Title: A City Sorrow Built

Chapter: One/Three

Author: phoenixrising934

Rating: M16

Word Count: ~14,000

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

Summary: When things fall apart, there's only one city where you can put the pieces back together.

Warnings: Language, some violence

Author's Note: Originally written for the 2013 Dramione Remix ficfest - my original prompt was Rick/Ilsa from Casablanca :) Title comes from "Sorrow" by The National.

I

The glass is empty.

It's the first thing Draco notices when he comes to, and it disturbs him far more than it should, far more than he imagined it could. He relies on it though — the simple fact that the glass is always full with Firewhiskey, or more often a Muggle whiskey: bourbon, scotch, rye. It doesn't much matter, so long as he has stiff alcohol ready to chase away his thoughts. And now the glass is empty — no burnt amber droplets scurrying down the edge of the tumbler, no condensation hinting at the remains of cubes of ice. Nothing but emptiness.

"Goyle?" he calls, and his tongue has the consistency of old parchment in his mouth. He figures the sound didn't carry far; his head is, after all, tucked into the crook of his elbow on the desk, but to raise it would only invite a throbbing headache. "Goyle?" Another muffled, croaking request.

"Yeah, boss?"

Draco coughs once, twice, and when the words come out, they're weary and worn, like they always are. Like he always is. "Get me a drink."

"Are you—"

"I'm sure." It's final, that statement. I'm sure. It's true, too. The consistency of the drink — that's the only thing he's sure of anymore, the only thing that is certain in a world that has ceased to make sense.

"Scotch okay?" Goyle asks, and Draco detects the concern and apprehension in his employee's voice but says nothing, just lifts one of his hands and gestures toward the glass.

Draco sighs in relief upon hearing the gentle gurgling of the liquid as it hits its new encasement of crystal. I'll take away the pain, it murmurs in promise, sloshing about in waves of pale gold, and Draco eagerly takes a sip, another, and one more for good measure.

"Thanks, Goyle." His voice still has a thick rasp and slowness to it, like a mixture of sleep and drunkenness. Goyle shuffles around his heavy feet, heavy in that they make sounds like cement blocks being dropped on the hardwood floor whenever he takes a step. He adjusts a button on the sleeve of his white shirt (freshly pressed, no doubt), and Draco knows he's waiting for something, can see it in the restrained but expectant blackness in his eyes.

Oh, yes — the radio.

It is something of a tradition that every morning, while Draco drinks and Goyle eats, they listen to the wizarding radio network, which is no longer called Potterwatch. It had been taken over by Death Eaters years ago, and as for Potter — well, there's no reason to look out for him anymore. If you want to find him, you can; he is buried next to his parents in Godric's Hollow, his casket surprisingly undisturbed after the initial release of photographs of the dead body by Voldemort and his lot. Draco remembers seeing an especially revolting image of his aunt cackling wildly as she held Potter's corpse up by the hair.

Few dare to venture near the gravesite. There is always a Death Eater or two (possibly Bellatrix herself, though Draco can't really see her doing something so menial) lurking in shadowy clumps of trees or the spindly arms of bushes, awaiting the chance to cast an Avada at a red-haired Weasley mourning the loss of the "The Boy Who Died," which the The Prophet had so creatively dubbed Potter after his demise.

Draco twists the dial to the right and the radio crackles to life, its hushed buzzing overlain with a familiar voice. Goyle inclines his head to better make out the words, but Draco makes no motion to suggest that he cares to hear whatever is being announced, because he really doesn't. Half the time the words aren't true, merely fabricated stories to prop up the Death Eater movement, and the other half...the other half is worse, because it is true, and it's ugly, so bitter and hard to swallow that Draco has to drink constantly just to remind himself that at least there is something with the ability to slide easily down his throat.

"You'll actually want to hear this," Goyle mumbles, because he knows Draco well. Goyle is a man of few words, and the words he says count, so Draco obligingly increases the volume and turns his ear toward the device.

