Author's Note: Yet another chapter, because no one likes a cliffhanger, not even me. Huge thanks are due to the lovely reviewers: Chester99, siewchee12345, jperks, nikawritesx, Musicangel913, fuzzy6, Sam Wallflower, skellyshook, 4fanci, Gunnhildde, Frogster, cmtaylor531, IGOTEAMEDWARD, Christineoftheopera, K. E. Degz!
I would also like to add two disclaimers: 1) The entire idea of a trial like this is something I shamelessly stole from the amazing and brilliant Christopher Paolini. I do not own that scene, nor do I own his series. If you notice the similarities, it's because Trial by Misericorde was something I've been planning for this fic for ages and I borrowed very heavily from the Trial of the Long Knives. 2) Definitely, definitely a tigger warning for violence and self-harm for this chapter.
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It was still light out when Draco's eyes cracked open again, signaling that he couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few hours at the utmost. He sat up quickly, the events of his confrontation with Theo hitting him like a faceful of bricks.
"Finally, you're awake."
Theo was sitting on the other side of the room in an ornate, claw-footed chair, looking concerned. Glancing around briefly, Draco decided he must be in one of the bedchambers at Nott Estate. The room was decorated extravagantly in an abundance of gold and porcelain. The hangings on the bed Draco lay in were a rich blue and soft like crushed velvet. A large display cabinet of artifacts and Nott heirlooms stretched the length of the wall behind Theo.
Draco glanced down at himself quickly, relieved to discover he was still fully clothed. After all his former friend's shocking confessions, Theo made him distinctly uncomfortable.
Sensing the trail of Draco's thoughts, Theo's cheeks colored and he grew visibly offended. "I'm not a rapist, Draco."
"I don't know who you are, anymore."
"I'm the same person I've always been, only now you know a little more about me."
Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, still several feet away from Theo. Calling on his best impression of Lucius's finest cold hauteur, Draco almost seemed bored when he queried, "Now that you've thoroughly betrayed and then imprisoned me, Nott, what exactly is it you plan to do with me?"
"I honestly don't know," Theo admitted. "I was worried when you blacked out. The wards weren't supposed to make that happen."
Hermione?
He could feel her extreme shock, and hear her gasp as though she were directly beside him. Are you alright? What's happened?
It's Theo. He orchestrated all the murders.
Her consequent speechlessness was tangible. Draco could hear her brain whirring, too fast and irrational for him to keep up.
Stalling, Draco cocked a pale eyebrow at his captor. "So I'm here until I rot?"
Theo shrugged, "Not a bad plan."
"You realize that eventually someone is going to come looking for me…"
Waving this away, Theo replied, "I have warded this Estate immaculately. You will recall Granger so graciously giving me a sample of her blood? I used some of it so ensure the wards would recognize it. If she so much as allows one of her bushy hairs to find its way onto my property, she will be splinched into over a hundred pieces. To doubly ensure she doesn't worm her presence here through some other method, I also warded against Mudbloods, half-bloods and Weasleys."
Don't try to come here, Draco warned, snaking his way into Hermione's jumbled train of thought. Theo's wards will kill you if you try to come to Nott Estate, so whatever you do, don't decide to go full Gryffindor. I'm handling this.
Do you expect me to sit back and do nothing? she cried.
I'm asking you to be patient… he reasoned.
"Seems you've thought of everything," Draco observed aloud. "Since you're so anxious to have me as a forced, long-term guest, can I at least have my wand back?"
Theo's eyes narrowed, "I'm not that foolish."
Draco hadn't expected him to be, really. "Seems we're at an impasse then."
"It appears so."
It had not been for nothing, that Draco had been forced to share a roof with the Dark Lord and with countless Death Eaters for a year. His eyes seemed only to make the briefest scan of the room, but in doing so, he took in a collection of pertinent information: his wand was not in plain sight and the view from the windows indicated they were on the third floor, making it an undesirable method of escape. There was no fireplace to attempt freedom by Floo and Draco had no inclination to splinch himself trying to Apparate away, as he was sure Theo had thought of that. Half-hidden by the leg of his captor's chair was a three-quarters full crystal container of some unknown amber-colored liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey, which meant Theo had already polished through a quarter of it on his own, as Theo never began daydrinking from a half-empty decanter. Beyond the usual collection furniture, only the showy display case along the far wall behind Theo seemed to hold anything of interest.
His footfalls muffled by the oriental carpet, Draco paced lazily toward the large hutch of artifacts. He could feel Hermione's reassuring presence in the back of his consciousness, waiting only for a signal of some kind. It was times like these, Draco could appreciate her rationality.
Theo tensed up, rising from his seat as the blond approached.
Behind the six glass doors of the cupboard, innumerable Nott family heirlooms were displayed. Draco's eyes scanned the collection, finally resting on one item in particular: a long box made of old leather and wood. His mind raced at a clip, calculating his slim options and swiftly coming to a weighty verdict.
"Remember when you said you'd got rid of all those vials of Nott family blood your ancestors had collected over the years?" Draco queried.
