Notes: I apologize that this is a day late. Life happens sometimes. Thank you for your continued interest in this! We're at the end of part one. I can hardly believe it. Very Draco heavy this week, but we'll see plenty more of Hermione in part two.
WARNINGS: Canon violence
12. I, Once Gone, to All the World Must Die
The smell coming from the cauldron is repugnant, enough to make Draco cover his nose and mouth with his discarded jumper. Tom coughs and follows suit.
"This can't possibly be right," Draco manages to say between his teeth, jaw clamped against the stench.
Azure eyes stare daggers through his skull. "You said this one was it."
It takes everything in him not to cross the distance between them, not to open his mouth and let a stream of obscenities fill the air until the noxious odor is eradicated by the strength of his rage.
But he is not angry with Tom. The other boy might strike the flint of his temper with his judgment laden condescension, but he is not the reason they have failed. Of the two of them, Tom is more adept in nearly every facet but this, potions.
Draco grew up at Severus Snape's workbench, a silent shadow at his godfather's side. He learned to brew the most basic of potions before he ever held a wand, before his accidental magic burst through in fits and starts. He knows the powers and properties of a thousand herbs. The best time to harvest knotgrass. The best way to preserve and powder fairy wings. The times to stir one less than suggested and the times to stir several more.
He may not have finished his coursework at Hogwarts—7th year is stale, forgotten yearning in the dusty tomb of his soul—but his potions knowledge is unrivaled by anyone but his mentor.
Draco tries not to think of Severus Snape. Thinking about the man makes him think about Tom's revelation. A revelation that is too dangerous to ponder, let alone understand. Because if his godfather is working for the Order, then everything slips just out of focus, just beyond sense. He watched Severus kill Dumbledore. He heard the old man pleading for his life. But now the picture shifts, morphs into a different type of pleading and leaves Draco understanding nothing at all.
He supposes it doesn't matter as long as he keeps his mouth shut and his mind secure. He is dabbling in something far more dangerous than spycraft.
The potion is bubbling now, the great pustules of gas releasing an even riper sent. Tom gags and Draco finds himself following suit. He stirs the onyx black liquid in the cauldron four times counterclockwise. The bubbling abates and Draco's shoulders relax a hair. It might still be salvageable.
He works through the final steps of the potion with care, making sure not to linger too long or stir too much. The last step, the addition of the unstable syrup of Hellebore, turns the potion a crystal clear, shimmering hue that reminds him of fresh snow sparkling in the sun.
Draco blinks down at the concoction. He has no idea what to expect. There isn't an herb or potion that already exists that serves their purpose. This is the results of hours of clandestine trial and error, working only during the night and only in his private potions lab.
He picks up a porcelain ladle and dips it into the mixture. The liquid shivers and ripples glitter across its surface. Draco fills the ladle and pours its contents into a waiting glass. The potion swirls like frosted confetti.
Draco lifts his eyes to Tom. The azure glow behind the other boy's gaze is electric. The moment catches and holds, pulling their breath into a unified gasp of elation. Tom drops the jumper from his face; the air is crisp now, no sign of the pestilence from before.
"So now what?" Draco murmurs softly, still in awe of the crystalline brew.
Tom's expression turns feral and Draco's heart skips a beat. "Now we test it."
Draco swallows around the growing lump in his throat. He stares evenly back at Tom, meeting the manic energy of the other boy with cool calm. He will not fear this sparkling wonder he created.
And he will not flinch. Not in front of this boy who has consumed all the power between them. Who is at once wonderous and monstrous. Who takes Draco's breath away and fills his gut with dread in the space of a breath. Who is darkness and destruction hidden in the marrow of angelic beauty. He will let him see nothing.
Draco merely nods, and raises a pale brow. "So who will do the honors?"
It was never going to be Tom, but Draco enjoys the illusion of choice, the farce that plays out between them.
Tom gives him an indulgent smile. Perhaps he understands. "Either of us, I suppose. But while you would certainly be missed—I do love that wicked things you've learned to do with your tongue. I find the overall chance of Granger becoming free and us defeating my wayward counterpart to be rather reduced without my assistance. So shall we choose to risk you, a mere cog in the machine, or me, the lifeblood of it?"
