If he'd had the idiocy to stick that Muggle currency they called pennies in his mouth, Draco Malfoy might relate to the analogy about the taste of them and overexertion.
His lungs pounded and protested as his legs did the same against the rough pavement.
Remember, this is not who you are.
He cursed the voice that echoed through his mind and pushed his body further.
It was nearly dawn and he had been at it for over an hour, sprinting heats through the sleeping city. His body carried him as he willed his mind to take the back seat.
This isn't you.
Maybe if his muscles screamed enough they'd drown out the persistent voice. He was still holding out hope, on his near thousandth attempt, that this method would work.
You are good by nature.
He snarled through the sweat streaming down his face at the uninvited and false words. At some point — not this, however — he knew he'd have to accept the soft voice as just another piece of his madness, of him.
Draco slowed to a jog, his heart thundering in his ears and his muscles whining. At this point, with how much he ran, it took hours to reach a scream. He would almost admit that he could understand why Muggles did those pointless races for clout and "endorphins."
He was near the coast and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon to shine its light on the villas dotting the hill. Few cars were crawling at a leisurely pace, and the cafes began to turn their signs to open.
He knew he looked absurd, even deranged. In full-length pants and a turtleneck, drenched, and with his moonlit hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Barefoot and bleeding.
But his humility did not compare to his desire to never appear like an average Muggle overachiever out for an early morning run. Of all the traits he'd lost, stubborn disdain was not one of them.
Sometimes, while staring at the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey, Draco would almost wish he were as simple-minded as Goyle had become. Well, always had been but especially since reintegration. If only he had the forgettable meaty jaw of Goyle and a willingness to do scutwork at St. Mungos, mopping up burst pustules and distributing portioned pumpkin juice cups. He was the poster child of reform. He was harmless and happy.
Whereas Draco was neither.
If he could have oozed his angst, it would paint the sidewalks he now stalked on his way back home. By the way the locals trying to go about their mornings looked at him, he might as well be oozing.
A burning slip of parchment surfaced him from his bitter anger. It rushed at his face before bursting into a shower of ash. A detour, it appeared, was required of him. He slipped his hand up his opposite sleeve and gripped his wand, and was gone with the whisper of a crack.
For the record, he didn't try to conceal himself, and a Muggle had likely seen him. He wasn't sloppy, but more importantly, he did not care and would leave it up to the Muggle(s?) to conclude that it was simply a "glitch in the matrix."
He apparated into the open mouth of a cargo bay down by the wharf. An open door meant he was both expected and welcome. Seagulls circled lazily above, sated already by their leftovers from the fishers who'd returned before dawn. The entrance was littered with old boat engines, rutters, rope, nets, bouys, you name it.
Draco picked his way through the junk trove that went from expected defunct seafaring equipment to a disorganized collection of formerly enchanted artefacts. They were now little more than useless and piled haphazardly upon each other. He made his way up the grated stars and was immediately awash with the stench of sweat and smoke. He had stopped flinching by now, though he took a deep breath before pushing open the rusted metal door to the warehouse's upper holding.
Inside was dark, despite the intentions of the glass ceiling which had been muted over with soot and mold and miscellaneous grime. Dust layered the sparse furnishings — a metal chair here, a rotting desk there, a mattress on the floor. In the far corner was a bath "room" which was really more a sink, a toilet, and a stained clawfoot tub on display to the rest of the open space.
From that tub, a pale arm trailed out.
Draco approached, sinking into dust that muted the echo of his footsteps on the metal floor. He knelt and dipped his fingertips into the tepid water.
"Wouldn't an acid speed up the process, Nott?"
A low chuckle emitted from where Theodore Nott held his chin just barely above the surface of murky water.
"Until you take up my generous offer to curse your shoes to prance forever, I won't hear it from you."
"Fine," Malfoy said mildly, resigned. He was accustomed to this dance of banter and self-destruction, and eventual clear skies when it came to his last remaining ally from his Hogwarts days. "Up you get."
Theo ignored Draco's outstretched hand of support but gripped the sides of the tub with pruned and shivering fingers. With a hunched back, he pulled himself to a passing standing position. Water slicked heavily off his skin and the thin black boxers he wore clung to his thighs.
With a few waves of his wand, Draco vanished the layers of dust, and the mold of the ceiling peeled off and slunk away.
