AN: Even though the first chapter might give the impression, this is not your typical Slave fic. There is no Rape/Non-con/Dub-con planned for this story, and Draco does not spend his days in shackles or collars.
To be honest, this is once again one of those fics that totally ran off with me. I originally planned to write a Daenerys/Drogo situation here, but I'm not sure if I really managed. Let's just say I took it as inspiration and everything else I leave for you to decide.
That said, I speak neither Latin nor French, so I'm already going to apologize for the mistakes I'll no doubt make. When you find some, please let me know so I can correct them―same goes for any spelling/grammatical errors when it comes to English since I'm not a native speaker. I chose to take French as Elysia's and German as Teuto's languages, translations will be at the beginning of each chapter, but I won't use more than a couple words or sentences to give this fic a bit of 'local colour', as my old English teacher called it.
Now, enough of my rambling, have fun reading and feel free to leave me reviews if you enjoyed it so far.
Ta.

"I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning."
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore

igni draco

Smoke curled above the small bowl with incense, filling the small and dimly lit room with its heady aroma. A woman sat on an armchair next to the table the bowl rested upon, her large eyes open and distant as she seemed to stare at nothing in particular, her lips slightly parted. She did not react in any way when the door behind her opened, and a tall man entered, blinking as his eyes got used to the weak light pouring in through the gaps between the heavy drapes in front of the windows.

"Sybill?" the man asked and pulled the door closed behind him with a click that rung loud in the silence of the small room. The woman still did not react. Frowning as if in concern, the man walked towards the armchair where he could see her bushy curls peek over the headrest, hoping she had merely fallen asleep, yet dreading a much more gruesome fate had befallen the Seeress.

"Sybill," the man repeated, louder this time, and reached out a hand to clasp the woman's bony shoulder. As soon as his fingertips grazed over the thick cloth of her shawls, the woman seemed to snap to attention, her back straightening out and her head turning towards the man quickly. Her glazed eyes did not seek out the man's gaze, but she drew a deep breath that rattled all the way down into her lungs.

When the woman spoke, her voice was hoarse and breathless, strained, as if every single syllable was dragged from deep inside her; "The White Dragon has approached these lands, and he will be born amidst snow and ice. He is the key to victory in the war between the Emperor and the one who has the power to vanquish him. Whichever side the White Dragon chooses will be victorious, for the other will burn in his fire. The White Dragon has approached these lands, and his power is as raw and merciless as winter."

Surprised, the man stared on as the woman blinked once, twice, and then cleared her throat audibly, smacking her lips.

"Albus?" she asked then, equally surprised to see another standing in her quarters. Her forehead wrinkled as she looked up at him, seemingly deciding how she could have not noticed the man entering her room. "I must have fallen asleep," she decided finally and reached out for the cup of tea standing on the table in front of her.

"Yes, you must have," the man agreed while he combed long fingers through his white beard, the odd twinkle in his piercing blue eyes only barely hidden by his bushy eyebrows.

"I will leave you to it then, my dear," he said and strode towards the door, fingers still carding through the coarse hair of his long beard while in his mind thoughts and ideas toppled over one another, each fighting to reach the forefront.

The age of Cassiopeia dawns with change; in its first year, the Emperor, who ruled over all kingdoms of Taress with an iron fist is defeated—by a babe. At the height of the war between his forces and the opposing armies which ride beneath the banner of the Order of the Phoenix, Emperor Voldemort was made aware of a Prophecy that told of the one with the power to vanquish him, born as the seventh month dies. To crush the spark before it can catch fire and consume him, the Emperor sets out in search for the boy that is destined to be his murderer, and finds the child.

However, when he uses his magic to kill the boy, the spell rebounds and hits its caster himself, weakening him so that he has to flee and hide. Taress breathes a relieved sigh and the Order cheers and celebrates their new hero, The Boy Who Lived, Harry James Potter. Finally, peace ceases to be a faraway goal and becomes a possibility, then something given.

The Emperor's followers are caught and tried. Some claim bewitchment; they were merely puppets bound against their will by strings of dark magic, they say. Others still scream about their loyalty to the 'true' ruler of Taress as they are dragged from the court room.

