wake him up. Micah's coming."
The second voice, or first as it were, was hard and with an annoyed edge to it, as if the speaker was constantly having to take care of Donald's problems and would rather have ditched Donald in the nearest rubbage bin.
Draco heard Donald mutter something about his non-fascination with the pretty boy's clothes, and suddenly, Draco was flipped over onto his back, lifted up, and thrust into a chair. How he stayed in it, he had no idea. A sticking charm? He fought with his muscles, starting with small ones, and with enormous effort and strain, opened his eyes minutely.
But he couldn't hold them open but for a second, which did not even give him enough time to see who was holding him or where he was being held.
Suddenly, the first voice was speaking to him again, quite close, and Draco could smell mint everywhere.
"Don't even bother trying. You'll just drain your magic attempting to break out of the curse."
Draco wanted to kick and scream, to look upon his captor and spit in his face. Perhaps some of that showed on his face somehow, for Minty just chuckled.
"It's a beaut of spell, isn't it? Quite the bitch."
Draco raged internally, screaming obscenities in his mind, but stilled his thoughts when he heard a door open.
"How's our guest?"
This new voice, low and smooth, would have reminded him of Severus if it hadn't been for the American accent. This must be Micah.
"Still under the effects of the Con—" Minty stopped talking as quickly as he had started, and Draco had a feeling he had been shut up by Micah.
"Remove the eyes."
Draco thought his heart stopped beating for a few instants before beginning to race. They were going to take out his eyes?
Before he had a chance to even consider how he could stop this mutilation, light erupted around him. He blinked repeatedly, adjusting to the brightness. Draco's gaze was immediately drawn the man in front of him.
No, nothing like Severus at all. This Micah was short and stocky, with sandy-coloured hair and an innocent youthful face, complete with dimples and cheeks that were constantly flushed.
"Ah, and then there was light." His eyes glittered with amusement, and he had a soft one-sided smile, but Draco instinctively knew there was something much more sinister behind the pleasant façade.
Still unable to speak, Draco just narrowed his eyes, bravado evident even though he was quaking inside.
"But I know you are eager to know why you are here. And we will get to that soon enough." Micah leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, clasping his hands together in front of him, his right index finger absently rubbing the ring on his left hand.
"All I want to know is: what is your name?"
"And why should I tell you that?"
Draco's voice was sharp, and the words were out before he even realized he could speak.
"Wha . . ."
He trailed off, but Micah hadn't even noticed Draco had spoken again. Only able to look where his eyes could turn, Draco watched as Micah glanced quickly to his side and, raising his brows, said,
"He's the one."
"The one? I didn't even tell you who I was."
Micah was already on his feet, starting to move toward the door, when he looked back at Draco.
"I already know who you are, Draco Malfoy. I needed something different from you."
"Different? What?"
"I needed to know if you could talk to me."
It was then that Draco realized the significance of his voice. A voice that was a go-between. Micah now knew Draco could communicate with them, and there was no escaping what he had just revealed. Draco's eyes closed in defeat, no longer needing to see the man who had just manipulated him. How he would be used was yet to be seen.
Donald and Minty didn't leave him for long before coming back and releasing him from the curse that bound him. Draco had continued to stew on his predicament but could see no way out of it.
The Dark Lord was paranoid, to an extreme degree. He had instituted a new spell, integrated with the Death Eaters' Dark Marks, that allowed them to only speak to other Death Eaters or the house elves that belonged to them. However, there were a few exemptions, such as Draco, who, at his current status as errand boy, needed to be able to communicate with the outside world. The Dark Lord could reverse the curse—Draco sometimes liked to think that he would—but typically, Death Eaters didn't need to talk to a common Muggle or someone siding with such people.
Despite cursing his low rank within the Death Eater circles, Draco had considered himself somewhat lucky when this new curse was implemented. Draco could still talk to his mother—not that he saw her that often. Most of the men were completely isolated from their families, unless the Dark Lord deemed it necessary or acceptable for them to be able to speak with their families. With each passing day, Draco questioned his previous actions and beliefs, though he continued to keep those thoughts to himself.
Regardless, Micah didn't care about his loyalty, or beliefs, or state of mind. The young Death Eater was sure that Micah intended to use him as a translator.
As Draco was escorted from the room he had been held to another room, he took in as much as he could of his surroundings. Stark, medicinal hallways and rooms led Draco to believe at first that he wasn't in a house. But with magic, anything was possible. They could be in a one-person tent, enlarged and modified to confuse Draco. Sometimes it was truly difficult to know what was real and what wasn't, especially when one was wandless.
Draco was stopped in front of a door where Micah was waiting.
"Listen, kid, don't bother trying anything. You will be down faster than you can blink if you do."
Micah paused, apparently waiting for an acknowledgment, so Draco gave a quick nod.
"We just want some information. Information I know your Death Eater buddy in there has."
Draco nodded again, though he wondered what this exercise could possibly accomplish. Jorgan would give him nothing, he knew that. But better to play along and see where this went. He was still alive, wasn't he?
Micah opened the door, and Annoyed and Dumber pushed Draco in behind him. He saw Jorgan sitting in a chair, his stiff back to Draco. He assumed that Jorgan must be under the same spell he had been subjected to earlier.
"Let's go," Micah said as he led Draco to the table and thrust him into a seat opposite Jorgan.
Jorgan narrowed his eyes in complete hostility at Draco. He was fairly sure Jorgan knew what was coming, and he didn't have to perform Legilimency on his colleague to know that Jorgan thought Draco was weak for even being there. Draco couldn't help but feel anger build at Jorgan's poor opinion of him.
Draco turned away from the angry gaze, toward Micah, who said,
"Ask Jorgan where Lincoln is."
"That's it?"
"Just ask the question."
Draco turned back to Jorgan and started speaking, knowing the Dark Mark spell would activate and none of the occupants of the room would understand what they were saying.
"He wants to know where Lincoln is."
"You're a fucking pussy, Malfoy. Why haven't you tried to take one of their wands? You could probably kill one of them before they killed you."
"Are you so sure they are Order members?" Draco was genuinely curious. So far, he didn't know any of these people, not that he would necessarily know any or all Order members. But they didn't really seem like people fighting for the Light side. Draco wasn't sure why he felt that way—he could only chalk it up to instinct.
"Who gives a shit," Jorgan shouted in agitation. "They captured us, no thanks to you. Clearly they are against the Dark Lord, and therefore, you should be doing everything you can to show your loyalty for him."
"What he is saying?"
Draco turned back to Micah, the man's expression one of puzzlement and distaste. Obviously, Draco had never heard what the Dark Mark language sounded like to non-Death Eaters, but he had been told by his mother that it was acidic sounding and would actually cause her physical pain to listen to.
"He does not know."
"We both know that is not true. All I want to know is where the body is—that's it. And then, I promise, no harm will come of either of you."
Once again, Draco looked back at Jorgan.
"They are just looking for the body. Just tell them the location, and we are safe."