Put that way the inevitable choice almost seems reasonable, as if there is no reason Draco's life should ever be held in equal esteem to Tom's. But Draco knows it's a pretty lie. One constructed to sway him to choose his duty to the Order and to Potter over his instinct for self-preservation. And perhaps most importantly, to have him choose Tom. It is a none too subtle reminder of their deal.
Draco isn't sure what truly moves his hand when he brings the glass to his lips. It could be pride, the inability to lose face in front of a boy who controls too much. Or perhaps it is loyalty to Potter and the boy's desperate need to save Granger and the world along with her. Or it is Draco's own need to step beyond the cowardice that has coated his skin in the clammy sweat of the impotent for far too long. Maybe it is none of these.
All he knows is that he swallows the glittering snowstorm, tilting the glass back until even the dregs have passed his lips.
A moment passes and the world remains as it ever was. Tom closes the distance between them, the chiseled planes of his face rigid in anticipation. Draco stares into azure eyes and drifts.
He remembers the churn of the sea at his ankles. The bright laughter of his mother against a backdrop of the deepest cobalt. He remembers the sand beneath his feet, the scratch of it between his toes. The sun is warm, but he doesn't mind with the cool water chasing him across the beach. He falls breathless on a warm towel and grins up into pale grey eyes that mirror his own. His mother kneels beside him and he sighs and does not miss his father.
He lets the warmth of the sun and steady rush of the waves lull him into blissful surrender.
Draco is cold. Colder than a winter night in the wood beyond the Manor. A chill so deep it's as if frigid slush replaced his warm blood. He will never be warm again.
He feels a burning poker against his cheek and flinches back. A murmured set of words garble in his ears and he understands only the presence of sound. The hot poker returns, but the texture is smooth like leather or satin, not scalding metal. He blinks until the world is no longer darkness, but the flickering warmth of a candle.
He quickly realizes the object against his face is no poker or leather, but a boy's calloused fingers, stroking the sweep of his cheek bone. He stares up into eyes that make him want to bare his soul.
Tom smiles and pushes his ebony waves out of his face. "I wasn't sure how long it was going to take."
Draco takes in the canopy of his bed and the familiar comforts of his room. He slowly pushes up onto his elbows. Beyond the devouring cold, he feels normal, well-rested even. His jaw is stiff and it takes a few tries to loosen it enough to ask, "how long?"
Tom's answering grin is blinding and oh so dangerous. "More than enough. Eighteen hours."
Draco bolts upright. "Eighteen hours?"
Tom casts him a censuring look. "Don't worry, no one saw either of us. I can fake your accent well enough to convince them you've come down with something terrible."
Draco lets out the breath he's been holding and collapses back against the pillows. Tom clambers onto the bed next to him and leans over until their breaths are indistinguishable. He runs finger along Draco's jaw before ducking his head and letting his lips follow.
The caress chases away the cold. Draco brings a hand to tangle in Tom's hair and pulls him gently up to his mouth. The other boy's eyes spark with victory as he drags his lips across Draco's. For once, the feeling is mutual. Draco grins against Tom's lips and cants his hips in invitation.
Tom growls, low and primal. Draco's blood rushes south and his hands turn frantic against the other boy's shoulders. The kiss turns messy, all teeth and blood and unrestrained want. Draco whines and slings a leg around Tom's hips, pulling him closer.
He relishes the way Tom's breath hitches, the way he loses just a little bit of his control as he grinds down. Draco wrenches his head back and clamps his teeth around the column of his throat. Tom throbs at the violent caress. He grins against the bruised skin. He may be Tom's instrument, but he is not powerless here. He will be patient, but eventually he will find a way to make the other boy fall apart until there is nothing left between them except sweat and desire. Until this is a game he has won.
Mud splatters chilling and wet across Draco's face, obscuring what little vision he has. He curses and rips the Death Eater mask off. He doesn't hold onto it. The aggressive lines of the skull snap under his heavy boots. He is surprised by the rush of satisfaction the sound brings him, but he doesn't have time to bask in the feeling.
A jet of green light flares to his left and Draco ducks. He sends a glare over his shoulder at the Death Eater who nearly cursed him. The figure shrugs, as if to say, sorry, mate, I just didn't see you there, and ducks back into the haunted web of poplars. Draco ignores the irritation that festers in his gut. He has greater demons to wrangle than the careless spellcasting of his comrades.
He scans the horizon, but sees nothing save the slow swirl of thick fog and the distorted tendrils of the trees beyond. The chill beneath his skin has nothing to do with the cold mud that coats him, dripping in wet globs to the sodden earth below.
