Smoke Signals
Disclaimer: The words are mine, but the Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, et al.
Content Notes: Allusion to torture (Cruciatus Curse) and depiction of smoking.
Draco's pressed against the hard wall like he wants to fade into it and his face is pale and drawn. He can't let anyone see him like this. It's been four hours since the Cruciatus and his bones still rattle like chains beneath his skin, his hands shake as he tries to protect the light from the bitter wind and creeping cold. He knows he can't protect himself, or his mother. Everyone knows after his pathetic display in the drawing room, but the sputtering flame is small enough for him to manage. He can't bear it not to be because he needs a smoke. Just a quickie—a signal for whomever comes to take his report—because magic is too risky. He's nearly decided to give in and give it a try; his body is curled into itself in a position that's nearly unbearable with the pain like a ghost inside his limbs, but the cigarette catches at last and he takes a long, relieved breath.
He's been waiting all day for the rush of nicotine, but it's only a few moments before he hears footsteps close by. Draco straightens slightly, but he doesn't draw his wand as a petite figure darts into the alley. He expected Aberforth, not Ginevra Weasley. He didn't think she'd have been allowed out, but he supposes her birthday must've passed by now and these days, Grimmauld Place doesn't have many people to spare. He doubts her mother knows, however, and he's sure Molly Weasley wouldn't approve if she did. "Now is the winter of our discontent," he whispers.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," she answers, with a smirk that's so tight and sharp that he can see it in the Slytherin common room as clearly as if it had actually been there, but it's not the time to think back on his school days. They're long over, and he'll probably be dead before he ever goes back to Hogwarts.
"Shouldn't you have a partner?"
"He's providing a distraction," she replies, but there's only a hint of concern in her tone. She's confident he'll succeed-and why not?-Potter has fought the Dark Lord and won. A couple Death Eaters probably don't rate very high. Draco certainly didn't when they faced off in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, even though he'd had 'Crucio' poised like a kiss on his lips.
He sucks more tar into his lungs and without any further thought to Weasley, he relays the information he gathered as clearly and concisely as he can. She asks some questions—more than Aberforth generally does, but nothing he can't answer—and he welcomes the distraction from the ache in his bones as he exhales smoke the same colour as his eyes.
Ginny says, "You know that will kill you, right?"
He laughs low in his throat. "It's not the only thing that could and anyway, it's to signal your boyfriend."
She looks puzzled. "Neville isn't—" she raises an eyebrow, "For a spy, you don't know much. Harry isn't at headquarters and I'm not involved with anyone."
"For a member of the Order, you don't know how to keep your mouth shut," Draco remarks and there's a little less humour in his voice as he drags all the smoke he can handle in through his mouth, savouring the burn nearly as much as the feeling of calm that spreads through his limbs. He really shouldn't; he knows better. He knows all the chemicals in this cigarette won't kill him, but the warm, easy feeling in his body might and there are moments when he doesn't care. Moments like this one.
"You don't have much of an ear for secrets, either," she observes.
He smiles at this, like the snake he is, and he says, "I'll tell you one, Weasley, if you promise to keep it to yourself."
She looks intrigued-looks like she wants to accept—before they hear the crash of footsteps, like a dozen large elephants, and Draco would've guessed Neville Longbottom even if she hadn't let it slip. "Gin, are you done?" he asks, panting. "We've got to go."
She meets Draco's eyes. He shrugs, "Next time," he promises and dropping his cigarette, he disappears like a thief in the night. The flame is still burning.
Author's Note: I initially wrote the fic in a GTalk window at 1:30a.m. as a thank you / apology to my friend Becca because at the time, work had taken over my life and she'd been incredibly patient with me despite that . I'd very recently discovered that she and I both pictured Draco as an occasional smoker-at least in some incarnations-so I decided to build a story around the image of him with a cigarette in hand. The fic was supposed to have been a drabble, but I have no self-restraint and no respect for word limits, so here we are. I hope you enjoyed it; feedback is, as always, appreciated and thanks for reading.