Note: See the end note for the trigger warning (spoiler) in this chapter. Don't read it if you have no triggers.
Back on the mat again. The players around Hermione were puffing, grunting, yelping in pain when they received punches, slaps, or got knocked over. Trainer Rathmore was barking orders on the centre mat again, saying stuff like anticipating the moves, calculating the footwork, keeping the arms up and ducking. There weren't practising specific moves. They were just doing hand-to-hand combat.
The other Trainers—Crane and Malfoy—were walking between the rows of mats, observing their moves. Throwing remarks. Interrupting to demonstrate. Keela, once again, was in a corner of the room, belly flat on the ground. Her head was laid on her front paws, but she wasn't sleeping.
Rathmore hadn't specified anything about the pairings, so Hermione had scurried to Reine. Reine hadn't seemed pleased, but she said nothing.
Now, for the eleventh time, Reine got her in an armlock, knees on the ground. The side of her face was pressed against the mat, the pressure in her articulation hard enough to make her wince.
"You're not focused," Reine hissed.
No, Hermione wasn't focused. She hadn't slept. When she had looked at herself in the mirror this morning, she could barely recognise her face. The bruises under her eyes had darkened since yesterday, spreading on the side of her nose like purple butterfly wings.
She was trying her best to avoid looking at Malfoy. All she felt like doing was lock herself in a room with him and ask him a thousand questions. Talk about Mr. Lovegood. About Theo. About Voldemort. About her parents.
"Get up," Reine said, not helping her.
She knew Reine was way stronger than her. She also had the feeling Reine was angry at her, and that's why she had chosen to pair up with her. She knew Reine wouldn't go easy on her like Cho did.
They hadn't spoken since the first game. Truth be told, they weren't on speaking terms that much. Hermione wanted to change that, but she didn't know why. She wasn't supposed to make friends with everybody, but she couldn't accept very well the fact that someone didn't like her.
Reine had gone through her own trauma during and after the game, and they hadn't spoken about it. Were they supposed to share their feelings about that?
"Your moves are too predictable." Reine glared at her.
They started circling each other.
"You're angry at me," Hermione said, fists raised at chin level. "For some reason."
Reine swiftly lunged at her, and she dodged clumsily, almost tripping on her own feet. "Focus." Her tone was sharp and icy.
She leapt to throw a punch, and Hermione's heart jumped. She closed her forearms in front of her face, receiving the blow smack on the bone.
Hot, blearing pain numbed her arms.
Reine didn't lose a beat, ducking and swiping her leg under her feet to make her fall.
Hermione's back slammed on the mat, sending stars exploding in her skull. Next thing she knew, Reine was straddling her, her stony arm lodged against her throat. Hermione squirmed under her weight.
She brought her face close to hers. "What really happened to David?" she whispered-hissed.
Hermione blinked. So that what this was about?
"I-I don't know," she squeezed out.
"I saw what happened during the race," Reine continued, words spiked with accusation. "What he did to you."
"Yes, but—"
"Did you kill him?" Her arm pressed harder against her throat, crushing the air out of it in a gurgle.
Hermione reached for Reine's arm on her throat, trying to pull it off. It remained unmoving, solid as a tree stump fallen over her. The blood kept pooling in her head. The wrestling sound around her faded slightly. She stopped squirming and pinned her bleary eyes on Reine.
What she saw troubled her.
Pain, and grief, and a tinge of fear.
"I'm… sorry you… lost your friends," she managed to croak. She thought of all the times she had seen Reine hang out with David and Luke. They couldn't have been that close, but maybe they had formed a bond.
Reine's face changed, and her grip slackened.
"Player 50, remember this is just training." Malfoy's voice was beside their mat, his elongated shadow covering Hermione's face.
Reine released her at once and jumped on her feet, and Hermione gasped for air.
"She is not focused," Reine explained. "She is not challenging me."
"Is that so?" Malfoy said flatly. His hands were joined at the back. His gaze fell on her. "Forty-One, on your feet."
Hermione scrambled up, not caring how weak she looked. She glanced back at him, and something passed between them.We'll have to keep appearances. It's what he had said, wasn't it? I need to be your Trainer. And you need to be number 41.
Fine, she could embody her number.
That was her whole identity now anyway.
She was surprised to see him sidestep to take Reine's place on the mat. Facing her.
"Fists up," he ordered.
She looked around. Nobody was paying them attention. So this wasn't uncommon Trainer behaviour, then.
She centred her fists in front of her.
"Widen your stance," he said. Before she could do it, his feet pushed against the inside of hers, nudging it to the side. He stepped back, assessing her posture.
