Draco flicked his cigarette end into the pile of smoking hot ash before him without a glimmer of remorse and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Four raids meant they had been up all night and he was approaching that stage of mental fatigue that made even the most remedial task seem impossible.
He automatically pulled another cigarette out of his coat pocket and lit it skilfully with non-verbal magic. It was the only vice he had, alcohol fogged his mind and made his decision making rash and impulsive; something he had learned the hard way. The cocaine his acquaintances indulged in transformed them from calm, rational killers to something far more feral and animalistic. It made them capable of inhumane atrocities such that even Draco, hardened by years at war, could not withstand; he never wanted to forget, not even for a moment, that he still possessed his humanity. Yes, it was buried beyond the prying eyes of those who would like to remove him from his authoritative position but it was there, nestled in like a tic under his skin.
He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out of his nostrils, surveying the damage. The Parkinson house had been a magnificent one but when the family had been discovered to have fled in the night, away from the terror, uncertainty and torment, protocol required that the house and all of its contents be destroyed. Draco oversaw this act with pleasure, the family had escaped and as yet they had failed to be recaptured but since the statistics of recapture were high, Draco wouldn't hold his breath.
"Sir", came a booming voice on his left. He turned and faced one of the new recruits; fresh-faced, much too young to possess such a voice and foreign, Voldemort's reach stretched far these days. Draco knew for a fact that there were death eaters currently recruiting in Russia and France.
"What is it Jonas?" said Draco feigning indifference to ensure this little snot knew his place.
"I've been sent to fetch you, his Lord wishes to convene with you about the attempted Parkinson escape", his voice had dropped to a squeak in Draco's presence.
The Draco Malfoy most of his schoolmates would remember had been replaced with a towering man who, although only 21, felt and looked several years older. The same platinum hair that was still quite short apart from the fringe that fell into his eyes was his only recognisable feature. He was lean now rather than skinny which suited his tall frame and his eyes were almost deadened. His facial features were chiselled rather than pointed and the ferret look had long since disappeared: if not for his current status, young witches and wizards may have called him handsome. The young death eaters often talked about how glad they were when his hair fell into his eyes; they offered a curtain to hide his cool and icy stare, eyes that seemed to bore through your soul and succeeded in terrifying any new recruit. Draco's reputation as being the best at detecting liars without using magic preceded him and people with secrets attempted to stay out of his way as much as possible.
In actual fact though, Draco had come to detest incompetent liars in his time at war not liars in general and the distinction was an important one to him. Incompetency in deceit infuriated him, from the ministry officials who in the beginning had said the war would last merely a month or two, to the Death Eaters he had watched die before his eyes from their inability to hide their true feelings. The fact was, Draco was good at detecting liars because he was the most skilled liar of them all.
Jonas waited expectantly for an answer but kept his eyes averted from Draco's. To look at him directly would be to disrespect his authority and he couldn't bear for Draco to see how frightened he was of him. This capricious, striking man was followed by some of the darkest stories Jonas had ever heard; he had heard that Draco had even murdered his own family, in cold blood and had allowed their bodies to be displayed outside Malfoy Manor for all the world to see.
Draco, aware and enjoying the young recruit's discomfort, was meanwhile mulling over the use of English and had had to avoid rolling his eyes at the words attempted escape. Every escape was referred to as an attempt, to do otherwise would mean admitting that the escape was successful and the Death Eaters had failed to detain the fugitives. If they were never caught, which was unlikely but had happened twice in the past two years, it was then referred to as "the treachery", making it sound like they were traitors first and successful escapees second.
"Jonas, I was notified of this a mere hour ago and I've not finished overseeing the destruction of the house", he indicated behind him where there were several more death eaters currently searching through the charred remains for any evidence or indication of where the Parkinsons had fled. Draco was making them do this as punishment, they would fail to find anything amongst scorched remnants but the order had been to search the house first and then destroy it. However, new recruits were overly eager for demolition and their misplaced enthusiasm had resulted in the early demise of the house. In truth, Draco was pleased, he needed the Parkinsons to have a single hope in hell of getting away and he couldn't guarantee that all of them had been clever enough to cover their tracks.
"You will return to the Dark Lord and tell him, respectfully, that I shall meet him at Malfoy Manor at a time of his choosing to discuss what has happened. In the meantime, inform him that Blaise and Theo are overseeing a search of all major networks by which they may have escaped and the search has widened to Europe within the last twenty minutes".
Draco's voice was commanding and strong, the young death eater trembled under him clearly terrified at having to go back and explain that his superior was not with him. New recruits had been killed for less but Draco found he did not care. This idiot had chosen this particular path for himself making him a lost cause and therefore not Draco's problem.
"Yes Sir".
He apparated quickly with one pop; minutes passed before a patronus reached him and indicated the number 8.
Draco kicked some ash under his foot, dusting his long black jacket with a lazy hand and sighed, 8pm it was then, the clichéd fact that Voldemort preferred to meet when it was dark was not lost on Draco but for once he found no time to scoff. He glanced at his watch; dawn was fast approaching which meant that he had to check in with Theo and Blaise before hopefully catching up on some sleep. Tonight then, he would go to her.
They had no way of communicating so once they had arranged to meet, the other had to go to the predetermined point and wait. If there was no sign within half an hour, they left and the agreement was to wait one week, for news or an indication that the other was still alive, before trying again in the same spot, on the same day and at the same time. Draco went under polyjuice potion but for her it wasn't necessary, she was the point of contact he had specifically requested so he already knew her identity.
He couldn't pinpoint the hour or the moment when he had begun to fall in love with her but he believed it had happened back in school sometime. Perhaps, it had always been there. He didn't know and the only thing he cared about these days was never revealing his identity to her. If she was captured, she wouldn't be able to sell him out and that was important because if she was captured, he would be sent for and he could do something to prevent anything from happening to her. If she revealed his identity because he had been stupid enough to reveal it to her, he would be murdered before he could get there.
