Chapter Twenty-Four
Ah. The MI6 office. The top-secret place Draco was under no circumstances allowed to visit, and a place where Draco would never expect himself to be unless if he was being brought inside in chains. Well, his prediction certainly came true.
Draco woke up to the biggest migraine he'd ever had in his life and an awful flavor in his mouth that tasted suspiciously like blood. The throbbing in his head was bad enough that he was more than ready to sink right back into unconsciousness, but he forced himself to remain awake. He didn't know where he was. It was really cold. And it was better to be attentive and alert for whatever came next.
Draco opened his eyes with a wince. The room was incredibly bright, illuminated by harsh white lights that did absolutely nothing for his headache. Shadows pulsed nauseatingly in his vision, but gritting his teeth, he refused to shut his eyes until bit by bit, they adjusted enough for him to see his surroundings clearly.
He was in an interrogation room, and was seated at a steel table. He lifted a hand to rub at his face, but heard the clink of metal, and realized that his hands were cuffed, the chains looped through a link on the tabletop. There was an empty chair across from him, and the wall before him was a two-way mirror, no doubt for his friends to monitor him, but when he saw his reflection…
God. He looked like hell. The entire left side of his face was swollen into a massive bruise that was in a rather majestic shade of purple against the sickly pallor of his skin, and the shadows under his eyes made him look as if he hadn't slept for a month. Which, as a nightclub manager, could attest firsthand. His long-sleeved shirt had been stripped off, leaving him in a tank top, and of course, the dragon tattoo was in full display.
"Hello?" Draco said. His voice rasped painfully in his throat. "It's really cold. Can I have a jacket?"
There was no response.
"No?" Draco sighed. "I thought so,"
It wasn't a complete lie. It really was cold, and a jacket would have been lovely. But mostly, more than anything else, he wanted to cover up the dragon on his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror again, and with it the tattoo, and turned away. It was once a symbol of salvation and hope. Now, it was no different from the Dark Mark on his forearm, a brand of his crimes.
The door at the side of the room opened, and Draco glanced up to see Dean walk in. His heart leapt for a moment at the sight of a familiar face, only to fall when he saw his expression. Dean's features were terrifyingly impassive, lips pressed and eyes cold, and there was a distance between them that made Draco feel as if they were nothing more than mere strangers. He took a seat at the chair opposite to him, every movement wary, and placed a folder on the table between them.
"What is it?" Draco asked cautiously.
"We searched your apartment," Dean responded. His voice was flat and devoid of emotion. He jerked his chin at the folder. "We found evidence in your apartment. The pistol you used to kill Quirrel and Macnair. Garroting wire for Yaxley. An impressive array of poisons and toxins. And, of course, the dragon brand you used on your victims."
For a second, all Draco could do was to stare, his brain struggling to comprehend what Dean was saying. Then, it sank in, and he tore open the files, flipping through the pages furiously. There were documents on his background, papers on his activities, and the photographs of his apartment… A pistol hidden in his clothes. Hunting knives in his box of paints. A collection of poisons tucked in his kitchen drawer. Clear evidence of his crimes as the Dragon Killer… except for the fact that he was not the fucking Dragon Killer!
Owning a firearm was illegal in China, and he was a good law-abiding citizen. There were no places to hike in Shanghai, nor was he a particularly outdoorsy person, so he did not own any hunting knives whatsoever. Admittedly, he did have a vial of aconite he kept with him at all times for protection just in case if people from his past or the underworld came for a visit, but he most definitely did not own enough toxins to poison an army of elephants.
In that moment, seeing those papers and photographs… Draco was torn between wanting to laugh in disbelief at this stick stupid joke and crying in rage and frustration. To him, it was glaringly obvious that he had been framed. But would the MI6 believe it?
"I know this sounds ridiculous," Draco leaned forward urgently, "but I didn't do it."
"I'd love to believe it as well, but with the sheer amount of evidence…" Dean leaned back, away from him, and shook his head bitterly, "I can't believe it, Draco. We trusted you. We thought you were on our side."
"I am!" Draco yelled. He slammed his fists on the table, his chains jangling, and Dean jumped back. "I-"
Draco choked. He had been more than ready to scream that yes! He was on their side, he had always been on their side, he had never betrayed them, and he was not the Dragon Killer! But when he reacted, Dean recoiled, and in that second, his mask slipped. The cold façade collapsed, and all Draco saw was disgust. Revulsion strong that it made him feel as if he was nothing but a little worm covered in filth, a worthless traitor on his hands and knees mewling pathetically for mercy he didn't deserve.
Draco fell silent.
"Fuck, I can't do this," Dean stood up, struggling to school his features back into neutrality, but it was clearly a losing battle. Without another word, he stormed from the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Draco was once again alone in the room.
He exhaled shakily. All of a sudden, it felt as if he were back in the halls of Hogwarts, with Graham Montague asking him for a loan. The disgust on his face… it was awfully similar to Dean's expression of loathing a moment ago…
No. He couldn't dwell on the past. He had left it behind, and he refused to look back. Draco buried his face in his hands, trying to dislodge the memories, but the expressions of disgust were frighteningly similar and refused to leave his mind.
The door opened. Draco glanced up, blinking against the lights and grateful for the distraction from his thoughts. His vision cleared and when he saw who had entered… god. He hated how his heart leapt when he saw that familiar silhouette and how his eyes lit up when he saw those glasses and that familiar head of unruly black hair. And how they refused to weaken or dim, even when Harry's features were impassive and those beautiful green eyes distant and cold.