"...Diagon Alley, where three faithful servants of the Dark Lord were brutally murdered by two members of the Order of the Phoenix, who then proceeded to steal important documents from the victims," says the voice of Amycus Carrow, and Draco pictures his fat, leering face, the malicious glint in his eyes. "You know where the killers are headed; you know what to do. Remember, the Ministry shows favor to all who assist in the capture, and those who attempt to help or hide the criminals in any way..." A wheezy, vicious laugh is released from the confines of the radio's small speakers. "Will feel great displeasure."

The knob is shoved all the way to the left, but the hum of the radio lingers in the room, meshes with the air molecules until it's like the room is vibrating with Amycus' threat.

"Bloody hell," says Draco, the latest news mingling with the mantra of drink, drink, drink, that frequently dominates his thoughts. He gives in to the latter, nipping at the scotch before addressing Goyle. "You know who it was?" he asks, and Goyle shakes his head before Draco continues. "Stupid blokes, whoever they are, killing Death Eaters in the middle of fucking Diagon Alley."

"Whoever they were." Goyle's fork squeaks against his plate as he eats his eggs, and Draco looks away, a coldness seeping into his bones. He's right; the Order members are as good as dead already. The scotch begins to look even more desirable, its golden hue reminiscent of Felix Felicis. Drink, drink, drink.

"How much time before they get here, do you reckon?"

"Not much."

Draco drinks because one day he knows it will be his luck that runs out, and this time the icy tingle in his bones isn't warmed by the scotch.

.

~#~

.

The streets pound with the footsteps of those who flee from the maskless Death Eaters. Blood splatters onto a cracked sidewalk, crimson easing into the empty spaces like it's filling up veins in a concrete body. At the end of the trail lies a single arm, some kind of twisted prize.

You've reached the end of the blood. Congratulations, here's a limb.

Black cloaks whip in the salty breeze coming from the sea, and it's near impossible to tell who is predator and who is prey, who is chasing and who is being chased.

As he rounds the corner, a wandless, Muggle-born man trips over his feet and lands, hard, on the gray walk. There's a snap that can only mean one thing, and his eyes sting, because he knows. He knows, then, that it's over. He cries for help, and though his moans sound pathetic to his own ears, it's all he has left — that dying flame of hope. The nameless sprinters around him keep their eyes ahead, keep going forward, most likely making rationalizations as to why they can't stop to help him. Perhaps they don't even do that. Perhaps stopping is no longer put into consideration. He laughs a hysterical, high-pitched laugh and directs it at his useless ankle, which is twisted so unnaturally that the hint of a bone peeks through the flesh. His body rocks back and forth, now with sobs — it's a dark world now, a selfish world, because generosity, any semblance of care at all for a person other than yourself, will only bring you pain or death. Sometimes pain and death. Husband, wife, daughter, son — the words hardly mean what they used to. Nothing means what it used to.

There's a jet of green, and the flame burns out, leaving another shell of a stranger to rot in the misty drizzle.

Neville Longbottom witnesses the light, shivers, and runs faster. He casts a glance to his left just to make sure that, yes, Lee is still alive, and no, neither of them has been stopped yet.

Yet, unfortunately, being the key word in that observation.

The parchment in his trouser pocket feels as if it weighs a thousand kilos, though it can't be more than a few dozen grams in total. A few dozen grams, and yet it has the power to get him and Lee out of the United Kingdom and into the United States, away from all of the death and destruction. His breathing is getting more ragged as he pushes himself, and he can hear Lee's panting growing louder as well, but dammit they had risked everything for these rolls of parchment, and they are going to live to use them.

It wasn't always like this, this seemingly endless race for survival. They had fought after Harry died, because he didn't die for nothing, or maybe it was more that the Order couldn't let him die for nothing. They fought with everything they had for a time, but they just kept losing. The Death Eaters swelled in number while the Order lost more members every day, either by death or capture, and sometimes, when things got really bad, there would be deserters. Neville wanted to hate the ones who disappeared in the middle of the night, to be angry with them at least, but he couldn't. He couldn't blame them for leaving. They, like everyone else, just wanted to survive.