"Fuck, Malfoy. You are even more pathetic than I originally thought. We're fucking dead men right now. May as well go out martyrs."
Draco thought that was rather stupid, as no one would know, much less remember, that he died here today, right now, trying to kill a possible Order member. Didn't someone need to know that you died for you to be a martyr?
Still staring at Jorgan, he told Micah again, "He doesn't know anything."
Draco was physically removed from his seat and roughly pushed from the room, only to be taken to another identical one, but this one was filled with more tables and chairs and papers. Parchment littered the floors, tables, chairs—it was everywhere.
He was once again thrust into a chair, hands still bound together in front of him. Draco leaned forward, curious about what was on the papers but was disappointed to not understand any of it. It was a jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols unrecognizable to him. And then, it was swept from his view.
"You're not the only one with a secret language."
Micah leaned against the table, facing Draco, one foot crossed over the other. One thing Draco had noticed was that these wizards didn't wear robes. However, they did all wear the same type of clothes. Navy-coloured trousers and shirts.
"Draco, here's the deal. I need this information. And I will get it eventually. If not from you, I will find another Dark Lord lackey that also speaks English."
"But he won't tell me what you want to know."
Draco's voice sounded small, almost whiny. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. They were the ones with the wands, with the free hands. He was just the go-between translator.
"Draco, do you know the kind of man Jorgan is?"
Besides a self-serving asshole? Instead Draco simply said, "I don't know him well."
"Well, let me fill you in on exactly what Jorgan enjoys doing. He likes to take advantage of women who have no protection. Women whose husbands have died, brothers have left, fathers are infirm."
A burning feeling began filling Draco, although he was unsure where this was going.
"Do you know the things he does to these women, girls even? Besides the obvious of rape and sexual deviance. He uses magic, usually an Unforgivable, to have them torture or kill their loved ones, often for information. Information that is useless to him. Useless to everyone. Or something the brother or husband or child couldn't possibly know."
Draco went cold, the flame of heat instantly being doused by this new information. Pieces began to fit together.
"Why are you telling me this?" His voice echoed the coldness he felt, though it still trembled as these new suggestions began sinking in.
Micah tilted his head slightly to the side and stared at Draco. For a moment, Draco considered attempting to enter his mind, but it was unnecessary. It was clear that Micah was saying, you know why, without verbalizing the words.
"Lincoln's wife was one of these women. However, he underestimated her weakness. Jorgan is a weak man and chooses women that he thinks can't or won't fight back. Abby wasn't defenseless and knew how to fight. He ended up having to kill her, and of course, Lincoln went after him. The details of their meeting are unnecessary, except that Lincoln is dead, and we need to find his body."
Weak. Defenseless. Incapable of fighting. Weak. Draco rolled these words around in his mind, over and over. A mantra that was taking over, making him angrier and more enraged by the moment. He tried to focus on Micah.
"Again, I ask, why are you telling me this?"
Draco watched as Micah's face hardened, his patience clearly diminishing.
"And as I said, yes, you can translate. But there are others like you. And I will find another one. I found you, didn't I? But I want you get the information from Jorgan."
"How? Why would he tell me?"
Micah rounded the desk and pulled out a box, long and rectangular.
"I think you will find the tools you need to be persuasive."
Draco didn't even want to think about what was in that box; however, at the same time, he found a dark satisfaction in imagining Jorgan's face crushing beneath his fists.
"Why me?" Draco had a feeling that Micah knew more than he was saying, but Draco needed some sort of confirmation. This time, the words were not unspoken.
"I believe you know why. The scenario I described isn't unfamiliar to you, is it?"
Flashes of memories raced across Draco's vision. His mother's brief look of panic at his announcement that he was leaving with Jorgan. Discovering his father dead, by his mother's wand. His mother's swollen belly. His mother's grief at his father's imprisonment. Weak. Defenseless. Incapable of fighting.
Draco stayed silent, face expressionless, refusing to reveal anything. It angered him that Micah seemed to know things about Draco's life that he thought only a few individuals were privy to.
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
Micah shrugged dismissively. "Depends on what you consider a choice. You can do this and stay alive … and unhurt. You don't, and, well, I can't keep you safe. Most likely, you will suffer the same fate as Jorgan."
Draco had never killed a man—he couldn't. Too weak, according to the Dark Lord as well as countless others, including his father. But he hadn't wanted to. If that made him weak, so be it. He really didn't want to move up within the Death Eater ranks. That would mean having to do something he dreaded and was loathe to do.
He had been tortured, however; it was a game for the Dark Lord. It was terrible, and painful, and endless, and he never wanted to go through that again. He had no idea if it would be worse here than it was with his master.
Regardless, he knew that Micah had him exactly where he wanted because he knew Draco now had a personal vendetta against Jorgan, having found out what Jorgan was, that he was responsible.
Still, it was a torn Draco that stood and took the box from Micah's desk. The boy that wanted to hide behind his mother's robes and the man who wanted to rip out the throat of the man who hurt her.
But it was also the exact moment that Draco knew that he had lost. There was no turning back from what he was about to do, what he was about to become.
He used to think he was distinctive and would one day stand out among his peers. Maybe he still would. But not for the reason he had hoped for.
"Get up, get up! Wake up, Malfoy!"
Draco groaned as he felt small hands shaking him, and none too gently. He felt disoriented, perhaps drugged. He struggled to open his eyes, but at least this time, he was able to. He couldn't see anything because there was a body over him, pulling him, rolling him.
"Get up, you stupid lug!"
"Shut up," he spat out as he pushed back, finding the strength to sit up. He was on a cot in his 'room', if you could call a cell a living residence. He had been thrown back in here, after his encounter with Jorgan. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he guessed he had. Maybe torturing was tiring work.
"Good, you're finally awake. You've got to get up and get out of here."
Finally Draco recognized the voice, that sharp, shrewy voice. Granger. What was she doing here? So, were these people really part of the Order? But why was she telling him to get up?
"What the fuck is going on here, Granger?"
"Just get up." Hermione walked over and quickly glanced out the door, in both directions.
"No, not until you tell me what is going on."
Hermione huffed. "I would think it was fairly obvious. I'm breaking you out."
Draco glanced around, wondering if this was some sort of trick. Waiting for Potter and Weasley to jump in and Avada him. Not that he could do much from his current position. He had no wand, no weapon.
"Not to sound ungrateful, but why? Do you remember who I am? Death Eater? Pure-blood snob? And do you remember who you are? Gryffindor Know-It-All who loves all that is pure and good?"
Hermione turned and stared at him, loathing on face. Her wand pointed at him from where it rested, trapped between her hand and her hip.
"Yes, I do, but thank you for the refresher course." She sighed. "I still don't like you. But no one should have to do what they've made you do. What they'll make you keep doing."
She knew. She knew what he had done to Jorgan. And still, she wanted to let him go?
"They made me do? They're your people!"