He hears his aunt in the distance, her unmistakable cackle splitting the humid night air. He bites down hard on his lip until he has the courage to move toward the unsettling racket. Each step feels like a death sentence, an ending he cannot erase.
He does not stop.
She stands on a boulder, her wand spinning nauseating patterns into the shifting mist. He can't quite make out her face, but he can imagine the disturbed grimace that cuts her hard features. Perhaps in another life Bellatrix Lestrange was as beautiful as her sister, Narcissa, but her lust for blood and chaos carved away any beauty. What remains is an unsettling carcass of sadistic mania. Draco avoids her as often as possible, especially in the heart of battle.
But today is unlike any other day.
He steps forward and she catches sight of him. Her elated croon reaches him from across the clearing, "Baby Malfoy come to play! Baby Malfoy here to save the day!"
Draco sends a perfunctory curse in the direction of the Order combatants. It's hard to tell friend from foe in this hazy meadow, but he knows where the Order ought to be. His spell is a useless petrification hex and he isn't surprised when the barrage of spells directed toward the Death Eaters don't abate.
"You can do better than that, little boy!" his aunt hisses, her voice somehow louder than clash of spells.
He can certainly do better than that, but he isn't trying to prove his prowess right now. No, he's setting up a very different narrative. He fires a more lethal spell, but makes sure it falls wide of its mark. His aunt berates him again, but he's beyond caring what she thinks.
The Order is closing in on them. Draco feels the circle tightening, the Death Eaters subtly shifting until they bump together like a flock of sheep shying away from a wolf. It's not ideal for what comes next, but it will serve his purposes just fine. More witnesses is better, after all.
A branch snaps from a tree above him and Draco dives to the side to avoid the impact. The move makes him the lone sheep. The Order takes full advantage. A painful stinging hex slams into his shoulder and Draco drops to the ground. He rolls through the mud to avoid a blast of green light.
His breath is a mangled cacophony in his lungs. He doesn't think the light indicated the killing curse, but only a handful of spells emit that hue. It takes all his control not to freeze in place and heave the contents of his light dinner into the slop beside him. He crawls forward, using his arms to drag him when his legs refuse to obey. He must have been hit with a paralyzing charm when he wasn't paying attention. His teeth grit together as the pain in his shoulder rises from a dull ache to a razor-sharp bite.
His aunt is screaming obscenities. He can't tell if they're directed at him or at the rapidly encroaching Order members.
Draco hauls himself another arm's length away from the Death Eaters before sagging to the ground. He limbs protest, the oxygen he sucks down hardly enough to sustain his mud-logged flight. A reducto slams into the ground a breath away from his head.
"Get back here, Little Malfoy," his aunt screams, her voice suddenly serious. He doesn't turn to look at her.
He closes his eyes and waits. It is like waiting for the axe to fall at an execution. That he knows what is coming doesn't help. He flinches from every spell that flies, even ones that land meters away.
He still doesn't sense it until the pain tramples him like a herd of hippogriffs. Until the mud around him is more scarlet than earthy brown. He hears his aunt scream, a shrill, inhuman sound that makes his body twitch away. The ferocity of the battle ratchets up, the spells singing above his heaving body basking the clearing in an ethereal glow.
Draco watches the light dance like the northern aurora as the corners of his vision go dark. He lets out a gurgling laugh and tastes blood. So this is how he ends.
The vicious shouts of the Death Eaters seem further away now. Or perhaps he is the one moving. He can't tell. The blood in his mouth flows thicker. He tilts his head to look into the hysterical gaze of his aunt. He gives her an apologetic smile.
Bellatrix Lestrange surges toward him. Draco cracks the capsule clenched between his teeth. The sweetness of the potion is lost in the tang of his blood. He swallows anyway. By the time she reaches him, his eyes have shuttered and all he feels is the warmth of a forgotten sun. He does not hear her primal shrieks, her vow of vengeance. He does not feel the lick of flames as the Order drives her back, his corpse swallowed in a makeshift pyre of flame.
Draco shivers and burrows deeper underneath the emerald comforter. He reaches for Tom, but finds the edge of the bed instead. He gropes blindly, confusion making him clumsy. The blanket that covers him is thin, nothing like the luxury of his plush comforter. He sits up abruptly, the chill embedded within his limbs forgotten. He is not in his room. The bed he rests on is little more than a utility cot.
