Written for QLFC Round 4
Team: Falmouth Falcons
Position: Beater 1
Main prompt: Roanoke
Optional Prompts:
[au] Twisted Fairytale
[word] Priority
[colour] Pink
Words: 2,609
Draco knew he was going to die.
It was inevitable, given his situation. Few who faced a werewolf lived to tell the tale.
He ran anyway, desperate for escape, for survival.
When he'd been ordered to take the message into the depths of the Forest of Dean and secretly meet a representative of the Russian delegation, he didn't consider the full moon a problem. The werewolves who had sworn fealty to Lord Voldemort were given wolfsbane and knew Death Eaters were off limits. There were no more wolves who weren't loyal to their Dark Lord in England, not anymore.
Or, so he was led to believe. The werewolf chasing him gave him good reason to think otherwise.
Just thirty minutes earlier he'd Apparated to a clearing, waiting for the representative. Draco pulled his dark red cloak around him, shivering in the crisp night air. All the generals in the Dark Lord's army wore them, supposedly signifying the pure blood they were protecting. Though Draco wondered if the color choice was a signal of the blood they spilled, of their leader's uncurbed bloodlust.
"Not a monster," the familiar feminine voice whispered from the corner of his mind, warm with hope. He shook his head, willing himself to forget, to focus.
A crack behind him announced the Russian representative's arrival. Draco turned to see a stocky man holding his wand up in the defensive stand, studying him with a grimace.
"Malfoy?" the man asked, his heavy accent mangling Draco's name.
"Volkov, I presume?"
"Yes." The man gave a nod, his frown deepening. "Sorry to do this to you," he added, before a shot of light from the left, out of the nearby bushes, caught Draco's eye. Draco deflected it, but was too slow to defend from the second attack, a silent spell from Volkov. A horrible pain spread throughout his body, unlike anything he'd been subjected to before, and when he moved to hurl a silent Cruciatus at the Russian, nothing happened.
"What did you do?" Draco struggled to say, his body feeling cold and empty. Even the white hot rage and shame at falling into a trap felt dull.
"You're magic is gone," the wizard said as he stood over him, his head blocking the full moon hung high in the night sky. The statement shattered Draco, his mind swirling with the implications of his magic being stolen. "For now," Volkov added after a few moments. Draco huffed a breath, both thankful his situation was temporary and even more wary of what could happen next.
The rustling of bushes beside him silenced the scathing retort on the tip of Draco's tongue and he searched the darkness. Another man stepped out, tall and gaunt, wearing a sneer.
"We're willing to let you live," a man with a French accent said, "but only if you do something for us." Draco felt the sharp point of a wand poking his throat. "Someone has to show Voldemort that he can't expand his rule into our borders. This campaign of his ends tonight. Will you turn on your master? Help us overthrow him?"
While he hadn't known what to expect, a coup was not on his mind. He weighed the possibilities, knowing this could be a test, a trick from his insane leader. Voldemort found a sick pleasure in playing with his food. But, on the other hand, this could be his first real escape route since the last one he turned down over a year ago.
Draco was standing on a cliffside, staring out at an ocean of unknown variables and consequences.
He decided to jump.
"I'm with you," Draco said urgently. "I can help you." The two men smiled at each other, the white of their teeth gleaming under the moonlight. Draco held his breath as he watched their matching wicked grins.
"Tsk, tsk," the Russian tutted as the other wizard let out a gleeful squeal. "Looks like you have some explaining to do to the Dark Lord."
Draco's stomach sunk; he'd made the wrong choice. The man leveled him with a Cruciatus. Draco opened his mouth to beg, the thought of a bribe forming solidly in his mind, his only shot at turning this around, a growl pierced the silence. The hair on the back of his neck shot up as he stared back up at the moon.
"Merde," the tall man swore. "We need to-" Before he could finish, a beast shot out of the trees and attacked Volkov. Draco shot up and ran into the woods; without his magic, this was the only chance he had to escape.
Draco ran as fast as he could, panting from the effort. His main form of exercise was fighting and sparring, which left his cardiovascular skills lacking. The sudden cracking of branches behind him made Draco look over his shoulder; he could see the dark outline of the werewolf following him. He tried to push himself faster, his breathing becoming heavier and spit pooling in his mouth. The beating of paws hitting the ground grew louder, the beast gaining on him. Tears began to stream down his face as the fear sat in his gut like a rock.