Teuto, the headquarters of the revolution, leads by example and votes a new ruler. Many ask for Albus Dumbledore to take the seat, but the old man declines any political position. He rather pulls the strings from the shadows. Cornelius Fudge climbs the throne instead, and he is suited for this Era of Peace. The Emperor is believed to be dead, killed by his own curse, and the people move on.

Harry Potter is oblivious to these developments and his role in it, and leads a quiet, peaceful life far away from those who speak his name with awe. Until, that is, the Emperor returns.

Ten years after that fateful Hallowe'en night, the Emperor makes the next attempt on the boy's life, but fails. Time and again, he is defeated by the child for he is weakened, and it is not until the child's fourteenth summer that he finally returns to his full strength. A young man loses his life that night, but yet again the Boy Who Lived escaped barely harmed.

The people of Taress, minds numbed by peace and denial, do not believe their hero until it is too late. When the Emperor emerges from the shadows and calls forth his forces, all eyes turn towards the Boy Who Lived, the Hero, the Vanquisher, and Harry Potter sets out with his own armies, the banner with its phoenix billowing above.

I

They came with dragons.

The irony was not lost on the people of Elysia, for it was the beasts the prince was named after, that ultimately brought the royal family's downfall. Draco, the boy was called, and Dragon it meant.

Here in the north, in the bosom of winter, not many had seen a dragon before, and the Teutos brought three. Elysia's armies fled screaming as soon as the shadows of the giant, scaled forms passed over them, and many burned in the hot fire they breathed down onto the men from nostrils and fanged maws. King Lucius sat on his throne and listened to the messengers bringing tidings from the field of battle, and all of them spoke of loss and death with cracking voices. Narcissa, his fair queen, spoke of leaving the castle and go into hiding, pleaded for exile to save their son.

"Seventeen winters is not old enough to face one's death, my King. Please, I beg you, do not let him die," she said, eyes gleaming with tears and voice choked, losing her regal calmness with the looming threat of her only son dying at the hands of a barbarian. They were coming, drawing closer to Elysia's capital, Havan, with every day that passed.

"A Malfoy does not flee," the King insisted time and again, face of a sickly pallor and knuckles white where his hands clutched the armrests of his throne, until the Teutos broke down the city's gates and poured through them, the three dragons circling overhead with their riders.

Draco stood at his window and listened and watched as the few truly loyal guards charged to their deaths, the others throwing down their weapons and sinking into the mud of the streets, heads bowed with the weight of surrender.

"Come away from the window, Draco," Mother said and he felt her trembling fingers close around his wrist, tugging with soft determination until he stepped away and sunk onto the bed with her, his blonde head cradled in her lap. Her delicate hands combed through his hair soothingly, but Draco found no comfort in it, not when he could hear her silent sobs, far louder to his ears than the screams of pain coming through the window.

"My little Dragon," the queen whispered, and he wondered how she could still speak the endearment with such fondness when she'd seen with her own eyes what a dragon could do, how the men that were supposed to protect them now cowered in fear in front of the great beasts. Draco's fingers twisted the fine cloth of her robes and he buried his face deep in the folds of her cashmere skirt, wishing they were thick enough to steal his breath away completely. He was so ashamed, so furious. So scared. Father had spoken of the worth of his family, of their mighty armies, of the Emperor and the power he held, but now, when it mattered the most, Draco could see none of it. The only thing seeming to loom on the horizon of his destiny was fire, hot and red and hungry, eating away at the banners with the entwined twin serpents that was his family's crest.

"Where is the Emperor, why does he not send us help?" He barely recognized his own voice, it sounded so strained and weak, feeble and broken as the words fell from his lips in a desperate whisper. Mother shushed him, one hand cradling the back of his head as she uttered hollow promises that sounded like lies.

Outside the door, he could hear heavy footsteps and shouts, shuffling and the clash of blades, more cries of pain, and Draco knew they'd come for them. They'd be dragged out of the room, through the stone corridors and into the courtyard where their people would witness their fall, would see the glint of the blades before they came down to sever heads from necks and blood soaked the already wet earth.