Shacklebolt had come to him nearly three years ago now, when they had been just a solitary year into this war, under cover of darkness, in an alleyway in Knockturn and promised him clemency if he became a spy. The position had been vacant since Snape's death and Draco had a feeling that Snape had asked for this for his godson.
Draco also had the feeling they had been watching him as he spent hours drinking himself into oblivion after the death of his parents (a murder that had been performed by him out of mercy but the stories and rumours amongst the recruits were important for a solid reputation).
Draco's penchant for alcohol had begun in the first year of war, when he still couldn't quite handle everything that had been happening. After the death of St. Potter, Voldemort, now mortal, tried to prove his power by murdering all of those close to him. Dolohov, Crabbe and Goyle Sr., Fenrir and even Bellatrix, nobody was immune to his wrath. Draco's parents had been tortured into oblivion and rather than leave them in their vegetative state, Draco had flicked his wand in an Oscar worthy performance of nonchalance and killed them allowing their bodies to hang from the front door of Malfoy Manor until they had begun to rot. Voldemort had taken this as a mark of respect rather than defiance and appointed Draco his number 2 on the spot. In murdering his most loyal followers, Voldemort had replaced them with their children and now Draco felt like he was drowning in bodies.
So one night, while trying to forget his apparent callousness in a whiskey bottle, Shacklebolt had offered Draco a way out. In his drunken state Draco had refused, citing that he was going to make his father proud (he scoffed at himself as he thought of his words) but Shacklebolt had not been persuaded and had promised Draco that the offer was on the table.
Draco never spoke of the meeting to anyone and this got Shacklebolt's attention and made him bold enough to try again several months later. One particularly nasty night, after another round of executions and torture, Draco had become so blind drunk that he screamed until he passed out in that same alleyway. Shacklebolt had appeared, sobered him up and a deal had been made.
Draco was asked to put his remorse and grief to one side and become a spy, proving his worth to Voldemort by receiving some information from Shacklebolt. Little things like where some of the safe houses were and the occasional pre-arranged location of Order raids which led to the deaths of some Order members (a necessary sacrifice in Draco's mind) had served Draco in the last two years and had allowed him to maintain his position as Voldemort's confidant. Draco had no choice but to think like this, years at war were not about to make him soft; war meant death the two went hand in hand. He had given up the alcohol and becoming a spy had earned him his reputation as a human lie detector, in truth it had served him very well. In return for relaying information, Draco had demanded that he would speak to nobody except one woman.
"Granger?" said Shacklebolt, staring at Draco disbelievingly. "You mean Hermione?"
"She's not dead is she?" said Draco hoarsely, attempting to wipe dried blood from his chin from where he had screamed his throat raw.
"No, she's not dead but why her? Is this some sick rivalry between you from school?"
"No", sighed Draco sincerely, "I already agreed to help you didn't I? You've made me take veritaserum, you've rifled through my thoughts as if I was a goddamn filing cabinet and in return I want it to be her that I meet".
"She'll never agree to it", he said. "Once she finds out that it's you".
"You won't tell her it's me and I won't reveal myself. I'll use polyjuice, I just want it to be her".
"Tell me why", said Shacklebolt. "Tell me why I should trust you with her, your people are rounding up muggle borns as we speak and doing unspeakable things to them, why would I allow you anywhere near her?".
"I love her", said Draco and the look in his eyes told Shacklebolt that he meant it.
"That's twisted", was all the response he received.
"Tell me about it", Draco had muttered getting to his feet.
That had been two years ago and now Draco was nearing the end of his rope. His sanity felt frayed at the edges and often he had almost reached out to touch her before sense took over; put a stray lock behind her ear, run a thumb along her jaw. He wanted to press his cool lips to hers: hear her involuntary moan catch in her throat as he did so; just as she had done back in Hogwarts when he had kissed her with a passion so fierce it had frightened them both. That had been before everything went to hell.
The war had been going on for too long, Voldemort was a terrifyingly volatile thing to behold, killing without thought had led to the deaths of thousands of people and quite a few of them purebloods. He wasn't differentiating anymore despite declaring that this was the Hour of the Pureblood, he was behaving like a drowning man, convinced that everybody else was trying to step on his head.
Well, nearly everybody. Draco had sacrificed everything to be where he was now, Theo and Blaise had done the same but, as Draco called off the death eaters and sent their dejected and ashamed forms back to report their folly to Voldemort, he knew he had decided to throw in the towel and admit defeat. Besides, saving his own skin was something he was remarkably good at, which he had proved time and time again by merely surviving in this hell. If he got the chance and if he could trust them, he would consider taking his friends with him.
Perhaps he would reveal himself to her, perhaps he would tell her that he loved her and couldn't stand another moment where she wasn't wholly part of his life.
He snorted to himself, still finding this little joke pathetically funny, and prepared to apparate for a futile meeting with Blaise and Theo.
Draco ran his eyes once more over the smoking ruins and cast the dark mark above them, no need to indicate to the world that this was an escape. Better they think it was a carefully planned annihilation and thought once again about revealing everything. His mind continued to wander everything he was doing now was automatic.
Perhaps she would tell him that she also loved him, perhaps she would welcome him into her life; her arms, her bed, without a second thought, perhaps she would forgive him for everything that he had done.
Perhaps pigs would fly, perhaps hell would freeze over, perhaps Voldemort would catch the flu and simply pass away like the member of the elderly that he was.
Draco snorted but this time it was without humour and straightened his long black coat, turning up the collar and running a hand through his hair before turning on the spot.
Perhaps not.