Hey! So, um. I don't know what I think of this. It's probably really OOC and riddled with mistakes and the ending is pretty shitty too, because I was too lazy to have it beta'd. If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out and I'll fix them as soon as I can.
He watches her with mild (and yet still too much) interest.
She's pretty, he thinks, without knowing he's thinking it at first, until he hears her whimper. Oh, wait, she isn't pretty. She's sick in her head. As bad as those filthy mudbloods. It sounds fake and forced, even in his head.
Her chest rises fluidly and raggedly all at the same time. He notices with sudden disinterest that it is a night terror. The words weak flutter in his brain (terrifyingly like his father).
He fleetingly tries to escape (how funny, to try and escape from his own prisoner) before she wakes from her slumber.
He closes the door with more force than he expects. He hears here mutter, "Who's there?" in a part dreamy and part frightened voice.
No one.
/
The next time he sees her, he is almost certain he is dreaming, but he hasn't had any dreams besides nightmares ("You are weak, Draco") in so long.
She's somewhat singing and somewhat mumbling. It takes him a moment to make out what she is saying.
"I'm still waiting
For you to come back
I'm aching
For you to walk through that door
And hold me once more
But you won't
Waiting"
Nothing else –just that verse, over and over again.
She sings well, he thinks, even if she's still mumbling. Nothing too low or high, and even though her voice still has the air of dreaminess, it sounds different. Not a bad different, just not the same.
He cringes when he realizes it's a Muggle song.
/
Her lip is spilt now. He wonders vaguely if it was him or someone else. He stops caring when he remembers it's not his job to care at all.
/
Aunt Bellatrix decides that he is the one to make her talk. He doesn't know what they want her to say, because she is just bait, and was never really important to their little group (a silly little tagalong).
/
Crucio quickly becomes his least favorite spell. Bellatrix declares the spell isn't working.
His eyes linger on the prisoner's (notnotnot Luna) ripped shirt. It's too small for her, and it rides up when she so much as breathes
Bellatrix laughs her evil laugh and he has to force himself not to flinch. He catches on that she's been watching him watch her. "Go on, Draco. Be a man." (Oh no, please don't.)
He doesn't really have a choice, does he?
/
He's a man now, and he wonders what he ever thought he was missing out on when he was an ignorant little boy.
He doesn't like watching over her anymore, because he is hardly a man and mostly a monster. Still though, it is his duty, and he must for the Dark Lord.
Her hair is not flat platinum like it once was, but more like knotted copper. It is stained with blood from when her head hit the wall. He remembers that he did that.
Someone has taken her clothes.
He vomits in the corner.
/
She does not flinch when he goes near her, and it bothers him. Because he is powerful and he rules her, owns her. He hurts her and she should be scared.
She shivers, but it is very likely from the cold (really, though, where are her clothes). Her knees are hugged tightly to her chest and he vaguely wonders if she thinks it hides her nude body, because it almost reveals it more, in the 'let's leave you guessing' sort of way.
/
She does not smell like honey and a strange sort of tea like she once did, but of blood and dirt and sweat.
She is filthy and bloody and ugly.
Draco is worse, if only in the figurative sense.
/
It is a different song the next time he hears her sing. He can't tell what she is saying, but it is different.
He listens (because he is going insane and maybe this might help, even if he doesn't know how). She stops randomly in the middle, and he venomously wonders who she thinks she is, ruining his moment of sanity (insanity?) like that.
/
"Please. Can I have my clothes back?" She is coughing; her teeth chatter. It is late January and the dungeons are cold and damp. Her clothes have yet to be returned, nor has she been offered any substitutes.
Her voice still has that distant, dreamy quality, even though she doesn't say the dreamy, ludicrous things she used to say.
He slaps her, because he hears footsteps and gets nervous. He was told to do certain . . . actions . . . that don't exactly include talking. The footsteps pass.
"No. Don't be so stupid. I can't have it look like I care about you – like I want you comfortable," he says in a rushed whisper. He must be losing his mind, saying things like that.