He did not cry as the men with the fiery phoenix on their chests seized him by the arms and dragged him away from the bed, binding his hands behind his back. A Malfoy does not cry, the voice of his father echoed in his head. Neither does he give up. There is no weakness in a Malfoy. It might be the last thing he would do, but Draco would not show the fear he felt inside, would not back away or plead for his life.

Mother walked behind him, and her steps were as sure as his own. He knew she would hold her chin high and look ahead, her beautiful face a composed marble mask. They called her the Queen of Ice and Snow not only for her position or her pale complexion and white-blonde hair, Draco knew, for she only showed her true feelings to Father and himself—and only seldom at that. People thought her to be as cold and merciless as the Elysian winters. They had never seen the love she held for her family. They had not seen her beg for her son's life at the feet of her husband.

And now she would die in front of her people and they would never truly have known her.

Draco's breath caught in his throat only when they stepped out of the grand doors of the castle and into the courtyard, and he stumbled slightly, knees nearly giving out beneath him, but caught himself in time to keep appearances.

The square was filled with the unknown faces of his enemies, blood-soaked armour glinting red in the afternoon sunlight as they served as barrier between his family and the defeated soldiers. Behind them, he saw the rows of his people, looking solemn as Narcissa and Draco were brought to the middle of the square. Father was already there, on his knees, his long, blond hair crusted with blood from a wound at his temple that was still oozing the ruby liquid sluggishly. The mud clung to his fine clothes and his guards were leering, taunting him in the guttural tongue of Teuto.

And above them all circled the three dragons, their wing beats loud as they huffed and released small plumes of fire. Draco could not resist tilting his head back to look at the scaled bellies of his namesakes, their long, deadly claws and fangs, and the leathery skin stretched between the bones of their great wings. They were as beautiful as they were deadly, and Draco longed to be like them; so strong and powerful, awe-inspiring, savage, and most importantly, free despite their riders. With a few beats of their wings they could rise up towards the clouds and fly to lands he had never seen. No one could stop them, and those who tried burned in their fires or were crushed between their jaws.

If only he were a dragon, and not merely by name, they would not be here, kneeling in front of the barbaric Teutos, their agonizing and humiliating defeat on display in front of the people they were meant to rule.

If only.

With a hard shove, he was brought to his knees beside his father, his mother following quickly to kneel at Draco's right. Her eyes were cool as she regarded the foreign soldiers soiling their kingdom with their existence, and Draco wished he was as strong as her. The knot of love and admiration for his beautiful mother wound tight in his stomach as he looked up himself, imitating her dignity and pride.

At his left, Father's head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, the many lessons about pride and regal behaviour he'd taught his son apparently not applying to him. Draco was disgusted.

The first dragon deserted the circle of the three high above and descended, and for a moment, Draco feared they might be swallowed by it. He heard a frightened whimper and didn't realize it was his own until Narcissa turned her head towards him and the cool mask slipped from her features for barely a heartbeat's time, letting him have a glimpse of the sadness and fear she was hiding beneath.

But apparently, they were not meant to become the dragon's meal. Not yet, at least. The dragon landed, the crowd around it taking a cautious step back to make room for the great beast, and a man slipped from its back to the ground before his mount rose again to join its companions. The man's hair was as red as fire, and his face was covered in dark freckles. His limbs were long, making him tower over most of the men around him, and Draco knew immediately who he was—Ronald Weasley, the War Chief's right-hand man.

Weasley took a disgusted look at the three kneeling before him and then walked towards them as the next dragon descended to let its rider to the ground. This time a woman sat on the beast's back, her curly hair wild and bushy, although that might be from the wind. Unlike Weasley, who wore a hauberk and leather trousers, she was clad in a long robe of thick, burgundy cloth, the hem brown with dried mud. She as well walked towards them as her dragon, a lithe green beast, beat its wings and returned to the sky. Calm brown eyes settled on Draco and his parents as the woman came nearer, her motions more fluid than the ones of her gangly friend. It was, of course, Hermione Granger, sorceress and scholar, with a sharp wit praised in all realms, and Draco couldn't help the surge of hatred for her he felt as she came to stood before him. A woman was not meant to be at the front lines, should not study with the men, his mother had taught him so. A woman, she'd said, is the puppet master, and she moves the strings that tie her husband with words and careful suggestions. She rules from the shadows, but even though she wields great power, her husband always has the final word.