Hermione looked appalled and disgusted. "Not at all! They're a rogue group. A break-away. They were part of the Order, but they became increasingly frustrated when our methods didn't match up with their ideas."
"So, what are you doing here? How did you—"
"Listen, much as I'd love to engage in a lengthy discussion about the various factions between the sides, if we don't get out of here, we'll just be statistics someone else will be discussing."
Draco pushed himself off the cot and walked toward Hermione. He wondered if he was jumping out of one boiling cauldron only to land in another, and yet, in seconds, he was standing next to her.
She gave a curt nod and a quick "Follow me" before heading into the hallway. As they trotted down it, he glanced in one of the rooms and saw Micah, Donald, Minty, and three other men, bound and unconscious, on the floor. Was that it? He had only seen the former three and didn't even know there were more.
"Are there—"
Hermione quickly tossed a Silencing Charm over her shoulder, and Draco gritted his teeth at the impertinence. That witch was such a snot.
Another hallway, and out a door, and they were outside. But not in a secluded part of a forest as Draco had imagined. Instead, there were buildings nearby, ugly, harsh, metal buildings. It was dark, so he couldn't get as good of a look around as he would have liked, but he memorized the front of the building and, as he ran after Hermione, locations of several alleyways. He would come back. He and Micah had not finished their business.
Hermione made turn after turn, then stopped, grabbed him, and spun, barely giving Draco any time to prepare himself for Side-Along Apparition.
As soon as they were at their new destination, Draco attempted to speak, actually yell, but was unable to. He grabbed her arm, tapping his throat. Eyes widening slightly, she nodded curtly and reversed the spell.
"Merlin, Granger. I don't think there was anyone after us. Didn't you get them all before you broke it for me?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly annoyed at his assumption that she wasn't prepared.
"I wasn't worried about them. At the moment, it's the other side that concerns me."
Draco stared at her, completely confused by her motivation. Why did she save him? What did she want? It just didn't make sense. Why should she care what he was made to do? What they did to him?
"What?"
"I'm just still trying to figure out why I'm standing here, in the middle of the woods, with Hermione Granger, and not back in that cell."
"It wasn't right—what they were doing."
"How do you know what they were doing—what I did? Why were you even there?"
"I have my ways. The point is that I knew, and I wasn't going to let it continue. As to the why, well, I've been watching them for weeks, since they broke off. They have money and borderline morals. I knew they were dangerous. Now, I know just how much."
"But you hate me."
Hermione shrugged. "Hate's a strong word. I don't like you. I don't like what you believe in. I don't like that you think you are better than me, for something as silly as blood. I don't like your cruelness. I believe you do deserve punishment of some kind for the things you have done. But I don't think it's the Rebels' job to decide what that is. And you shouldn't be forced to engage in such terrible…acts as what they made you do."
Draco turned away, guilt flooding his body. Guilt for being too weak to say no. Guilt for the blood on his hands. Guilt for the bit of sick enjoyment he took from it. What kind of man was he?
"That was it. They were releasing me after I did that. They said so."
Hermione gave a sharp laugh that had Draco turning back toward her.
"You can't be naïve enough to believe that. They weren't. Which reminds me … "
She marched the few steps that separated him and went to his side, cupping the back of his neck with her hand and lifting up the hair, combing her fingers through it, massaging the back of his scalp. It was a soothing gesture, one his mother had done to him as a child. He was startled, and for a moment, did nothing. Then, he turned his head and pulled his head back, batting her hand down.
"Oh, calm down," she said, as she continued. "I know they inserted some sort of transmitter in you, likely at the base or back of your neck. But I can feel nothing."
"They what?" Draco was more forceful about removing her hand as he took over the inspection with his own hands.
"I don't know if it is a tracker or a transmitter or a sensor. Maybe it tells them where you are, or if you're close, or signals for you to come to them." She looked frustrated. "I couldn't figure that information out. They're using Muggle technology for this, or a combination with magic. I just haven't had the time to research that."
If the situation was not so completely and utterly fucking bizarre, Draco would have laughed. Hermione looked absolutely mortified for not having something perfectly puzzled out.
"Guess you fail that portion of the exam."
She scowled at him. "Well, you just better see if you can get it removed wherever you end up going."
"I'm sure Severus can figure it out." He continued to probe around his neck, concentrating on the ground as he felt his head. Her sharp intake of breath made him look back up.
"You're going back?"
"Of course."
"But why?" She sounded incredulous and, yet, concerned. It was disconcerting.
"Have you ever considered that I actually became a Death Eater for a reason? A reason such as I believe in the values as laid out by the Dark Lord?"
Hermione looked like she had been slapped.
"Actually, no. I just assumed it was because your father … "
"Look who's naïve now."
Hermione didn't blush, or glance away, or look ashamed.
"If that's true, then why haven't you tried to kill me or capture me?"
"Well, that's obvious. You have the wand."
"I wouldn't think that would stop you, if you truly believed I am inferior to you and worthy of death." She paused. "Wouldn't it be better to go down fighting, even if you died? You may be able to maim me before I killed you. You'd be a martyr for your cause."
Draco felt a cold flush roll through him. Jorgan had said something very similar to him. How frightening to put Granger and Jorgan in the same thought circle. They were nothing alike.
"As interesting as I find this conversation, can I go? Or is there a stipulation to you breaking me out?"
Draco knew there would many questions asked and probably just as much pain to accompany them. Better to get it over with. There was no escaping it. Despite what Granger thought.
Apparently, she wasn't to be deterred. Her hands were clenched into small fists as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"Why are you going back? Just tell me. Just tell me, and I'll let you go."
"I told you already."
"And I don't believe you," she shot back.
"Damn it, Granger. Why do you care? What does it matter?" He was holding in barely-concealed rage. Draco was beginning to feel the torrent of emotions from everything that happened over the previous day and wasn't sure he could keep it together. He would rather kill himself before he broke down in front of Granger.
"Because I just need to know."
"So you can sleep better knowing you didn't help someone escape who would choose to kill you on a battlefield?"
"No! It's not about my conscience. It's about yours!"
Draco sighed. Wasn't Potter the one with the savior complex?
"You can't save me."
"I thought I did."
He paused, thinking about what to say. At this rate, they might be here until they withered away and died, but damned if he was going to actually tell her why he was returning.
"Granger, before you eloped on this little mission to save the world with Potter and Weasley, I'm sure that you took care to protect something, someone, who is important to you. You probably swore you would do everything in your power to make sure he or she stayed safe. Didn't you?"
The recognition bloomed on her face, and she slowly nodded.
"Your mother."
Without responding, he simply asked, "May I leave now?" At her simple nod, he turned and began walking. However, her next question stopped him.
"Don't you want your wand?"
When he turned around, she was holding it out, and he almost wept. He was sure it was gone forever.
She tossed it toward him but not close enough so he could catch. As he leaned down to pick it up, he could see her wand trained on him. She didn't trust him. Smart witch.