He glances down at his chest and lets out a strangled yelp when he finds it bare. He runs a hand lower and is gratified to find he still wears his silken boxers. But that's it. No wonder the chill is winning. He pulls the thin blanket off and wraps it around his shoulders.
His teeth are chattering now.
"Here."
He brinks up at Potter. How long has he been here? The boy offers him another blanket and Draco greedily accepts it, wrapping it over the threadbare one. His teeth still clatter, but he feels the slightest hint of warmth begin to spread back through his veins.
Potter sits at the foot of the bed and looks at him, expression indecipherable. Draco fiddles with the ragged threads of the first blanket. Potter watches the trembling of his fingers. "A side effect of the potion?"
Draco nods, not trusting his voice. Potter angles his head and sighs as he runs a hand through his messy hair. Draco imagines the feel of it against fingers. Satin-soft, but coarser than Tom's fine-spun ebony waves. He closes his eyes immediately and concentrates on the shivers still cascading through his body.
"When are you getting her out?"
Of course. The only thing that matters to Potter is Hermione Granger. She is the only reason Potter agreed to help Draco stage his own demise. Draco swallows, his throat caked in ice. He has yet to inform Potter that the rescue plan is no longer under his control. Draco is out and he will be given a rendezvous point via a similar messaging system to the Order's coin when Tom gets Hermione to safety. And even then, knowing their location will depend on Tom's willingness to share.
It is a terrible risk on all fronts, but Draco finds he has no choice but to trust Tom will do the right thing. He does not doubt the dark boy will free Hermione Granger, but he is not sure if they will see either of them after.
He's given up trying to predict Tom. His gut tells him the other boy is not done with Draco yet, that too much now lies between them for Tom to simply abandon him, but it may be wishful thinking.
Potter tsks in annoyance and Draco realizes he hasn't answered the question. "Soon. She'll be free soon. But…"
Dark brows rocket upward and Potter's wand is suddenly jammed into the soft of Draco's neck. "We had a deal, Malfoy."
"You're not the only one who can save her, Potter." Draco's deflecting, but it's the only option he has. Telling Potter about Tom is akin to signing his own death warrant and no matter how much he wants Potter to trust him, to need him, Draco isn't that desperate. He's escaped one master, but he is still beholden to another, equally powerful wizard. He sighs and pushes the wand away from his throat. "It's just bloody complicated, okay? She has to die properly too otherwise there will be too many questions."
"And how is she going to get out?" It's an astute question. One Draco has no good answer to.
Draco stares into Potter's luminous emerald eyes and tells as much of the truth as he dares. "It's been arranged. I'll be in contact when she makes it to safety and not before. Even then, her location will likely be held secure by a fidelius charm. You have to trust me." He drops one hand from the blankets and gestures to the room at large. "I've bloody well trusted you."
He sees the moment the fight leaves Potter, the moment he realizes just how much Draco has placed his life in the Order's hands. The raven-haired boy backs away just enough to settle beside Draco on the bed. It is one of the only moments of peace Draco can recall between them, aside from the white cliffs and the sea.
Draco studies the hollows of Potter's cheeks and the harsh line of his cheekbones. His handsome features are harsher than Draco remembers, the dark beneath his eyes fathomless. He tries to imagine the weight of the world upon his shoulders, the expectation that he give his life for the greater good. His stomach sours. He does not envy Potter.
"Will you miss them?"
For a wild moment Draco thinks Potter means Tom and Hermione, but Potter doesn't know about the odd friendship that has sprung up between the three of them, unlikely and unhealthy though it may be. He cocks his head and Potter must see his confusion because he clarifies, "your friends and family."
Draco almost laughs, bitter and cold, but somehow holds his tongue. The only friend he will miss is Astoria and he drove her away weeks ago. As for family, his mother is no longer the kind woman he recalls from his childhood and his father—well, his father doesn't deserve any type of consideration. He hasn't seen either of them in any capacity beyond formal meals and Death Eater business since the unfortunate business with Astoria. He hasn't had a true conversation with either of them since his return to the Manor following Dumbledore's murder—or was it mercy killing? Draco still has no idea what to make of Snape's role on the tower. He supposes he ought to ask Potter, but now hardly seems the right moment.