So Draco raised his chin defiantly, glaring daggers at her as she looked down her nose at him and his family. He would not feel intimidated by a bint, legends or not. To his distress, Granger only reacted with a challengingly raised eyebrow.

However, he could not dwell long on it, because now the last of the dragons was landing, and the sight stole Draco's breath straight from his lungs. The beast looked ferocious; it was dark and huge, its weight balanced on its hind legs and wings, for it had no forelegs. The black scales looked brown in the sunlight, and as thick as if they'd been carved from stone. A crown of bronze horns protruded from its skull and the end of its tail, the maw was sharp and formed like a beak. The sight alone made Draco shudder involuntarily and crouch down slightly.

Where the other dragons had almost seemed calm and docile, this one was wild. It shuffled and threw its head back, roaring with a yowling, screeching sound that grated over Draco's nerves and made his teeth set. Its rider, a dark form against the sunlight and too far away to make out any details, reached out to pat the beast's neck in what appeared to be reassurance—a futile gesture, judging by the thickness of the dragon's scales. Nonetheless, it seemed to be calmed by it slightly, and when the rider had climbed off its back, the beast rose again with a last roar, just barely avoiding the heads of the onlookers with its horned tail, drawing frightened gasps and screams from the spectators.

Draco, however, paid it no heed, as he was too distracted by the sight of the third rider walking towards him with sure steps that did not lack a certain grace despite their quickness. He knew who the third rider was, and with him, the Golden Three were complete: Harry Potter, War Chief of the Order of the Phoenix, successor of the great Albus Dumbledore, and the Emperor's nemesis.

He'd heard rumours of the man, telling of his power and strength, of all the ways he'd defeated the Emperor before, as a babe even, but never had Draco thought he'd one day see him with his own eyes. Or have to take his last breath at his feet.

Potter was not tall, per se, but not small either, more of average height. His hair was as wild as his dragon, thick, unruly strands of the colour of a raven's plumage sticking out every which way to reveal the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Tanned bronze skin, kissed by the south's sun, stretched taut over the wiry muscles of his forearms, the healthy colour only sometimes interrupted by fine silvery scars telling of healed battle wounds. He was not stocky or burly with muscles, but still his rust coloured leather jerkin clung to his frame—that and the hidden grace of Potter's movements made Draco think of a mountain lion's subtle strength and quickness.

Draco could merely stare as Potter's bespectacled eyes, the colour of Elysia's fields in summer, came to rest on him for a moment. Had he not been looking right back at him, Draco might have missed the slight widening of the green eyes and the dilation of pupils before Potter turned away and focused on Father. When Draco made to follow the war chief's gaze, he saw his father glance from Potter towards him and back, the beginnings of a smirk making the corners of his mouth twitch before he schooled his features back into a pitiful expression of remorse and misery. The king seemed to have a plan, but somehow, this insight did not reassure Draco as much as it once would have, so he furrowed his brows, beckoning his father to spill the secret, but Lucius did not turn to his son.

Potter began to speak. He turned in a slow circle, directing the words at the crowd gathered around them and at last at the royal family, his eyes gaining on hardness as they settled on the king. When he'd finished, Granger cleared her throat, translating the guttural tongue into the lilt of Elysia with barely a noticeable accent. Draco would have been impressed if he would not hate her so much and had more pressing matters to attend to. He was only half listening as she spoke of the honour found in surrender, of knowing when a battle was in vain and when it was the time to lay down weapons to avoid needless bloodshed. She promised the people—Elysia's people, Draco's people—they would not be harmed and could go about their life as they had before, however, any attempt to help the Emperor and his forces would be punished gravely.

Finally, Granger turned towards Draco and his parents, eyes cold despite their warm, brown colour and she said, "Malfoys, for your vile deeds under the rule of the Emperor, you are hereby sentenced to death by beheading. Any last words?"