He could see her struggling, perhaps with what to say. Did one say: goodbye, good luck, take care, don't be evil?
Without waiting, he uttered words that rarely left his mouth. "Thank you." And he turned away before he could see her expression. However, he clearly heard her response.
"May you be saved again."
Draco heard the pop and sunk down on the ground, willing himself to calm down. There was nothing worth saving. Not in him. Not now. Not with what was to come. But there was someone else who was. And as he forced deep breaths on himself, he formed the plan of how he would save them, even if it meant not being worth saving.
"You'll be free if you just finish this."
He wanted to snarl, to laugh, to cry. Free? Who had declared this life of his free? He was torn between two sides, in an inescapable position. There was nowhere safe.
He raised his wand, steadying it as he pointed it at the man in front of him. The man who he cared for as a father. Was this the better choice?
"That's right, Malfoy. Just accept that there is no escape. No one's coming to save you."
What if they were saved? What if she-? It was no use thinking it. There was nothing here worth saving, save the dark-haired man. Though they wouldn't think that. Unless she … Well, she would know to save him.
"Don't think we don't appreciate your diligence. When you're done with this, you'll have a special place with us."
He used to think he knew what to fear. What was evil in this world. However, he had learned a few things with time. The sides of war may look clear, but they were not. And the people fighting were most definitely not. Grey was the colour of life. He seemed to fit right in.
Draco Malfoy strode through the halls of the manor with purpose. A few men, new recruits he guessed, called out greetings to him, which he ignored. He was not a social man; they would learn that soon enough. No one spoke to Draco unless absolutely necessary.
Anyone looking at Draco would have thought he was angry, though on most occasions, he was just somber, almost neutered in his emotions. His expression was just that—an expression. "It's just my face," he liked to say, on the rare occasion that he spoke. However, today, anyone thinking Draco was in agitated spirits would be correct. He adjusted the cuff on his shirt and shifted his jaw as he thought about how he almost put on robes. For more than one reason, this was dangerous. Never change your habits. Change was instantly recognized.
Draco never wore robes. Too hot and too blowsy for his line of work. But in his haste, and unease, he had almost put them on, as if putting them on would cover up who he was or what he was planning on doing. Had the Dark Lord seen him, or even one of the slightly more intelligent Death Eaters—not that there were many; you didn't need to have any sort of functioning brain to follow blindly—well, it would have at least resulted in more questions than he wanted or had time to answer.
Hitting the dungeon stairs, he took them steadily, purposely keeping his gait smooth, not too slow or fast. He nodded in acknowledgement at a guard at the bottom of the stairs but said nothing, moving down the corridors, only his feet making noise as they slapped against the hard, cold stone.
Corner after corner he turned, as he if were in a maze. Another deterrent, an obstacle, in case a prisoner happened to escape. Winding through the tangle of hallways was tricky for even the wizards who knew the dungeons. A disoriented prisoner stood no chance.
Finally, he came upon the door he was looking for. He took a steadying breath before opening it with his wand. It was dark in the cell, but he could make out the figure hunched on the floor. Draco shut the door with his heel with a slam, and she briefly shook as if startled and looked up, a small smile on her face.
"Let me guess? Water and stale bread again."
After almost two weeks, she pushed the banter. He pushed it right back at her, choosing to not participate, to stay unemotional, but she persisted. Perhaps because he still had not laid a finger on her.
"This isn't a game, Granger. You know what I need from you."
While he spoke, he looked her over fully, inspecting her with his eyes. He was sure that no one had come in—he had given strict instructions in regards to the prisoners that were his. Interrogation was much more effective if the person being interrogated was completely isolated, except for his visits. But he had to make sure.
Hermione stiffened her spine against the wall, sitting up straighter.
"Well, take it from me."
His teeth clamped together so tightly, he thought he may break a tooth, and Draco briefly shifted his eyes away from hers.
"There has to be something."
He heard her give a small sigh, and he glanced back to see her look down and shake her head.
"You know I can give you nothing."
"Can't or won't?"
"Draco," he shuttered and looked away at her use of his name, "We go through this every day. Your skills are not nearly what rumour says they are if this is the way you gain information from people. I thought you were well-trained."
Draco whipped his head back at her, so fast he thought he heard it crack. He reined in the thousand things he wanted to scream at her about how her precious "good" side had turned him into the monster he was. At how he was extremely effective at his job. And if he wanted to, he could get anything from her.
But then, her soft voice stilled his violent thoughts.
"They're going to kill me, aren't they?"
Draco was instantly aware of her use of 'they' and not 'you'.
"You will die if you do not provide the Dark Lord with information."
Hermione gave a bitter laugh. "I will die regardless of the information I give to you or your precious Dark Lord." She paused, her voice becoming solemn once again. "But that's not what I asked. Someone else will kill me, won't they? Not you?"
The facial expression that hardly ever altered from "angry" suddenly morphed into puzzlement.
"What? Do you want to die?"
She stood up suddenly, and Draco had a vision of a time many years ago when Hermione would hop from her chair in excitement to answer a professor's question. There was no eager anticipation on her face now, though. With shorn hair and a flimsy set of robes—standard protocol for new prisoners—she hardly looked like the same witch. But when he looked into her eyes, the same fight was there. It pleased him; she needed that to survive.
"No! Of course not! But, I would rather die by your hand than someone else's."
He must have had that confused look on his face for she just continued.
"I just think my death would be much more peaceful if you did it than if … "
Hermione trailed off, and he knew exactly why. Words were not necessary to describe the horror that could await her. It should have surprised him that she believed he would be more merciful while murdering her than his counterparts or the Dark Lord. But she was correct in her belief. She would not have been the first person interrogated by Draco that met a quick end. The thought rarely assuaged the guilt.
But this time was different. And the next fifteen minutes were crucial.
He pulled a small box out of his pocket and set it on the small table, enlarging it with a simple wave of his wand.
Hermione approached the table cautiously, though her head was craning forward in curiosity.
"What is all of …"
Again she trailed off and took a step back. Hermione Granger was not a stupid witch. Her intelligence probably beat out the combined brain power of twenty standard Death Eaters. However, you did not have to have above average smarts to realize what was in his box.
Even as he looked at the glistening instruments, Draco could picture them as they were intended to be used. Soiled with someone else's blood and tissue. He thought of another time he had held a box similar to this out to another, his hands covered in blood, delivering the goods and information. His baptism day. He closed his eyes at the thought and mentally pushed the disturbing images away. Focus was what he needed.
Draco pulled out a brick and said simply, in response to her unfinished statement about her impending death, "That's why you are going to escape."
"Uh, how? This place is probably guarded tighter than Gringotts. I'm fairly sure they will notice a half-naked bald girl walking through the hallways. I doubt I'll be able to distract them with my good looks."
"This is hardly the appropriate venue for humour, Granger. You need to focus."
She sighed, acquiescing. "Fine then. What is this grand escape you have planned?"
Draco narrowed his eyes at her tone—although willing to listen, she clearly didn't believe it would work.