Order safe houses were raided one by one until only a few remained, and no one, try as they might, had enough strength or inspiration to step into the role Harry left vacant. After Ron and Arthur Weasley were taken by Death Eaters and pronounced dead over radio airwaves by Voldemort himself, his voice uncharacteristically gleeful, things truly fell apart for the Order. Neville didn't know what happened to Hermione, Luna, the remaining Weasley siblings, or the any of the others, nor did he know where anyone had gone, only that he, Lee, and Seamus escaped to the English countryside. They Apparated to a field where willowherb sprouted purple flowers, hinting at the antiquated railroad that once carried the Hogwarts' Express through the land and the willowherb's seeds on the wind, and stayed until Snatchers found them one night, Seamus having set off the taboo to Voldemort's name. The colorful lights of spells danced in the twilight until a spark of green hit Seamus. He landed with a thud on the grass, his body still as the stagnant, humid air of late summer. The purple willowherb folded into a sort of crown around his head, and his eyes were blank and the clearest blue Neville had ever seen them. He and Lee managed to stun the Snatchers and Apparate away, but the body was left where it fell — there simply wasn't anywhere to take it.

Neville doesn't know why, but the final memory he has of Seamus is the image that haunts him most when he dreams of all of his dead friends — a ring of purple and a set of dull sapphire eyes.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Neville gasps for air as he is pulled back into the present and it's as if he can taste the ocean salt in his mouth. He checks for Lee, still there, still alive, and ignores the ache in his legs, the burn in his lungs. Almost there.

He doesn't know for sure if almost is close enough.

.

~#~

.

"Lestrange."

"Macnair."

An exchange of nods occurs, and the third man steps forward.

"Rodolphus Lestrange, meet Blaise Zabini," says Macnair gruffly, indicating the thin, dark-skinned wizard, whose hands are shoved in his pockets. He, too, nods. "Zabini's in charge here," Macnair adds.

"Not anymore, you understand, Mr. Zabini."

Blaise quirks an eyebrow. "I won't be treading on your toes, if that's what you mean, Mr. Lestrange. You're welcome here in unoccupied Scotland."

"Glad to hear that, but if you ever tread on my toes, you'll find yourself licking my boots." They enter into a synchronized step, and Blaise already resents the presence of the older, more established Death Eater, though he supposes it's better Rabastan than his deranged wife. "Made any progress on the case yet?"

"There was a large group that tried to make a break for Tenebrosus from the northernmost Apparation point yesterday," answers Macnair from behind them. "Our men killed a few, but most were taken into custody for questioning."

"And?"

"No rolls of parchment," says Blaise, shrugging a single shoulder.

"We know who did it, though," cuts in Macnair, stroking his black mustache and grinning wickedly. "They crossed the border into Tenebrosus, but we know who has them."

"Neville Longbottom and Lee Jordan." The names are out before Rodolphus can ask, and Blaise ignores the slight twist in his stomach, a miniscule protestation to the words released by his lips.

It can be a bit discomforting at times, playing a role (even a somewhat insignificant one) in the executions of former classmates, but he's been doing it ever since he was placed in Tenebrosus. The town, still technically under Scottish jurisdiction, is a bustling hub of witches and wizards desperate to escape the hold of the Dark Lord. Some are here for a few weeks, others months on end, looking for passage to the United States, which has not yet been infected by the disease of war. The town has taught him this much — a war-torn world diminishes some of your qualities and amplifies others, and whether they're good or bad ceases to matter the further the war stretches on. The only thing that matters is that the ones that stick with you are the ones that keep you alive.

For Blaise, there's no denying which has been most powerful since the onslaught of the Second Wizarding War — his instinctual selfish nature is now what controls his every word, every action. Being a Death Eater has ensured his survival, and for that, he has no regrets. It also means he has an exiguous sense of morality, but he has learned to accept his human decency as part of the sacrifice to the cause.

Morality is such a small price to pay when compared to your life.

"Longbottom?" Rodolphus' eyes get a shade darker. "If he's anything like his parents, he'll be hard to break. I must admit, I'm hoping he is," he declares, his lips pulling back into a feral grin.

Blaise grunts, unsure of whether he is supposed to respond or what would be considered an appropriate response if he is. A grunt is safe. A grunt will not end with him licking anyone's boots.

"Where will I find him and the other one?"

"The Dragon. Everyone goes to The Dragon."

"Ah." The streaks of light across Rodolphus' face glow in understanding. "So I'll be paying my disgraced nephew a visit, eh? The little fucker's been hiding out here for how long now?"