Harry took the seat across from Draco, his arms crossed and jaw clenched, eyes averted and refusing to meet Draco's gaze. Which was just as well. Draco didn't know if he could bear to have Harry look at him like that.
"How's Cho? And Parvati?" Draco asked quietly.
"Cho's devastated," Harry responded flatly. "Parvati's furious. But we all know that she's also really hurt."
Draco nodded. He didn't want to imagine the pain he must have caused. He glanced up. Harry was staring stonily to the side.
"Harry," Draco said. "I'm not the Dragon Killer."
Harry did not respond.
"The moment you brought me into this case, you've been with me nearly every single day. And after that meeting with Lestrange, you're practically my bodyguard. The only time I don't see you is when I'm in the restrooms," Draco continued. He didn't know if it would work or not, but he had to try. "Killing Death Eaters is a messy business, and you would have suspected that something was wrong a long time ago, not just recently. I've been framed, Harry. It's awfully bizarre, isn't it, to have so much evidence showing up suddenly and so obviously in my apartment?"
Draco reached out, his chains clanking. A foolish, desperate part of him hoped that Harry might listen. That he'd still care, that he'd believe Draco to be more than his past, that he'd know that Draco would never in his life ever willingly hurt or put anyone in danger ever again. But through it all, Harry remained silent, his face turned away and features shadowed.
"You don't believe me," he said weakly. His hands fell back.
"You killed Cedric," Harry said. His voice was like ice. "I can't forgive that."
Draco glanced up. Those clear green eyes weren't filled with disgust or revulsion or hurt or betrayal. Instead, it was something harder. Something colder. The apathetic justice of a judge handing a criminal his sentence, the emotionless executioner letting the axe fall upon the chopping block.
No. Please, no. Draco searched Harry's face, hating his desperation, but more than anything hoping to see some recognition or sympathy, or anything at all! The long arguments over the most trivial things that always end with them laughing their heads off. Or the late nights spent tracking down leads on the Dragon Killer where they'd stumble home weary, or the early mornings spent in front of cafés, eagerly awaiting their daily cup of caffeine. Their fights, their insults, their apologies, their encouragements. Their laughter, their grief, their friendship, their trust….
But there was nothing. Harry's features remained cold. And in that moment… Draco knew that the Harry sitting before him was no longer the Harry that loved him, but a stranger. A stranger who could never forgive him for the lies and betrayal and for killing their closest friend. A stranger who wholly believed without a flicker of doubt that he was the Dragon Killer.
"The case will be handed over to the main MI6 office. My superiors will take care of you, and… I suppose this might be the last time I will see you." Harry said. He stood and picked up the folder on the table between them. He glanced at Draco, jaw clenched and lips pressed, and for a moment, he hesitated. But it passed just as quickly as it came. He turned away, and there was nothing but frost in his voice as he said, "Goodbye, Malfoy."
With that, he strode from the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and Draco was once again alone.
Draco didn't know how long he sat there unmoving. A part of him knew that he should be trying to figure out who the real Dragon Killer was, what were his motives, and why in the fuck he was framed, but honestly… god, he was tired. He was just so tired. Whatever fear or desperation or confusion he had earlier faded into a deep exhaustion that weighed down every inch of his heart and soul, but through it all, he knew that he only had himself to blame.
He never should have befriended them. He never should have trusted them. He didn't blame them for turning on him. Truly. With the sheer amount of evidence in those folders, any sane person would have believed him to be the Dragon Killer. But he blamed himself, because he might not have known how things would turn out, but with the tattoo on his shoulder, knew from the very beginning that it was never going to end well. They were going to leave him eventually. And if he, perhaps, had not trusted them, it might not have hurt so much.
Draco smiled bitterly. When he was young, he put his trust in his friends, but when he needed them the most, neither of them lifted a finger to help. He thought he'd grown up, that he'd be wise enough to never trust again, but he did. And when he needed them the most, they stood aside and watched him fall. There was no denying it. He was alone, and would always be alone.
The doors opened. Draco lifted his head wearily, expecting it to be whatever MI6 officer ready to drag him out in chains and sentence him to a lifetime in Azkaban, but instead… Draco's eyes widened in shock. It was a familiar silhouette. A tall and slender frame dressed in a sleek black suit, chocolatey skin a sharp contrast against the harsh whiteness of the room, and a face lifted high and cold and aloof.
It was Blaise.
"Blaise?" Draco said blankly.
Blaise inclined his head. "Draco."
"What are you doing here?" His migraine, which had faded temporarily in his moment of depression, came back forcefully enough that he actually had to pause for a moment to rub his temples before the pain receded just enough for his brain to somewhat function. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you head back to England a month ago?"
"Perhaps," Blaise strode over and took the seat opposite to him. Glancing at him, sitting there so sleek and polished with that frosty pride and arrogance, Draco suddenly felt like a mess. Which he probably was.
"Yeah," Draco managed. He frowned. "This is the MI6 office. How did you get in? Did Harry invite you in?"
"That idiot? Of course not," Blaise scoffed. "MI6 security is pathetic. They have no clue I'm here. If they want to upgrade their systems, they really should take some tips from the Death Eaters. Breaking into Carrow's safehouse? Now, that was a challenge."
Wait. Death Eaters?
Draco felt what little blood he had on his cheeks bleed from his face as he came to the conclusion…
"Yes, Draco." Blaise smiled thinly. "I am the Dragon Killer."