"This will work, Granger. If you follow my instructions, precisely as I say."
Saying nothing, Hermione wrapped her arms around her slender body and nodded.
"Good, let's begin."
Fuck. It was the first word that came to his mind upon waking, even before opening his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck that hurt. Draco brought his hand to the back of his head, though he knew before he even touched it that it would be wet and tacky. Bloody hell, she had really nailed him. He started to push himself to his feet when he heard her voice, trembling slightly.
"Stay down on the floor."
"Shit Granger, that hurt!"
"It wasn't mean to be a love tap. Now, turn around, slowly, but stay down."
Draco sighed. This wasn't exactly what he had planned, but she was playing her part well. He didn't know how long he had been out—hopefully only a few moments—but he was fairly confident the guard should be approaching.
"Fine, fine. But you know that my wand is useless to you. Pure-bloods only, dear. And you don't fit the bill," he sneered at her.
"Wanna bet?"
Suddenly, the room was bathed in a bright light, and just as abruptly, it burned out. He blinked at the change, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. And he caught her dark smile.
"Not so special, are you?"
Draco felt a coldness wash over him at the idea that the tables were now turned. But instead of focussing on it, he continued on, glancing down at his watch. One minute.
"Well, well. Aren't you so smart? What are you going do now? March me out of here, holding me hostage? Like that would work." His eyes pulled together. "You'll never make it out alive."
"Where's your Portkey?" She inched a bit closer, her bare feet silently padding on the stone floor. "Don't play stupid. It's unbecoming. The Portkey that all Death Eaters have on them, to escape when captured."
Draco continued to stare at her, playing out the time in his head, second by second.
When a stinging hex caught his leg, he sucked in a cry and glared at her.
"Remember what you said to me earlier? 'This is not a game'? Well, it's not. So, hand over the Portkey."
Draco was sorely tempted to say "fuck it" and leave her to die. What the fuck was she playing at? This was his plan! And how in Merlin's name was she able to use his wand?
"Even if I give it to you, you can't use it without me."
"That's why you're coming with me."
They were about fifteen seconds away from being discovered, Draco was sure.
"And why would I do that? Go ahead and kill me now."
"Because I know something. Something about your family. About where they are."
The way she said it was so sinister, he actually feared for his family, but that was exactly what he had told her to say.
"You don't know anything."
"You think? We know all about the addition—"
"Stop! Stop."
Draco had been inching closer and closer, and Hermione had been as well, and they were only breaths away from one other when Draco pulled the Portkey from his pocket. She grabbed it from him as the knock came.
"Everything alright in there, Malfoy?"
"No, the Mudblood has my wand and—"
Draco purposely cut himself off, pulling himself to his feet as the door opened. It was a blur of moments blending together—grabbing Hermione's hand, a screamed Avada Kedavra, blinding pain in his back, and a whispered Portkey activation word.
Due to his injuries, whatever they were, their landing was far from graceful, with Draco on his back, arms still around Hermione, and her sprawled over him. But that only lasted a second before he was pushing her to her feet.
"You can't stay here. It's not safe. Go!"
"Wait … what about you?"
He looked away, his back throbbing. "It is better if I go back."
"Better?"
"Just go, Hermione." His voice was harsh and cold, and she looked concerned, even hurt. But there was no time to soothe feelings, even if he had been the type of person to do that.
She dropped his wand at his feet and started to turn away, stopping at his voice.
"Don't you need it?"
"No. I never did. And you were right that I can't use it."
The pieces clicked together suddenly. She could do wandless magic. Just like her to have learned it.
"Take it. It makes more sense if I don't have it."
"Draco." He focussed on her and realized that she was directly in front of him. "You are not the man they think you are."
She touched his cheek briefly, and for a breath of a second, closing his eyes, he leaned into it. Touches he received were usually the close-fisted kind, that connected knuckles to breaking skin and bones. But this was a fingertip touch, gone as quickly as it made contact. And when he opened his eyes, so was she.
He might not have been the man they thought he was, but it didn't mean the man he really was was any better.
Days turned into months, months turned into years. Time felt endless, expansive. Each moment of time weighed on him, adding to the previous moment until he felt as if he would be crushed by it. And yet, time continued to pass, to compound, with his actions only further contributing to the burden, the weight, the darkness of his soul.
Draco had accumulated all this time and emotion, burying it, lest he was destroyed by it, but he knew one day, it would overwhelm and overtake him.
Finally forced into a situation where he saw no escape, no way to be rescued, no victors, he quaked, his body physically trembling from the force of what was deep inside.
He stared around him, seeing mouths move but hearing no words. The roar in his ears came from something he couldn't understand, but he welcomed it. The end was here. At last.
The day the world caved in was really no different than any other. With no one being held in the dungeons, there was little for Draco to do, until he was called by the Dark Lord, except tend to his family. After the normal morning ablutions were completed, he knocked on his mother's door.
Draco's parents had always lived in a wing removed from his rooms—he had always suspected his father had not wanted to hear him make noises as child—but since moving his mother to France, he chose to be in an adjacent room. He still couldn't guarantee her safety, not even here, but being only steps away made him feel that safety was somewhat plausible.
He listened at the door for a moment, hearing soft laughs and whispers. He gave a soft, but sad smile, knowing that his time with these moments were about to come to an end. He knocked again and gently eased the door open.
"Everyone decent, Mother?" he called from behind the door.
"Well, dear, I am, but I can't say the same for Lu."
Draco cringed but pushed the door open and entered the room. He may have hated the name, but he couldn't help but grin as a half-dressed little girl crawled toward him. Lucille. One of the few shimmers of hope in his life. He thanked Merlin or God or whoever was out there that she was a girl. And therefore unwanted by the Dark Lord. He also daily thanked this same being for sparing his mother. The Dark Lord had been so unimpressed with Lucius Malfoy that he had not even cared that Narcissa had killed him. Besides, there was always Draco to fill in for his worthless father. No need for two useless Malfoys. One was quite enough. He could still hear the Dark Lord saying it, as he laughed over Lucius' body.
Draco scooped up the small child, who was tow-headed like Draco but had her mother's beautiful blue eyes. Draco always searched for another face, other features, but thankfully had never seen any trace of the man who fathered this piece of perfection.
"Why has Mother not dressed you yet? You know it is quite unladylike to run around with only a nappie on!" he whispered at her, but she just batted at his face with her tiny hands and laughed, clearly amused by his voice and face.
"I just hate fighting with her, and she doesn't like to put clothes on."
Draco walked over to the small table where Lucy was typically changed and shook his head.
"You're going to spoil her just as much as you did me."
Draco rummaged through the baby clothes as Lucy wiggled in his arms.
"Possibly. But not in the same way."
Draco's hands stopped moving momentarily, stunned by the admission by his mother that she had done something wrong in how she raised him. He pulled a small shirt out of a pile and plucked the baby's head through it, quickly pushing squiggling arms through the arm holes. He gave her a kiss on the nose and set her down to crawl around.