"The bar's been open nearly a year," offers Macnair. "He runs it with that other blood traitor, Goyle."

"I always knew his father should have killed young Gregory when he refused to take the Mark the first time. At least Draco got that far." Rodolphus shakes his head in disapproval, his stringy dark hair falling into his eyes. "Anyhow, I suppose we'll be seeing him tonight too."

"I feel obligated to tell you, Mr. Lestrange," says Blaise as they continue to walk, his voice deliberately void of any emotion, "that you may find Scotland's weather somewhat colder than you're accustomed to."

"I can do warming charms just as well as the next wizard, Mr. Zabini. Unless, of course, you didn't mean the weather when you said I would find it cold here."

"What else would I have meant?" The older Death Eater does not respond, merely stares pointedly at his shiny, black boots.

Blaise wants to hang him by the bloody shoelaces.

.

~#~

.

"Will he at least have a drink with me tonight?" Goyle doesn't have to look up from the table he's wiping to know who is asking.

"No, Astoria." And this is the part in the conversation where her eyes will widen, and she'll pucker her lips until they resemble a dainty moue. Goyle glances at her quickly, just to check. The eyes are as large as always, but they're more frenzied tonight, glassy and wild at the same time. He wonders briefly whether she's been buying Muggle drugs from Mundungus Fletcher again.

"But if you could just—"

"No, Astoria."

"—then maybe he would! You're the only one he listens to, and I've been trying—"

"No, Astoria."

"—completely ignoring me! Of course I would be with the one man who doesn't want—"

"Astoria." Her lips meet again, compressing into a tight line.

"Goyle."

"I have to get back to work." He turns to leave, but she catches him by the sleeve.

"Goyle." And this time it's a plead. "I — just ask him for me, okay?"

He likes her best like this, when she doesn't feel the need to pretend. He doesn't like the pain etched into the thin worry lines between her brows, the desperation he can feel in the manicured fingernails pressing into his arm, but he likes that she isn't trying to be Astoria Greengrass, the only pure-blooded heiress in Tenebrosus. She's just Astoria, broken like the rest of them. It's why he nods every time she asks, even when he promises himself that he won't.

"Thank you," she says softly, and then Astoria retreats back into herself, leaving in her place a cold, patronizing Greengrass. "Now go." She puts a cigarette between her pearly teeth and is offered a light from an older, bearded man to her left. A burst of giggles erupts as his match goes out, a line of smoke curling into the air, and she thrums a delicate finger on the table while he scratches another stick against the matchbox.

Goyle turns away to grab his sopping rag and heads for the next table.

The Dragon is crowded that night. Regular patrons play poker, their expressions blank. They've been in town too long to have any semblance of emotion left in their countenances. Fresher faces are brighter, the distinct light of hope in the auras that surround them, and they are the ones most often taken advantage of by the money grabbers and ponzi men that hold business in the corners of the room, ensconced in exclusivity, the burning orange spots of cigarette butts the only evidence that shop is open. The business of human trafficking is not necessarily approved by The Dragon's owner, but he doesn't interfere. Some believe he takes a cut from the deals, controls them even, but no one knows for sure. All agree that the enigmatic nature of The Dragon adds to its appeal, and rumors fly like the creature the place is named for, tossed back and forth amongst fiery-eyed patrons.

"Did you know he has a secret wife?" whispers a young gossip, her lips painted a conspiratorial red. "But he doesn't let her out of the upstairs flat, because she's a wanted woman!"

"That's ridiculous. Seriously, where do you pick up this stuff?"

She flips her hair over her shoulder. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" It's not a subtle dismissal, and the other girl closes her mouth and slouches resignedly in her chair. "The wife may be a little far fetched, I'll admit, but I also heard he's on the run from You-Know-Who himself."

Heads bob in excitement.

"He's probably an Order member. I bet if it wasn't so dangerous he would've named this place The Phoenix!"

"Really?" Another girl looks skeptical. "Someone told me last week that he's secretly working for the—" Her head inclines and her voice drops to a throaty murmur, pulsating with the pride of catching this tidbit of information. "—Death Eaters. They are his family after all, right?"