Theo raised his eyebrows, clearly wondering toward what end the conversation was headed. He gestured to a place in the display where numerous small objects had obviously been removed recently, made apparent by the collection of dust rings that still occupied the blank space. "I didn't make it up. I hate that tradition. All the effing research I did on blood to determine if purebloods were really superior and I came up with nothing..."
"Yet you care so much about me keeping up pureblood ideals," Draco reasoned coolly.
"That's different," Theo insisted.
"Is it?"
Theo glowered at him, reaching down to snag the decanter by his chair. He uncorked it and took a deep swig, hesitated, then offered it to Draco like he always did.
Taking the offered bottle, Draco thought he could probably use a bit of liquid courage for what he was about to suggest and drank deeply. He had been correct – it was whiskey. "Make a deal with me."
"What sort of deal?" Theo seemed wary, but also intrigued.
Opening the second door of the hutch, Draco pulled out the leather-wrapped box that had caught his attention only a moment ago. It was embossed with the Nott Family coat of arms. He set the box down on Theo's seat and opened it.
Theo paled, staring incredulously at Draco and at the velvet-lined box. Within lay two triangular blades, roughly the length of Draco's forearm.
"I invoke Trial by Misericorde," Draco announced, silver eyes piercing directly into Theo's browns.
Taking a deep breath, Draco silently warned Hermione, I am about to do something you aren't going to like. Trust me that I have to do it.
Her alarm was palpable, but he could also sense her trust in him. He regretted that he was about to strain it.
The Nott heir recognized the challenge, outdated practice though it was. Licking his lips nervously, he queried, "Stakes?"
"If I am victor, I go free and you accept the consequences of your betrayal."
Angrily, Theo stomped his foot and demanded, "If it's me?"
I love you, Draco reminded her before promptly ejecting Hermione from his mind, amid her protests. He didn't want her to have any part of this, not even to bear witness.
"I will stay here without complaint and without seeking retribution against you… and I will agree to forge a binding alliance with you."
A pregnant silence permeated the room. The sudden widening of Theo's eyes would have been comical in any other situation.
"I accept the terms."
Inhaling deeply through his nose, Draco prayed he knew what he was doing. Meanwhile, Theo summoned Bindy, his house elf, to be the necessary witness to the ritual. They sealed the stakes in magic; Bindy was already shaking with fear and worry.
Draco took a deep breath, hoping his grey eyes were shielding his apprehension. Theo offered his adversary the whiskey decanter a second time and Draco took it, swigging deeply. He handed the liquor back with an automatic half-smile, just as if it were old times and they were best friends again.
Reaching for the long knife closest to him, he observed the narrow blade with trepidation. The handle was of polished bronze and depicted two serpents engaged in mortal battle.
How fitting, he thought without humor.
Having done plenty of research in the past several months on blood grudges, Draco had become acquainted with many of the methods purebloods had employed throughout the centuries to settle disputes. As far as he knew, Trial by Misericorde hadn't been invoked since the 1800s. The long knives had been used in medieval times to deliver a swift, merciful euthanasia to a seriously wounded knight. The blade was narrow enough to sink between plates of armor or pushed through eye holes in a helmet; it was triangular in shape to cause a greater amount of internal damage.
Pureblood wizards, of course, never got involved in the affairs of knights if they could help it. Still, it was not unusual for a pureblooded family to keep a pair around for the express purpose of the Trial by Misericorde… or in this day and age, the memory of what it had once represented.
The Nott blades were in pristine condition, deadly sharp and likely kept in newly polished condition through old magic. Draco gripped the handle and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, maintaining eye contact with his opponent.
Theo copied Draco's actions, eyeing Draco's already severely scarred arm with no small amount of worry. "You got rid of it," he stated, coming up empty-handed when he searched for the Dark Mark.
I'd been drunk then, though, Draco remembered with trepidation.
He thought idly of Hermione and hoped he could be as courageous as her, but he had been placed in Slytherin and she in Gryffindor for a reason. Slytherin House produced wizards who valued self-preservation, not reckless acts of bravery.
Still, he would have to try his best…
The sun was beginning to set, casting a ruddy glow into the room. Theo placed the deadly sharp blade a quarter of an inch away from his forearm, just below the crease of his elbow, and murmured, "I will begin."
He drew the polished edge across his skin, where it split like a crimson smile, blood welling out.
Determined, Draco's face was set like stone as he, too, drew the icy blade across his arm. The sharpened steel bit into his skin so easily, he had to struggle not to cut too deeply. It was a test of wills to discover who could withstand the most cuts, thus being declared the victor.
This is absurd and extremist, Draco thought to himself, wondering if he'd finally gone mad to suggest it in the first place.
It was a mark of how accustomed he'd become to Hermione's presence within his own mind, that he was startled when she didn't reply back.
Theo cut himself a second time, a neat line directly under the first. Bindy the house elf began making babbling and squeaking noises from the corner of the room, trying to cover her eyes but duty forcing her to peek out through her fingers.
Draco kept his muscles slack, knowing that if he tensed, the process would be all the more painful as he allowed the Misericorde to further mutilate his ugly, scarred arm. A thousand protesting nerves admonished him to cease as he made the second cut. He could hear his own pulse.