The mother and son stood side by side, watching the one thing that gave them happiness scurrying around the room.
"It will be soon you know, possibly tonight," Draco stated simply, without preamble, continuing to watch the baby.
"Are you sure?"
Draco wasn't sure. Although important to the Dark Lord because of his … skills—Draco still cringed when thinking of it that way—Draco still wasn't part of the Dark Lord's inner circle. But he had heard the murmurings and rumours, and it was about to come. So, he wasn't sure, but he was fairly confident.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "You and Lucy need to be prepared."
He and his mother had already discussed this numerous times. Take nothing. Leave as soon as the notification came. How to conceal Lucy. They promised Mother and Lucy would be safe. If a hair on their heads was touched, Draco would personally use all of his well-honed skills on every bastard responsible, if for nothing more than pure vengeance.
"I know what to do, Draco."
Not wanting to talk about the future, knowing how bleak it was for him, he got down on the floor and rolled around with his sister, taking delight in her innocent excitement. He supposed there had to be something beautiful that came out of all this evil and darkness. And he could be glad that this beauty was partially his—it was how he stayed alive.
Then again, it was for his mother and sister that he sold his soul to both sides. He couldn't protect his mother if he was dead by Micah's hands. And so he procured the information Micah had asked for in return for being let go. When he returned to the Manor, it was easier to let the Dark Lord see what he had done, what Jorgan had been, than to lie. Of course, Draco had never wanted to be the Dark Lord's resident torturer, but he knew that when his master saw Draco's handiwork, it would be an easy task to make the Dark Lord believe this was a most valuable job for Draco. And in return, his mother and the baby were not to be touched.
Deals had been made all around for two who could not protect themselves.
But he never thought about it like that. He held no anger or bitterness toward either of them. His father, yes. Jorgan, definitely. Micah, absolutely. The Dark Lord, unequivocally.
His mother had once saved him, and now, it was his turn to do the same for her.
Suddenly, he stood up; it was time to go. One of the other sad parts about all of this was that he could never stay too long. It lowered his defenses, and he needed to keep those walls in his mind high and strong. The Dark Lord obviously knew Draco wanted to keep Narcissa and Lucy safe, but he did not know the extent of his devotion. Severus was an excellent teacher, and he had been able to teach Draco the art of allowing those entering his mind to see whatever it was that Draco wanted them to see but never realizing he was actually keeping them out of his actual memories. He was good, and it was second nature now, but still, Draco never wanted to slip.
"I need to leave."
Narcissa nodded quietly, knowing the routine.
She walked over and hugged him, always holding him tightly for too long, making Draco disengage from her.
"Remember what I said. Be ready."
"I will."
He bent down to kiss Lucy, wondering if this would be the last time he saw her—or more importantly, the last time she saw him. As he swept his hand over her tiny curls, Draco felt a tingle in the back of his neck, and he automatically wrapped his hand around it, though he knew exactly what it was.
Fuck. Could it get any more complicated? But there was nothing to do about it.
He strode from the room, refusing to look behind him, and immediately upon exiting the grounds of the house, he Apparated to the Manor to find Severus. He was the only one Draco truly trusted to relay information regarding his departure. However, after a less than thorough search, his quest was unfulfilled, and Draco was forced to leave a note with a fellow Death Eater to pass along to their master.
When Draco had returned from his first meeting with Jorgan, after being rescued by Granger, he immediately went to the Dark Lord. Begging for mercy, telling what he had done, what had happened, had seemed to him the best course of action. He had let the Dark Lord enter his mind, had allowed him to see what he had done to Jorgan, and, as Draco had suspected, the Dark Lord was pleased. Almost disturbingly giddy.
Of course, Draco had left out the part about being rescued by Granger. He wasn't sure exactly why, but somehow that seemed private, like the time he spent with his mother and sister. Regardless, the Dark Lord knew of Draco being summoned by the Rebels, specifically Micah, and once he realized he could not remove the summoning device, short of killing Draco, he allowed the double agent façade to continue. Draco wondered why the Dark Lord allowed his Death Eaters to be tortured by Draco for the other side, but all the young man could assume was that the Dark Lord felt if they were stupid enough to get caught, then they deserved whatever they were dealt.
And of course, Draco was conservative with what information he gave to the Rebels, and the Dark Lord knew this as well. Just enough to keep both sides happy. It was a delicate balance that kept Draco wound tighter than a clock.
Still annoyed that he could not find Severus, he walked back outside, knowing he only had a few minutes before he would be transported to wherever Micah happened to want him.
Initially, after first escaping Micah and Hermione's revelation about the possible summoning device, Draco had constantly expected to be attacked or whisked away at any moment. He had been on edge, jumpy and irritable. Not only had he been waiting for Micah, and for what he hadn't been sure, but Draco had also been anxious for the times the Dark Lord would summon him. When he would also ask Draco to start doing his dirty work.
As Draco waited this time, he tried to avoid thinking about the 'who', but it was impossible. The odds of Micah just wanting to chat with Draco over a cup of tea were as likely as sitting down for tea with the Dark Lord. The routine was always the same. Micah reviewed background information on the prisoner with Draco and what he wanted Draco to find out. Draco studied the information, pulling in his own knowledge, if available, of the witch or wizard, and then got to work.
Since Micah never allowed Draco to go in with his wand, all that Draco was left with was his 'toolbox'. Ironically, there was a wand included, but it could only be used for healing spells. And it wasn't because Micah didn't want the prisoner to feel pain. No, what use was a prisoner if he or she was dead?
Despite his boyish features, Micah was a vicious bastard. And he wanted Draco's hands to be dirty. Draco knew the man took pleasure in the fact that he owned a piece of Draco. And Draco loathed being in his presence. Micah had turned him into monster and then required him to keep showing that side of himself. He had considered numerous times running away, but where would they go—for there would be a 'they'. His mother and sister would accompany him. But where would they all be safe from the Dark Lord? And how could he stop the random summoning to Micah?
Draco had briefly considered the Order, but he just didn't trust them. After all, they let Micah into their midst, and look how fucked up that bastard was. A wizard who was hell-bent on the 'good' side winning but without morals or ethics. Draco wasn't preaching, but it seemed that when you were willing to engage in equally terrible acts in order to assure your side's success, you really weren't much better than your opponent. Of course, Draco also knew that the Order members, or at least most of them, were different—after all, look at Potter. Draco was sure he wouldn't harm a hair on someone's head unless he or someone on his side was being personally attacked. Well, except perhaps if Potter ran into the Dark Lord.
In the end, he would have just run away or let himself be killed by Micah if he hadn't had someone, two someones, to take care of. He would die for both of them, but in this case, he had to stay alive to make sure they stayed protected.
But tonight, tonight may be the end. Draco felt sure of it. And with Micah summoning him, he could almost say he was positive.