A vicious growl sounded out behind him, too close, and Draco was certain that this was it.
Just as he began to slow, he spotted salvation in the form of a small cabin ahead of him. With the little energy he had left, he sprinted towards it, slamming the door behind him and throwing his body against the door. Draco reached for his wand and pointed it at the door, hopeful that Volkov's death meant his magic was restored.
He sent out a silent Protego, and doubled over in relief when it worked. As he caught his breath, the pain set in. Following the Cruciatus, he was too weak to Apparate without splinching himself. He settled for reinforcing the door with magic and hoping it would hold. As he set up the magical barrier, the werewolf rammed itself into the door.
"Merlin," Draco breathed at the force. "Please work," he whispered, finishing the spell.
As the beast clawed at the door, Draco slid down the wall opposite the door and dropped his head into his hands. Tears welled in his eyes, and for the first time in years, he let them flow freely. He thought about how he got here, the fear that drove him, the mistakes he made.
A memory of Hermione Granger drifted into his head, her chestnut eyes filled with sadness as she analyzed him. They'd met on the battlefield outside of Leeds a year and a half ago. She'd landed a blow - a tripping jinx of all things - that sent him careening onto his back and stood over him, wand drawn.
Draco had closed his eyes and waited, relief bubbling up within him. He didn't want to die, but at least this would be quick and painless. The longer he worked under Voldemort, the less likely his looming death would be so easy. After a few seconds, he realized nothing had happened and he cracked one open. She'd stood still as a statue, studying him.
"What is it, Granger?" Draco had spat, irritation growing. "Did we finally find something you're not good at?" She bit her bottom lip, just like he'd watch her do a thousand times while reading in the library or working on a problem in class. The gears were turning in that famous brain of hers and he wanted them to stop. "Come on!" he'd shouted. "Do it! Kill me!"
"No."
"No?" Draco had asked, incredulous. He'd lurched to get up and she'd inched her wand forward at him again. He'd stopped, resting on the heels of his hands. "What do you mean no?"
"You don't have to do this, be this," she'd pleaded, voice cracking. "I know who you are, Draco Malfoy. You aren't one of them."
"What am I then?" he'd yelled. She shook her head. "Wake up! I am one of them. I'm a monster, Granger. I've always been a monster, this war just pushed me to great new heights." Even he could hear the bitter resignation in his voice.
"You're not a monster," Granger said, tears in her eyes. "You're a person! And people make mistakes. But they also can do the right thing - find redemption. Come with me!"
"No," he said hoarsely, with a sharp shake of his head. "End this!" He welcomed death in that moment; anything was better than the options in front of him.
She dropped her wand and held out her hand, desperation on her face. "Please, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep losing people, hurting people I know."
"Hermione, let's go," a deep voice yelled from behind him. "We've got to go now!"
"The offer stands, Malfoy." Granger gave him a sad grimace.
With a crack she disappeared, and Draco slumped, unsure if he was happy or disappointed to be alive. "Not a monster," he muttered, the words acidic in his mouth.
"Not a monster." The words had haunted him since. Her voice would whisper it to him as he tried not to fall asleep, terrified to wake up the next day. He heard her whenever he was sent on a mission, or when he was forced to listen to Voldemort rant maniacally, his sanity gone along with the last shreds of his humanity. Occasionally, when he'd retreat to the recesses of his mind during a particularly difficult mission, he'd think of Hermione Granger.
He imagined himself being nicer to her as children, or standing up to his late father when he'd been instructed to stay away from the Mudblood. He relieved his Hogwarts days in his head, fixing every mistake he could remember. Sometimes they'd be friends at school, running around in Hogsmeade or studying together in the library. Lately, he'd fallen into fantasies where he'd joined her to stand against the Dark Lord, where he'd been brave enough to take a stand instead of letting his fear morph him into his monster.
He thought of her now, as he sat on the worn down floorboards of the dilapidated shack. "If I make it out alive, I swear I'll change. I'll be better, braver," he whispered to her, wherever she might be, hoping his promises would entice Death enough to let him survive another day. "I'll kill him myself."