"Not anymore." The girls gasp; a stray tube of lipstick clatters to the floor.

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, we're so sorry, we didn't mean—"

"Of course you did," says Draco cooly, picking up the lipstick and placing it carefully on the table.

"Well, if there's anything we can do," tries red-lips, lowering her lashes.

"Come up with something more creative."

.

~#~

.

"You're sure this is it? The Dragon?" Lee asks warily, rubbing his bruised elbow. He thinks it might be fractured, an opinion that he's only voiced about a hundred times in the past hour.

"Positive."

The doors swing open, allowing them passage, and Neville immediately begins scanning for a shock of platinum hair amongst the sea of patrons.

"You really think he'll help us? The ferret?"

"Don't call him that."

"But—"

"Lee," Neville hisses. "Shut. Up." The parchment in his pocket has gotten even heavier, and the sheen of sweat is glistening across his brow and upper lip. Not only are they wanted men, but they're on a time crunch. The parchment, which allows them the use of one of the only remaining portkeys to the United States, has an expiration date, and it's not far off.

"Is that—" Lee doesn't have to finish, because Neville's face visibly relaxes as he recognizes his former classmate. It's ironic, really, that the boy who bullied him all through school has become his greatest chance for survival, but if what he's been told of Draco Malfoy is true, he's a different person now. Whether he's different enough to harbor known fugitives (that he despised throughout Hogwarts no less) is unlikely, but still — the whole "greatest chance for survival" thing kind of warrants a try.

"Merlin, he looks...dead. It's his eyes," Lee continues, trying to explain. "They're all...blank. I don't know — like Seamus' were, you remember that?"

"Yeah, yeah I remember."

"And he's even more pasty than he was in school! Didn't think that was possible, but — damn, check out his face!" Lee exclaims in a heated whisper.

"What about it?"

"It's all gray and skinny, like a skeleton or something."

He's right. It looks like whoever crafted Malfoy ran out of skin when they reached his face — the flesh is stretched too tight over his bones, and it's pallid, a sickly sort of dove-colored clay. His nose was sculpted too pointy, his jaw and chin too sharp, and his eyes must have been an afterthought, shoved back into their sockets with a pair of thin, translucent lids shuttering over them. Now, they're like Seamus's, pale and unseeing, all of their youthful power absent.

It's disturbing to put it mildly, to see Malfoy like this. The war has done a number on all of them, but Malfoy looks especially awful, and Neville doesn't think he'd even been in a battle with the exception of Hogwarts. That night, Malfoy clung to the skirts of frays, not defining which side he was fighting for, though Luna did mention that he sent a hex in the direction of a Death Eater about to Avada her.

Before dawn broke, he walked away. Disappeared. Turned his back on war and never looked back. Supposedly, Lucius Malfoy was furious when he noticed his son's absence, but it was too late. He was gone. Neville didn't hear anything about him for years, not until The Dragon popped up in Tenebrosus and became the standard place for entertainment in the town. The Prophet features an article about it every now and then, calls it a place for "Mudbloods and blood traitors run by the biggest blood traitor of all," but Neville has always suspected that the criticism adds to its draw — it's a small way of defying the Death Eaters, of showing that there's still an ounce of freedom left for the people they call worthless, if only that.

"We should go talk to him," says Neville quietly, indicating the former Slytherin student.

"Right." Lee nods, making to move, but hits his elbow on a table and releases a theatrical whine. "I told you it's fractured, Nev! Oh, Godric, it hurts!" Neville can't stop himself from laughing at his friend, and the noise feels funny and foreign in his throat at first, but then Lee keels over, gripping his arm, and he finds the familiarity, remembers all of the nights in Gryffindor Tower when every ounce of him was free. Though maybe he wasn't even then. Maybe the inevitability of war was always carried like a weight on his back; maybe as soon as he saw the boy with the lightning bolt scar, he lost his freedom — freedom of youth, of innocence, of life.

Neville's smile fades. "I believe you about the elbow."

"You damn well better!" It reappears briefly before he looks up where, standing in front of them with a glass of Firewhiskey, is Draco Malfoy.

"I heard you lost a finger, Longbottom, not your tongue."