Theo hissed and covered his eyes at the sun shining through, but caught the clean towel Draco flung at him nonetheless. He didn't dry off, merely draped it over his shoulder and stepped from the tub, tracking puddles of water across the floor before sinking into the rusted metal chair. He let out a labored sigh and resumed his vacant slump.
"I'm hurting."
"You don't reckon." Malfoy surveyed his friend and the deteriorated surroundings.
"If you're going to belittle me, Draco, at least comb out my hair when you're done." Theo sounded exhausted.
"You haven't done anything to deserve it." One corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched, tempting a smile.
Theo clutched his chest in act. "You wound me."
"It seems something beat me to it. Is it the same hurt?"
Theo just looked away. "You must not feel it too," he murmured, mostly to himself.
For all the parallel pain they'd been through together, Theo had taken it a lot worse. Draco had been at least somewhat resistant, but Theo was singed on the inside and that rawness broke through every now and again. And every time, that little burning slip of parchment would find Draco.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Theo."
Theo lowered his voice, his eyes now locked with Draco's.
"It's stirring."
So quickly that Malfoy nearly didn't catch it through the haze and shadow, Theo's eyes flicked to the smooth skin of his arm where his Dark Mark had been.
Hermione was relieved that her silent plea of returning to somewhat normal sleep patterns and no unnerving news seemed to have been answered. The following week went as uneventfully as most weeks did and not once was there a line for the red telephone booth. Ron was overseeing Auror recruit training at the Ministry and they even ate lunch together on Wednesday, albeit silently. He hadn't yet spoken to Harry or Ginny since the Leaky Cauldron and Hermione could tell it was gnawing at him — in what way, she did not know, however. Hermione resigned to the knowledge that she was not responsible for repairing his outburst, as Ginny had aptly reminded her.
Come Thursday afternoon Hermione was contentedly entrenched in dictating an annual report on House Elf working conditions and proposed amendments to their rights. That was the case until a frowning Susan Bones gave a hesitant knock on her open office door frame.
"I'm so sorry to bother you, it is somewhat urgent," she cut in.
Hermione looked up. "What's the matter?"
"Well, the thing is — Do you remember the emigration report I sent to you for review? Seemed standard to me as well, you did review and return after all. Except that today I received a stack of profiles that looked exactly like that one. I thought it was just a mistaken reprint at first but gave it another glance." Susan paused to suck in another breath.
Hermione waited.
"Except now everyone on that report — an identical list — is either missing or... dead."
"Everyone?"
"Yes."
"In the course of a week..." Hermione thought out loud.
"I wouldn't bring this to you if I thought it wasn't strange, to say the least, and I expect the investigation will be beneath my authority level."
Susan gingerly placed the updated stack of emigration records — now missing persons and death decrees — on Hermione's already cluttered desk.
"I'm available to review it with you, if that would help..." Susan offered.
Hermione was already thumbing through it, far down the path of self-interrogation trying to recall a point at which she should have noticed something amiss the first time she saw these names and faces.
"No. No, that's quite alright. I'll come to you if I need your help." She was already lost in her mental pin board, scanning for patterns.
Susan left, no stranger to the terse yet respectful professional dismissal.
One thing struck Hermione immediately. This concentration of death and disappearance hadn't happened since the Second Wizarding War. They happened, but not to this degree and with such commonality in circumstance.
All emigrating from Great Britain across the globe, and all winding up... lost.
The other thing that struck her, though not so immediately yet with almost more horror, surprisingly, was how young quite a few of the Lost (she would refer to them) had been.
It didn't take the brightest witch in one's year to see that something dark was at play, something so plainly and obviously dark. She took no pride in that deduction.
That was the final thing she allowed strike her — after she'd read each file in its entirety once then twice and everyone in the office had left and her green lamp was the only remaining light — was that it was too obvious, screamingly so.
It felt like being given a blank piece of paper and told to color within the lines. It felt as though she was being mocked. She rolled her eyes at herself over her dramatic inner assessment, but that didn't change the feeling.
As she gathered the strewn profiles back together, ready to bring them home to pour over some more, her eyes caught on the stamp at the bottom of the profile for one Althea Scrub.
Missing.
As she lay in bed that evening facing a softly snoring Ron, she traced her fingers across his pouting lower lip, wondering how long he'd been missing too.
A/N: a shorter chapter, but all that really needs to be said here. This is my first fic so I'm just happy you're giving it a chance! Hope you're enjoying it if you've made it this far.