Mother shook her head curtly, her gaze as icily as Granger's as she accepted her sentence. Draco could not speak, for he felt like he'd swallowed a stone that was now stuck in his throat, blocking any words from finding their way out and cutting off the air he desperately tried to breathe. His eyes stung and he blinked, trying to get rid of the tears threatening to fall to his disgrace. Why, he wondered, why did he have to die? He'd never seen the Emperor himself, and Mother had sheltered him fiercely, hiding her beloved son behind the walls of their castle and even going as far as convincing Father to allow him only to practice magic instead of the handling of a sword. Most of his life Draco had spent in the castle's library, head bent over books as he studied spells and potions instead of learning how to sharpen a blade.

Sensing his distress, Mother whispered his name, and when he turned to her, she smiled. He was sure she'd meant it to be reassuring but it came out all wrong—too weak and not reaching her eyes, which were filling with tears themselves.

"Death is better than torture or enslavement," she whispered. "My son will die with his head held high, not screaming on a rack or scrubbing the floors of a hut."

Draco nodded, even though he wondered how he was supposed to hold his head high when it was about to be rolling at Harry Potter's feet. The thought nearly made him laugh out loud, and he felt the laughter starting to bubble in his chest, a hysteric, desperate sound that would speak of insanity instead of amusement, and he fought hard to hold it down.

Help with his struggle came in form of a sword being drawn, the sound of metal grinding against its sheath too loud in the eerie silence that had fallen over the courtyard. With a last nod, a wordless farewell to his mother, Draco turned to the Golden Three again and saw that they had been joined by another man, this one tall and broad in built, with thick stubble covering his jawline and cheeks, and a mop of chestnut hair nearly as unruly as Potter's. He held a silver sword with rubies decorating the ornate handle, the name Godric Gryffindor engraved into the long, slim blade. That, more than anything else told Draco that it was Neville Longbottom standing in front of him. It seemed all the high and mighty of the Order of the Phoenix had come to witness the end of the Malfoy line.

An uncanny calmness settled over Draco, enveloping him like a soft blanket. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. Longbottom would raise the sword and bring it down on him in a swift motion, sharpened silver cutting easily through skin, muscle and bone, and everything would be over. It was inevitable.

He was just deciding if he should keep his eyes defiant and on Potter, showing him that Draco's will was not broken, when Father cried at last, "wait!"

The four in front of them exchanged surprised and uncertain glances, and even Mother and Draco turned to look at Lucius. Granger narrowed her eyes in distrust as she asked, "what is it?"

Father looked almost eager as he scrambled up a bit, his torso and thighs forming a straight line while his calves remained folded beneath him. "I have an offer for Harry Potter."

Granger's eyebrows shot up in surprise and almost hesitantly, she translated what had been said, which was met by a sneer from Weasley and a disbelieving frown from Potter before he responded something else.

"You have nothing to offer to us," Granger said in a way that told Draco she truly believed so. He could not take offence at her clipped tone, for he himself thought there were limits to the bribe a man who was kneeling in the mud with his hands bound had to offer. Especially not when one attempted to oil the palm of Harry Potter the Incorruptible, if the rumours and legends held any truth.

Father had the audacity to smirk when he said, "I do believe that is not quite true. I know you would not believe my claims of remorse if there is no proof beyond my own words. That is why I decided to gift something to you."

"We neither need nor want your gold," Granger cut him off and nodded at Longbottom, who had taken a step back when the negotiations had begun, but now returned to his position beside Mother, sword rising.

"But I was not talking about gold," Father insisted, now with a slightly frantic edge to his voice, and moved forwards on his knees only to be held back by a snarling guard.

"What is it then that you believe is enough to show your—remorse." The last word was spoken with enough sarcasm to show Granger's disbelief and suspicion. That, Draco would have liked to know as well. He was becoming more and more confused the longer Father talked, and there was a spark of hope growing in his stomach, one that had to be stamped out soon. He could already feel the comforting blanket of calmness slipping away, and without its protection, he felt the panic creep back to him, black tendrils of his dire straits wrapping around his insides and crushing his heart in a steely grip.