The vows did nothing to appease the beast, relentless in its pursuit of him. It clawed at the door, growling in frustration.
Draco groaned, wondering if Granger was even alive, or if he was holding onto the hope that some ghost could hear him. He sighed, and let his mind drift again, wand still trained on the door.
At one point in the night, the scraping stopped abruptly. His head shot up, mouth dry in fear. The only noise was Draco's stilted breath, waiting, sure it would break through the door. Instead, the beast let loose a howl, a haunting sound that ripped through the darkness of the night. Draco shifted back against the wall, wondering who this werewolf was, if they felt as profoundly lonely and hopeless as he did. The beast outside howled again.
"It's okay," he whispered, wondering if the human under the fur could hear him, if he could help soothe their anguish. "I'm alone too."
The silence stretched out and Draco thought the beast walked away.
A loud huff proved him wrong, and the clawing started up again, slower this time. Whining replaced growls, and Draco repeated "it's okay," in his most gentle tone in some twisted attempt to help. He kept his eyes trained on the door where the noise was, heartbeat never slowing.
Hours later the first rays of light rose, peeking through the cracks in the planks of the walls, and the scratching slowed.
Draco opened the door slowly, worried he'd see a wolf staring back at him, teeth bared and poised for attack. Instead the collapsed form of a woman lay on the ground, bruised, broken, and naked. Draco averted his eyes and hurriedly took off his cloak, wrapping her in it. As he bent down and covered her, the woman's wild curls caught his eye. He narrowed his eyes at the familiar bird's nest on the top of her head and tipped up her chin, only to find Hermione Granger's face. Older, and more scarred than when he'd last seen her. But certainly Hermione Granger.
Draco pulled his hand back like she'd never shifted, startled that the witch he'd been talking to had been just outside the door. He mused that in this form she was still as dangerous as the wolf, a terrible choice forming in his mind.
She was a priority target for the Dark Lord's forces, with her proximity to Potter and her reputation for unparalleled brilliance. If he killed her now, he'd be hailed as a hero. Voldemort would forgive his misstep with the Russian in return for slaying not only the Order's Golden Girl, but a unloyal monster.
Yet under the soft pink hue of the rising sun, Hermione Granger was no monster. She was just a person.
And so was he.
Hermione blinked furiously, the bright sunlight pulling her from sleep.
She looked around, unsure where she was or how she got there. Hermione groaned, realizing she was on a floor. This was the first time she'd undergone the process without wolfsbane since being bit six months ago. The Order had run out of supplies and Hermione decided to chain herself down in the Forest of Dean in an effort to avoid anyone she might hurt. She pulled at the blanket around her, struggling to get warm as she tried to remember. She glanced down to see the crimson red color she'd come to fear enveloping her.
"What is this?" she muttered to herself, holding it closer to her face. Realizing it was the cloak of a Death Eater General, she sat up, fully alert now. Her back was aching, her head pounding. She was certain she was scratched and bruised across her body. But she was alone.
A scrap of parchment stuck to the door of the shack caught her attention. Hermione crept toward it, eyes doing another hasty sweep of the small room. She grabbed it, opening it up with shaky hands.
"Person" was the only thing scrawled onto the parchment. She read it several times over before flipping it, searching for any other words.
"Person," she murmured. "Person?" Her brain was racing, trying to make sense of the single word left behind in an unknown place.
Was it a warning? A taunt? A reminder?
And, more importantly, who left it here? Who took care of her before abandoning her with only this mysterious word?
The memory of her begging Draco Malfoy to join them, reminding him he was a person, ghosted across her mind. The day they'd lost Luna and she couldn't handle any more heartbreak - she'd reached out to the man in front of her, the man she knew was scared, and asked him to join them. But he was convinced he was a monster. A rueful smile crossed her lips, wondering who he'd consider the monster now. Hermione pushed the thought out of her mind, knowing the case of Draco Malfoy was even more hopeless than winning the war. Still, she looked down at the red cloak, a small piece of her wishing.
Hermione took the note and folded it neatly, clutching it in her hand. Whatever the intention of the note, she needed the reminder today that she was no monster.
Just a person.