Neville coughs awkwardly and pretends that his heart hasn't just dropped into his stomach. "Two, actually," he mumbles, raising his left hand, which no longer has a pinky or ring finger. He would have been a lot more concerned about losing his fourth finger if he thought he would live long enough to use it, which he didn't at the time. Which, sometimes, he still doesn't.

"Who was it?" asks Malfoy, and it's disconcerting that he hasn't (seriously) insulted anyone yet and that his tone is approaching conversational.

"Dolohov."

Malfoy hums in thought. "He always was a bastard."

"I, well, I guess he uh—"

"Wasn't a question, Longbottom." Neville knows his face is flushing now, which only makes his cheeks hotter, and he's experiencing flashbacks of an eleven-year-old Malfoy, a sneer on his face and his hair slicked back. "Merlin, I run a bar in fucking Tenebrosus and you're still about to piss your pants because of me?"

"I'm not—"

"Come on, Longbottom, we're both blood traitors now. Let's have a drink." He seems to notice Lee and eyes him for a moment as if trying to recall his identity. "You too, Jordan, even though you called me a cheater in Quidditch."

"Which you were," Lee points out. Neville has half a mind to smack his elbow, but Malfoy just smirks over his shoulder.

"Never said I wasn't, but you were supposed to be an unbiased announcer, which you did a right shit job at."

"Bullocks! I was great—"

"You were bloody horrible," drawls Malfoy, picking up a bottle of Firewhiskey from behind the bar counter and pouring two glasses after filling up his own. "Worse than Lovegood."

"Worse than—" Lee's face grows red. "I heard she talked about the shapes of clouds and forgot people's names!"

"Funny shit," Malfoy says, nodding. "Called that git Zacharias Smith out on his Loser's Lurgy, whatever the hell that is."

"Right, because that's what's important to comment on during a Quidditch—"

"Relax, Jordan, just taking the mickey out of you."

"Well," Lee huffs, "good to know you're still the slimy ferret you were in school."

"If I were still the slimy ferret I was in school, I would have kicked you out of here as soon as you walked through the door, if you even made it that far." Malfoy's voice has turn grave, and Neville's heart is still taking up residence in his gut. He's also experiencing nausea, what with his organs jumping around each other like chocolate frogs.

"You know then?" Lee shoves a stray dreadlock out of his eyes and shifts his wounded elbow uncomfortably.

"Who else could it be? You two are well-known Order members, and besides, only a couple of Gryffindors would have been idiotic enough to pick a fight in Diagon Alley."

"But you also know why, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know why. It's what it always comes down to now, isn't it? A way out of this hell on earth." Malfoy sighs deeply, inhales and exhales as if he's breathing in the whole world and pushing it out again.

"Do you — I mean, would you consider—" Neville stammers.

"Helping your criminal arses? Why, pray tell, would I do something that stupid? There's a reason I was put in Slytherin."

"Many reasons," Lee mumbles.

"Yes, there are." Malfoy downs the last of his drink, and Neville can almost see a spark in his previously apathetic expression, a trace of something he can't quite place — anger, bitterness, sadness, perhaps a combination of all three. "One of the reasons is my rational thinking, which is telling me not to help you, because I don't have any leeway with the Death Eaters as it is. Another reason is my ambition, which is telling me not to help you, because you're a liability to my future here. A third is my—"

"We've been running for months now, Malfoy. If you're not going to help us then just—"

"Here's what I'll do for you." Malfoy folds his hands together in a business-like manner and crosses his legs. "I'll pay for these drinks, and I won't let the Death Eaters everyone seems to think I'm so chummy with know that you're here."

"You still hate us, don't you?" Lee asks.

"How could I? I don't think about you enough to give a shit either way."

"We — we can find somewhere else to stay, but — the parchment. Will you keep it safe, just for a few hours while we figure out what to do?"

"Are you mad?" Lee whispers aggressively. "Store our way to America here with Malfoy?"

"We can trust him," Neville replies, his voice at normal volume. "So will you, Malfoy?"

"I want them gone before midnight, which gives you...approximately two and a half hours. Are we clear?"

"Thank you, thank you so—"

"Longbottom, are we clear?" Malfoy narrows his eyes, and Neville nods enthusiastically.

"As Goblin crystal."