Father threw his head back and turned to Potter, his shoulders setting in a proud, straight line as if he'd just remembered the delicate crown still resting on his head and the status it granted him.

"You must know that I only have one son," he said and Draco blinked in response, Mother drawing in a harsh breath beside him.

"No, Lucius!" she cried, outraged, and she must have known what Father was planning and why he was talking about Draco even though the reason escaped him completely. He could not imagine why it would be important to the Teutos that Draco was their only son.

"Don't you dare!" Mother cried shrilly, but Father ignored her completely after Granger nodded curtly.

"To show my remorse, and gratitude should you decide not to harm me and my family, I offer Harry Potter my son, my only heir, to do with as he pleases. Surely that should be enough to prove my loyalty to your cause," he said with an air of triumph.

Draco made an undignified, gurgling sound. Around him, the forms of soldiers and people blurred into a unrecognisable mass with too many limbs, a monster out of a nightmare as the world began spinning. His heart beat a fast rhythm against his ribcage as if it could break out of his chest and escape when he couldn't, and the air in his lungs started burning. Someone screamed, but he couldn't make out the words or who it was, he only knew it wasn't him because the lump clogging his throat would let neither air nor words through. He feared he might fall face first into the mud as the world started tipping towards him swiftly, but a rough hand closed around his nape and held him upright, fingers digging so hard into his flesh that he was certain there would be bruises later.

Not that it mattered any longer, did it? His Father had just sold him off to Harry Potter, leader of the revolution against the Emperor, and who knew what would be done to him at Potter's hands, who knew which cruel desires were not spoken of in the legends that people told of him.

Mother was right, a quick death was favourable over his new plight.

The thought about his mother grounded Draco enough to become more aware of his surroundings. He looked to his right and saw her struggling against the restraining arms of a soldier of the Phoenix, trying to bite the gloved hand that was pressing down against her mouth to stop her from screaming. His beautiful, proud mother was fighting tooth and nails for her son, and his heart ached as he thought about what would happen to her would Potter decide not to accept the offer. She did not deserve to die here, in the mud, in front of the steps that lead to her home.

So Draco made a decision.

"Mother," he said quietly but nonetheless insistently, and offered her a shaky smile when she stilled. "Please, calm down."

Mother's eyes widened, and she shook her head frantically, begging him not to do this for her sake. She did not understand that Draco had to do this, but Draco was a Malfoy, and Malfoys took care of their own. Maybe that was what Father was trying to do; keeping them all alive, giving them a second chance.

Shouting drew his attention away from his mother and his thoughts, and when he turned back to the Golden Three and Longbottom, he found Potter in an argument with Granger. He was shouting and gesticulating wildly towards the three Malfoys kneeling on the ground, pointing in turn to Mother, then Father, and lastly Draco. Granger had her arms crossed over her chest, her face a pinched expression of disapproval as she shook her head slightly like she meant to show she was disagreeing with Potter's words. Longbottom was standing to the side, grimacing while he looked from Granger to Potter and back, obviously trying to decide if he should intervene or wait for them to sort it out on their own.

Weasley, on the other hand, seemed to have made his decision, because he put a hand on Potter's shoulder and then talked quietly to him when he had successfully drawn the war chief's attention to himself. The red-headed warrior talked some more, voice low and insistent, yet Potter shook his head frantically, his frown darkening his face considerably before he snapped at his friend and shrugged the large hand resting on his shoulder off. His next words were a harsh snarl to the other three that made Granger recoil and look hurt while Weasley winced and Longbottom raised his hands as if to show he had no opinion on the matter discussed.

After another moment of silent but no less intimidating staring, Potter finally nodded, then looked away from his friends and straight at Draco, who unconsciously straightened beneath the scrutinising and heavy green gaze, his shoulders squaring and his chin rising slightly as he tried to look down his nose at the dark-haired man. There was an infuriating glint of amusement in Potter's eyes as he stepped forwards and crouched down in front of Draco, reaching out to grip the pointy chin in weapon-calloused fingers. Draco flinched on instinct, trying to dislodge the hand holding his jaw, but it only made Potter's fingers tighten until their tips dug painfully into flesh and bone.