Having worked so long for Micah, he had secured his mother and sister's safety and protection. While a Death Eater under the Dark Lord, his master had assured Draco that Narcissa and the baby would be safe. He had even allowed them to move to their home in France, with 'guards'. The Floo was blocked, and Narcissa was unable to Apparate or leave, but the Death Eaters could also not get in. So, Draco felt she was safe, or as safe as she could be. When the final battle began, regardless of who won, Draco knew she and Lucille needed to be hidden, and hidden far away.
So, upon being summoned one day, Draco broached the topic with Micah; whether Micah was in a generous mood or actually realized that if he lost Draco, he would lose something valuable, Micah agreed to find a safe place with more protections around it than Hogwarts. Of course, Draco trusted Micah about as far as he could throw him, so had required an additional stipulation. Hermione Granger would be the one to put up the wards.
Micah's face had shown surprise but not shock. Maybe some amusement.
"Ah, the little Gryffindor who broke you out of here."
It had been Draco's turn to show surprise, with a graceful arch of one of his brows but no words. Had they taken her? Was she dead? Draco's mind had been awhirl with the idea that they who knew broke him out. It had never been spoken of, so Draco had never brought it up. Clearly, it hadn't mattered because he always came back, even if it was never under his own volition.
"She's caught your eye? Not really a looker, but she's fiery. And imagine how she could be—"
"I'm not interested in her personally, Micah," Draco had said simply, cutting off the American.
"Pity. I think you could really use a good screw. You're amazingly fucking uptight."
Draco had just stared at him, willing himself not to respond. Finally, Micah had gone back to the topic of importance, which was not Draco's sex life.
"I know plenty of very talented wizards who could do the job you ask."
"If they're so talented, then why aren't they doing my job?" he asked with annoyance. "Regardless, she is who I want. Is this a problem?"
Micah had smiled at him, in that disarming but menacing way. "It may be difficult. She's a bit … infatuated with the Order and not so infatuated with me."
"I wonder why." Draco's voice had dripped with sarcasm. "Can you get her here?"
"Possibly, but I guarantee, she will not be pleased about it."
And Merlin help him, Micah had been right. Fiery was right. Her hair was growing back in, a cap of curls quivering in agitation, and she had looked ready to burn him with her tongue when he walked in. However, as soon as she had seen it was him, her eyes had changed to an expression of concern but also caution. Forgoing fake flattery, Draco had explained what he wanted, and with minimal questions, Hermione had agreed. Perhaps because he had stressed it would be for his mother, and he had purposely left himself out of the equation. Perhaps because she had felt sorry for him. Perhaps she had just been blindsided by the fact that he was actually asking her for something. Perhaps she felt she owed him.
The one and only time Draco had been summoned to Micah, that had not involved a prisoner, was when Hermione had completed the arrangements for his mother. She had held out an envelope containing the Portkey, a small ring, and a paper listing the Portkey activation word. Hermione had already explained that the Portkey would not expire and would activate immediately upon activation, and it would only allow for his mother and sister's escape.
As he had taken the small items from her, she had asked, "How will you find them?"
"I don't really have any expectation of living through this war, Granger."
"But if you do, what then?"
He had shrugged, unconcerned. "I imagine I will be thrown into Azkaban and then Kissed."
Realizing he had made the assumption that her side would win, he had then wondered what side he was on. Was it possible to have your own side? He had started to turn away, not wanting, as was typical, to talk about his future.
"Draco, wait." Her voice had been much more urgent, frustrated even, and he had stopped walking. "And what if you don't? What if you don't go to Azkaban?"
Then, he had turned back around and, raising an eyebrow, had said with a sad smile, "Then, I guess I better hope you make it out alive so you can tell me where they are."
And today was the day. Unfortunately, if he was with Micah, it would be near impossible for him to get word to his mother to leave. That left Severus. The absent Potions Master. Rarely was he annoyed with his former teacher, but knowing he was leaving something so important in the hands of his mentor, who was missing, put Draco off-balance.
Bracing himself for the porting, he also prepared himself for seeing the face he dreaded equally as much as his master's. It took seconds arrive and less than that to focus on Micah's grinning face.
"There's a good one for you today, Malfoy."
"Oh really?" Draco's voice was dry as he stood from the crouched position he had been in. He found he arrived with much more grace when starting from that position. He dusted off his clothes, unnecessarily, and said, "Who is it, and what are you looking for?"
"I don't think we'll need to go through the debriefing this time." Micah's eyes seemed to glitter with anticipation. "But what I want to know where the battle is taking place tonight."
So, it was happening. Or at least, Micah believed so. But no information about the Death Eater caught?
Ready to get this over with—he needed to warn his mother—he picked up his box and had pulled out his wand to release it onto the table separating them when Micah's voice stopped him.
"You can take the box. But keep your wand."
Draco narrowed his eyes but stowed his wand back in its holster without hesitation. He never felt good in Micah's presence, but suddenly, he felt a wave of ominous darkness roll over him. There were other things at play.
Like every other time, Draco arrived in the same room and walked down the same hallway to the same holding room. However, unlike every other time, when they reached the holding room, Micah walked into the room in front of Draco, confusing the younger man. Micah had always stayed out and let Draco do what he needed to do. Micah appeared to like the results but didn't actually want to be a part of producing them.
Ready to start this, or finish it, Draco not-so-gently pushed Micah out of the way and then immediately wished he had not. In complete shock, Draco actually stepped backward, as blood drained from his face.
In the chair where many a man he had despised had been tortured sat one of the only men he could say he felt any positive emotion toward. Possibly even love. And sitting next to him, separated by only a clear divider, was the witch who had not only saved him but saved his mother and sister.
"Told you it would be a real treat, didn't I?"
Draco clenched his hands into fists, as if physically holding onto himself could rein in the loss of control he was feeling.
Slowly, he turned back toward Micah, briefly indulging in one of the rare fantasies of never having met American Rebel fuck-face.
"Why are they both here? What is going on?"
"Draco, don't play stupid. The rules haven't changed. I need information. Both of these people have it. And you need to get it for me."
Draco swallowed hard as he felt the anger build but turned to look at the two in front of him. His former Potions professor bowed his head, his dark hair hiding any expression, but not before Draco saw him close his eyes briefly, as if resigned and in pain. And Hermione was wide-eyed and scared as she stared directly at Draco. But her back was straight, and Draco knew she wouldn't be giving in any time soon.
"I'd think you'd be pleased. I'm letting you choose who to get the information from." At Micah's voice, Draco glanced over his shoulder at the other man, watching as Micah shook his head, as if disappointed in Draco. "Options are always good, aren't they?"
Draco was tempted to pull his wand and kill the bastard right there. And in hindsight, perhaps he should have. Instead, though, he walked the few steps to his mentor, dropped the box onto the table, and sat down in the chair across from him.
"Severus, what hell is happening?"
"So good to see you too, Draco." In typical Severus fashion, his voice was dry and laced with sarcasm.