Theo lacerated his arm again, the cords in his neck bulging with effort. Blood was running from his three open wounds and dripping onto the expensive carpet.
Gritting his teeth, Draco made his third incision.
A moment later, Theo opened up a fourth gash on his forearm, as Draco did on his own.
The fifth cut followed...
And a sixth…
Meanwhile, a strange lethargy began to overtake him; he was so very cold and tired. It occurred to Draco that the victor might not be decided by their tolerance for pain, but by who passed out first from loss of blood. Streams of it ran across his wrist and down his fingers, splashing into a gruesome puddle by his feet. A similar puddle was steadily spreading around Theo's shoes. The carpet was soaked with their intermingled gore.
Theo had to exert some effort to find a bit of flesh wide enough to make a seventh cut, selecting a place between his third and fourth. He released a spray of blood from his rigid muscles.
He's clenching, Draco realized jubilantly, hoping the mistake would be enough to break his adversary.
As he selected a portion of his own traumatized flesh to destroy, Draco's arm twitched, resulting in the Misericorde slicing twice as deeply as the others and leaving a jagged wound in its wake.
"Fuck," he cursed aloud as the pain redoubled. He could feel his breath falter while he bore the agony.
Theo's entire body was shaking as he placed the long knife again onto his forearm. He was pale, sweat dripping into his eyes, his wounds running like repugnant creeks. For a moment, it seemed as if his courage had failed, but with a determined snarl, he slashed at his arm in triumph.
"Best that," he challenged. Even his lips were pale.
Groping for the last vestiges of his strength, Draco could sense his vision dimming and flickering. Feeling a fierce, sick kind of exhilaration overtaking him, he matched Theo's eighth cut and then, spurred on by a sudden apathy for his own well-being, he brought the knife down a ninth time.
The prospect of having to make two cuts – one to match Draco's and another to advance in the contest – seemed to intimidate Theo.
"Yield?" Draco questioned hopefully.
Theo blinked, shook his head unconvincingly, and positioned the knife again, raising the weapon. A spasm distorted his right hand and the Misericorde fell from his grasp, burying itself into the floor. Theo dropped to his knees beside it and he doubled over, pressing his wounds against his belly to attempt to staunch the bleeding.
"I yield."
Draco groped for the chair behind him, knocking the case that had held the weapons heedlessly to the ground. He sunk into the seat with relief, grateful he'd been able to keep himself upright long enough to finish the task.
"Remove the wards," he growled.
Theo's submission was sloppy from his light-headedness, but still effective. Draco could feel a strong desire to allow sleep to overtake him, fighting it tooth-and-nail as he felt the wisps of magic breaking around him as Theo removed the barriers surrounding Nott Estate.
Allowing Hermione to burst into his mind, Draco sensed in her a concentrated fury that she'd been shut out in the manner she had, instantly replaced by worry at the listlessness of his mind.
Nott Estate, he slurred. The blood pooling by his feet had combined with Theo's to make an expansive lake that crept onto the hardwood and slithered along the cracks in the floorboards. Bring Aurors.
Probably the quickest thing Hermione had ever done in her life, was collecting the on-duty Harry and Laurence to bring them to Nott Estate – and that was saying something. Apparently she was sufficiently scary, even to them, for them to storm into a wealthy pureblood's home without a warrant or much explanation at all.
It took Draco two tries to conjure some fabric strips to cover his wounds, vowing to deal with treatment later. He barely yanked his sleeve down in time for Hermione to burst into the room with all the subtlety and grace of a rhinoceros. Laurence took one look at the scene and made a quick cross-like pattern with his wand, sending a request for medical help. "St. Mungo's. Nott Estate, third floor."
Seeing that Laurence was already consoling poor Bindy, who was beside herself, and knowing the medi-wizards were on their way, Harry skirted the twin puddles of blood and approached Nott with his wand ready. Blood issued down in a slow waterfall from where Theo's arm was pressed against his abdomen. He was ashen, barely conscious as he propped his back up against the display case. Harry knelt down by him and pulled the arm away to inspect the damage.
"Merlin, Hermione… his arm."
The gaping crimson slits decorating Theo's arm reminded Draco of fish gills. For some reason, this seemed uncommonly funny to him, but his thoughts were so sluggish, he couldn't resist uttering a small laugh. Hermione's eyes widened, her expression one of terror, as if he'd gone utterly mad.
Instead of screaming like her face clearly indicated she wanted to, Hermione demanded, How much of that blood is yours?
The half of it nearest me. Don't say a word.
What did you do?
Later.
She cast him an inscrutable look, but held her tongue with some difficulty as a medi-wizard arrived to take Theo away. Laurence began to insist that Draco also go to St. Mungo's for treatment, but Draco protested so vehemently that Harry urged Laurence not to push the subject. He'd often seen that same stubbornness in Hermione, and he knew nothing was going to make him budge.
Are we going home? Draco queried hopefully, locking his vision onto her to have something reassuring to focus on.
Nowhere else, she agreed, supporting him from the chair and wrapping his right arm around her shoulders. Then you're going to tell me everything.