If Draco's mind would have worked properly, he might have commented on the display of brutish behaviour or maybe asked if Potter was about to snarl like the animal he was, but as it was, his thoughts were abandoning him as Potter peered at him with those unsettling eyes the colour of meadows in spring. He was so close that Draco could smell him; the blood and sweat of battle, the sun-hardened leather of his clothes, the smoky tang that belonged to the dragon, and something spicy that must be Potter himself. The heady aroma filled his nostrils until he felt he could almost taste it on his tongue, the savour of savagery.

For a moment of temporary insanity, Draco wondered if Potter really tasted like that; of primal instincts and wildness and freedom.

Thankfully, the thought was fleeting, and he forgot all about it as Potter turned Draco's head from one side to the other, tilting it back and forth as if he was inspecting cattle on the market to see if it was to his liking and worth his gold. He almost expected the brute to push his lips back to see the condition of Draco's teeth. Draco snarled, baring his teeth all on his own.

Potter only chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, and his green eyes glinted with his amusement. He said something Draco did not understand, but Granger translated into, "what's your name?"

This time, Draco was able to tear his chin away from the grip Potter held on it, for he was recoiling as if he'd been struck. He nearly ended up sprawled on his side on the ground, but for once he did not care—the anger boiling in the pit of his stomach was too hot, too dark, too all-consuming. A veil of red had draped itself over his eyes, yet Draco could see Potter clearly; his eyes widened and his jaw slack with surprise over Draco's reaction to the question.

Draco, for once, forgot all about his unfortunate position, and his words tore out of his throat in a cruel hiss.

"The nerve of you lot!" he said, spittle flying from his lips in his outrage. It was undignified behaviour, but he was in the company of barbarians and therefore couldn't care less. Granger made to speak, her eyebrows furrowed and her face dark, but Draco talked right over whatever she had to say.

"You were about to cut my head from my shoulders and you did not even know my name?!" His voice gradually changed from a low hiss to shouting with every word. "What kind of justice is this you're practising? What world are you trying to build where a family name is enough to sentence someone to death? And I haven't even mentioned this poor excuse for a trial yet!"

"Silence!" Granger interrupted him, her face flushed with shame or outrage, Draco could not decide. Nevertheless, he followed her shrill order and snapped his mouth shut, teeth grinding against each other as if he tried pulverising the accusations and insults that longed to escape his lips. It would not do to bargain this chance of survival any further.

Still crouching in front of Draco, Potter furrowed his brows in a silent question as he looked from Granger back to his prisoner, and Draco noticed with gleeful satisfaction that Granger seemed to be uncomfortable as she translated his words. Potter looked first surprised, then pensive as he considered what had been said, yet he offered no response to Draco's claims of injustice but simply nodded before repeating his former question.

This time, Draco did not wait for the translation but answered, "Draco Lucius Malfoy, son to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, crown prince of Elysia."

Weasley grinned and said something that made the men within earshot laugh, and even Granger seemed to fight a smile. Draco ignored them even though he was sure it had been a joke at his expense. They could take away his home, his gold and his fine clothes, but never would they strip him off his name and heritage, and he was proud to be a Malfoy, no matter that his name had nearly gotten him executed. After all, he was still alive, and he had his family's cunning wit to thank for that.

"Draco," Granger told the others and simply dropped all other names and titles Draco had said. However, after a moment, she hesitantly added something else in Teuto's tongue that made Potter raise his eyebrows and then turn back to Draco to look him over once again, as if he was seeing him in a different light. Weasley gave another comment he could not understand but which made Granger shoot the redhead a disapproving glance. Yet Draco paid the pair no heed, because Potter was hesitantly reaching out towards his face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing Draco's temple as two tanned fingers closed around a strand of silky, blond hair. He rubbed it between his fingers with a thoughtful expression on his face before he said something else and turned towards Granger, who nodded, but then hurried to add what sounded like a warning, which Potter waved off lazily.

At last, Potter released the wisp of hair and stood up again. He nodded curtly at Father, then turned and strode away without a backwards glance as Draco was seized by his arms and dragged from the courtyard.

The last thing he saw of his mother was her tear-streaked face as she nodded her farewell.