"Fuck it, Severus, be serious." Draco could hear the pleading in his voice as he leaned forward on the table. He rarely lost control anymore, though he was always on the cusp. Perhaps today was the day. It would be appropriate.
"I hardly appreciate the language."
"It's happening. And we can't stay here. So, just tell me what Micah wants to know so we can get out of here."
"And what did he say to make you think I will be allowed to leave alive? Or Miss Granger, for that matter?"
Draco paused for a moment.
"Let's just worry about that when the time comes. Just tell me where it will happen."
Severus took a long breath in through his nose.
"Even if I wanted to tell you, even if I wanted to tell Micah, I cannot."
"What do you mean? You can talk to him. I can talk to him."
"I physically cannot tell Micah or even you. Once this information has been communicated to the Death Eaters, they are unable to speak of it, write it down, share it with anyone else. Even other Death Eaters."
Draco's heart plummeted. If he couldn't give over the information quickly to Micah, then they could not leave, and his mother and Lucy wouldn't be warned. He swallowed the bile that was rising up. This all could not have been for nothing, could it?
"Then, why didn't you tell Micah that?"
Severus sneered, "It's not worth my breath to speak to him and barely worth my time to listen to him."
Draco could hardly disagree, but it didn't dampen his growing alarm at the situation. Why was he brought here only to communicate something that Severus could have told Micah himself? But if he hadn't, Draco would still be in the same situation.
"But how will I warn Mother?"
"It was foolish to use only myself as the alert to your mother."
Draco looked away from the older man, glancing at Hermione, who was staring at him and Severus unabashedly. Severus was correct, as usual, but Draco had struggled with this for issue for months. It was risky enough to keep the Portkey on her person; any other device may be noticed or picked up. And Muggle technology didn't work at the manors. That left a magical alert that was fairly instantaneous. And Draco couldn't produce a Patronus.
He shook his head, agitated. Hermione's brows drew together in confusion, but Draco just looked away.
"There was no other way."
"You could do it."
"It's impossible. I've tried." Draco stood, the scraping of the chair against the floor breaking the punctured vocalizations. "We'll just have to get you out of here."
Draco turned to Micah, who was staring at them with open and eager interest, and spoke for his uncommunicative friend.
"He can't tell you. Or me. The Dark Lord has put a curse on—"
"I don't care what that bastard has done! I want that information, and I want it now!"
Micah's face was in a rage; he had clearly been expecting specific information, information that had not been produced.
"Go into his mind, torture it out of him. I don't care! Just get it!"
Draco pulled his wand and, for the second time, briefly considered killing Micah because while the man was angry, he was also careless and didn't have his wand out. Instead, Draco turned to Severus, and though knowing he would never be able to break into the skilled Occlumens' mind, he still attempted.
His efforts were instantly in vain because within seconds of entering Severus' mind, he was thrown backward and was on his backside. He had never encountered such a wall of force.
"I could have warned you, if you had asked."
Draco could almost see the raised brow and bored expression. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, attempting to catch his breath, before pulling himself to his feet.
And he tried again.
And again.
And again.
After each attempt, Draco struggled to be upright. By the sixth attempt, he just raised himself to his knees, feeling a bit of blood trickle down his face; the floor must have finally won a battle with his head.
Draco knew his chances were dwindling that he would find an answer. Any answer. What Micah wanted. How to warn his mother. How to escape.
As he lifted his wand, with a shaky hand, he heard Micah yell, "Enough."
He looked over at the American, who was shaking his head, rage evident in his posture and expression.
"This isn't working. Try something different."
Draco bowed his head and pushed himself up. He knew it would come to this. And as he stared at the man in front of him, the self-control he had kept so tightly wound, so perfectly in control, slowly began to unravel.
He knew he looked desperate because Severus's eyes held a sadness Draco never seen. As he hit his mentor with the first Crucio, Draco felt more of himself crumble away. Any redeeming virtues Draco possessed, in whatever small amount, disappeared with each additional Unforgiveable.
As he lifted his wand for the fourth time, it wavered, his hand trembling, his eyes hard with tears hidden in his heart. Draco thought he heard Severus speak, urging him to continue—that he understood. He also heard Micah urging him to continue—reminding him of the rewards if he completed the task. Draco looked over at Hermione again and watched her eyes bleed the tears he couldn't shed.
Perhaps he hesitated too long. He remembered staring at Hermione, wondering if he would have to do this to her, if he could. Wondering if she, too, would forgive him. Wondering if he could wind back the clock by ten years and just start over. Could he touch her face, too?
"Avada Kedavra!"
Draco's head whipped back, but he didn't even have time to see the life leave Severus' eyes. Shock didn't last long. There was overwhelming grief, though tears were still absent.
"He was useless. But you still have one more chance."
And in one simple, brief moment, life, as he knew it, ended. How many times had this happened and he continued to draw breath?
Micah's voice unleashed a fury, a rolling tide of anguish and wrath, and a roar filled his ears. Light was everywhere, and every emotion Draco had held in for all those years exploded out of him.
It was liberating, yet painful, to feel everything that he had refused to indulge in for more than a brief moment, if at all. The joy, the grief, the guilt, the longing, the hatred, the frustration, the despair. They all rushed over and through him. The magic he had withheld, forced to use his hands on so many occasions, burst forth, unstoppable.
He heard an unending scream, but it barely registered. He sunk back down to his knees, his legs giving out to the weight of something unseen but felt deeply.
Something brushed against him, and his fingers were uncurled from his wand. He heard the incantation, and somewhere in his muddled mind, it registered that it was a good thing.
Later—he had no idea how much later—he heard her voice, a murmur, and Draco realized that the earlier tidal force of raw magic had dissipated. He felt spent and broken.
He spoke, a ragged whisper.
"Why did you save me?"
Her response was equally rough.
"Why didn't you just kill me?"
He didn't know if they were talking about the past or present. But his answer was still the same.
"You couldn't return the favour if you were dead."
It was true. He had really only hated her for two reasons in school: being friends with Potter and being brilliant. She had always outshone him, even when she hadn't. It made his memories of her hazy with a mixture of discontent and admiration, but he would never forget the determined spark in her eye every time he saw her. And no one he considered as smart or smarter than him deserved to die unless on an equal playing field.
He heard a low, sad chuckle, but no response.
Despite his eyes being closed, light was everywhere. He didn't fight it. He let the brilliance infuse his being, filling him to the brim. He thought of his mother and how her eyes shimmered just before she pulled him close. He thought of Severus, standing over a cauldron, a flash of contentment emerging on his face. He thought of his sister, her small tinkling laugh radiating innocence and pure happiness.
He heard no more, he saw no more, but he felt her hand clasp his, and he imagined a scene with the only people he cared for, happy and laughing. Idyllic. And something he could only create in his mind.
But before thoughts ceased to exist, with a blond tot dancing along the edges of his consciousness, he remembered that the death of a star meant the birth of new ones. And then Draco thought that perhaps all would be well.