Draco's skin prickles under Potter's extended stare. It is less searing than the ravishing flame he feels when Tom lets his azure eyes wander, but it is no less powerful. His heartbeat does an odd jig in his chest and he finds he doesn't mind. Reacting to Potter is so much less complicated than falling to pieces in front of Tom Riddle.
"I don't have any friends, Potter. In case you were unaware, Death Eaters are daft and dull." He pulls the blankets tighter around his shoulders. "And my parents gave up on me ages ago."
Potter slants a curious stare at him. "Then why join at all?"
"Why are you with the Order?" Draco counters, adding, "beyond the obvious you're the savior of the bloody wizarding world malarkey."
Potter starts, his brows raising just a hair before he admits, "it's expected of me. I was raised, groomed even, for this role from the first day I entered Hogwarts."
"I have eleven more years of grooming than that," Draco explains. "It didn't feel much like a choice."
"Fine, but if you're so bloody unhappy with your situation, why were you such a bloody menace in school?" There's a hint of accusation in Potter's tone, but he seems more curious than judgmental.
Draco gives a careless shrug and one of his blankets slips free. Potter reaches out and pulls it back into place without a second thought. Heat rushes through Draco from head to toe. He clears his throat and tries to ignore the glee bubbling inside his veins.
"I was working through a lot of things, Potter. You can hardly expect a teenage boy to act rationally. I had no idea what I felt—about nearly anything. I only knew how I should act, but that so rarely gelled with my true feelings. So I made a spectacle lest anyone see the truth." He lets out a low laugh, heavy with derision. He was such a fool. "And you. I hated you for so many reasons, but the most prominent was that you'd turned me down. The rest… it didn't matter if I didn't have you." It's the closest to the truth he can manage without saying far too much.
Potter's tempting lips turn down in confusion. "But you were a complete ass when we met. The way you treated Ron… I would never have chosen you."
The words don't hurt as much as he expects. Perhaps because Draco agrees. He gives Potter a rueful smile. "I never said you made the wrong choice. I don't suppose I would have chosen me either."
Potter looks pointedly away and tangles a hand in hair. Draco is beginning to suspect he does this when he's nervous, or perhaps merely agitated. He has watched Potter from afar for years, but Draco understands so little about the boy. His past observations lacked context and intimacy, fueled by voyeurism not honest curiosity. He waits silently for Potter to speak.
After long minute filled only by the soft scuff of Draco's fingers against the threads of the blanket, Potter looks at him again. "Do you even believe?"
"Believe what?" Draco is unsure what Potter refers to.
Potter bites down on his lower lip and Draco mirrors the action, imagining the boy's mouth under his. It isn't the least bit appropriate, but he can't help the impulse.
"Blood purity," Potter explains, expectation heavy in his emerald eyes.
Draco wishes he could tell Potter what he wants to hear. But Draco doesn't know what he believes anymore. Tom has warped his reality so completely that he has forgotten entirely about the finer details of the Death Eaters' agenda. He knows Tom's origin story, knows that his great power isn't curbed by the Muggle blood that runs in his veins. Death Eater logic would dictate that Draco's pure Malfoy blood is more potent than Tom's mixed blood, but he's skirmished enough with the other boy to know better. And he knows exactly what that same blood can do—distorted though it may be—in the Dark Lord. He also knows Hermione Granger bleeds a horrible crimson, not a drop of mud to be seen.
Draco chooses his words carefully. "I believe power can be passed down between generations, that ancient lines of wizarding blood are more likely to produce powerful heirs than Muggles. But I don't think it's one way or the other. Magical skill is more than blood or raw power. It's dedication, training and conviction."
Potter cants his head to the side, his eyes searching Draco's face. Draco has no idea what he finds there. Potter merely sighs. "I suppose that's better than nothing." He scrubs a hand through his hair again and Draco's pulse skips a beat or two. Potter's hair is well on its way to being a functional bird's nest when he asks, "would you be willing to still assist the Order?"
This is different than agreeing to help Potter free Hermione Granger. This is a choice that will truly set his course. He has burned his previous bridges to the ground, but is he ready to forge new ones? Is he ready to fully embrace his role as blood traitor? He looks into Potter's eyes and knows he still has no choice. It was already made for him years ago when his heart ripped out of his chest and landed at Harry Potter's feet. It does not matter how much shame he feels or how little Potter knows. It does not matter that he can still feel the brand of Tom's lips on his skin. His answer will not change.
"Yes."