She looks confused when she says, "But, you don't want me comfortable. Right?" she starts, but then she shakes off that question and moves back to the starting point to of the conversation. "Please. It's so cold. Just a blanket – a sheet. Please?" She half sobs towards the end.
He shakes his head, because he can't. He'd be Crucio'd if anyone found out it was him.
"I see." She sighs. Her voice is resigned and defeated now. "T-the other boys touch me," she tells him, as if it would change his mind.
If he were an honest man he would admit that it almost works. Instead, he reminds himself of his original task and he says, "Oh, but I touch you too." He trails his fingers up her inner thigh, for good measure. Nobody can trust him when he can't even trust himself. "Or do I have to remind you?" he adds, as his fingers reach the very top of her leg. She gasps.
He reminds himself that he is already a monster, and things couldn't really get that much worse.
/
She no longer asks for clothes (maybe because she knows it's a lost cause), but for food. They give her leftovers – crusts of bread, mere morsels of meat. Enough to keep her alive, but barely.
Her skin is pale now, and ugly. Somehow it makes her more beautiful (even though Draco can't even admit that to himself, let alone anyone else.) It makes it like she is drifting away, like mist or steam or fog.
He sneaks her food. She always thanks him, even though he always says it's only because he doesn't fuck boney girls.
/
He screws her now even when no one is watching. If he wasn't a monster before, he certainly is now.
His tie is undone and his pants are unzipped when he hears her say it. "Draco?" He stops, because hardly anyone outside of his family has called him that in a long time; months, he'd guess. "This time – this time, can you be gentle?"
And he complies (it's official, I've lost my mind) because monsters get second chances, too, right? So what if he's already totally fucked up and beyond any repair? He can try, right?
/
He goes to her to relieve his frustration. All the other Death Eaters know not to bother him when he is down with her.
She blows him sometimes, when he's has having particularly rough days. Granted, he always makes her, but he likes it better that way.
Her salty tears mix with her saliva, but he doesn't mind, because he's never had better head than when she does it.
Sometimes, he likes to think it's not because she's crying and he can feel the vibrations on his dick, but for some other reason he doesn't know or can't think of, and sometimes it's the other way around.
He can't make up his mind whether he wants to be a monster or not.
/
Occasionally, he ponders the idea of loving her, and her loving him. He understands that it's the wrong moment, lifetime, universe, and that it could never work now – ever.
And still, the notion crosses his mind far too often for his liking. Things like little blonde children running around, her in a white dress, a big house with toy broomsticks and house elves and all that.
He should hate it, but he doesn't.
He hates that he doesn't hate it.
/
He dreams of her now, always.
It's different every time. Sometimes it's the things he thinks about (white dresses and blonde kids and toy broomsticks). Other times she is naked and they are doing very naughty things, but she likes it. Normally though, she is dead or dying or screaming at him for the things he did to her.
He doesn't quite know which are nightmares and which are not.
/
Every once in a while, she looks at him, with her distant, sad grey eyes, and he really does think she might love him. But then he scoffs or laughs or wallows in self-pity, because he knowsknowsknows how stupid and foolish, and impossible of an idea that is.
/
She could never love him, he knows. He is a monster and she is not, and no one falls for monsters except sometimes other monsters.
She proves it, when she leaves him; away from her keeper – (guard, attacker, monster) – off to somewhere better.
/
Without someone to watch over, he has lots of time to think about things.
He decides on the facts.
One: He is a monster.
Two: He hates her.
(Three: And maybe-possibly-kinda-probably-definitely loves her. )
/
He's lost his sanity, probably around the same time he lost his innocence.
It doesn't really matter, because he's always known it would happen eventually.
He hears her, in the halls, singing those stupid Muggle songs. At first he thinks it's like a memory, but the more it happens, the more he thinks it's actually her singing there and then, that very moment.
He didn't quite expect his mind to shit the bed so quickly.
/
It's such a lonely existence, when you have no one to talk to.
Whatever did he expect of the world?