The intensity of his eyes on her was making her feel hot under her uniform.
"Now, punch me," he said. He wasn't even in a defensive stance. Like he wasn't worried in the slightest.
She dashed to him, throwing a weightless punch with her left arm, hoping it somehow found its way to his face. He lazily—and slowly—dodged.
"Again." His voice was low.
She did it again, with her right fist. He sprang to the side, evading her.
Then he glanced at Reine. "I see what you mean." Back at her. "Strike me in any way you're able to. Now."
She was tired. Her head was hurting. Her throat was scratchy. She wished to retreat back in her room, and return to the stiffness of her cot.
Nonetheless, she gathered her will and pitched herself forward. Her punch pierced the air. Air only. Malfoy was sidestepping every move she made. She tried uppercuts. Side punches. Kicks. She tried an armlock, but he skirted out of her grip with ease, slipping from her reach.
The soles of her feet were aching.
After two minutes of unsuccessful attempts at landing even one strike, she lowered her arms, chest heaving.
"You're giving up?" Malfoy scolded. His tone was authoritative, but his eyes were everything but.
She didn't give him an answer—didn't think he was expecting one.
He nodded once, pursed his lips. Reine had watched their uninteresting and uneventful grapple.
"Here's what's wrong." He pinned her down with his stare, then his eyes flitted to Reine. "Make sure you listen too." Back to Hermione. "You're slow. Your punches are sloppy. You dive head-on with a blow hoping it will land, but when it doesn't, you interrupt the momentum. You stop moving."
"I don't understand," she said bluntly.
"Always, always keep your body moving when you're fighting someone. If your first blow doesn't land, try another one, anything else, right away. Crowd them, get in their space, don't give them a chance to strike back."
I don't want to fight anyone, she thought. She lifted her heavy-lidded eyes to him.
"Work your feet," he continued, "keep a wide stance to maintain your balance. And never,everfight on the ground. You'll be vulnerable—especially someone your size. You'll lose in seconds."
She nodded, although her brain was scrambling to register every piece of advice.
"If I'm honest, Forty-One, you'll need…additional work." He narrowed his eyes at her, hoping she understood.
She did. She'll have to train more. In the Room of Requirement.
"I got it," Reine said, as if he had been speaking to her the whole time. She got back on the mat, facing Hermione.
Malfoy lingered for a few fleeting seconds, watching Hermione. Making sure she understood. Making sure oxygen was still flowing in her lungs. A look heavy with meaning and understanding. The warmth of it was so striking she had to blink away, feeling something tug at her chest.
He was there to help her.
He was trying, like he had said he would, to keep her alive.
He wasn't the enemy. Not the real enemy.
The first spike of a foreign emotion unfolded in her, slowly thawing her numb mind, her numb feelings, her numb everything.
Four days passed, and the whole Empire's games staff—Voldemort, Death Eaters, Gamemasters, Trainers and High Scavengers included—were summoned for the first game roundup at Town Hall, after dinner. Only a few Death Eaters remained in the castle to monitor the players' whereabouts.
Theo wasn't back from Watford.
The roundup was meant to discuss the statistics—number of players dead, players with the most bets, percentage of spectators that bought binoculars, or placed bets, or bought their second game's ticket. Everything related to the game went. It was the perfect occasion to criticise the Trainers for the performance of the players, or to scold Gamemasters for killing a player too softly in the Arena.
In general, Voldemort made personal comments here and there without interfering too much. He hissed at the right moments, ridiculed this or that, and took his leave early, trusting Yaxley and Dolohov to complete the roundup.
Tonight, however, Voldemort looked interested, red eyes gleaming with violence and thrill. As Yaxley was presiding over the meeting, facing the rows and rows and rows of chairs with dark-clothed figures sitting rigidly on them, Draco had been listening to the entire thing for once. He hadn't dissociated like he used to.
Keela was with him, laying under his chair on her stomach. Head between his feet. She had been quiet the whole time.
The roundup numbers?
The first game had killed 19 players out of 49.
Three players had died following the game—number 31 (suicide by stabbing), number 11 (murdered by 31) and number 48 (suicide by triggered tattoo).
There had been a total of 29,309 spectators, which surpassed their biggest edition. The fifth edition had been the greatest so far, because Undesirable Number 1, Ron Weasley, enemy of His Holy Established Empire, had played.
For the first game, 38% of spectators bought binoculars—most of them already had a pair from the previous years.
57% of them placed bets.
46% of those bets had been on number 41. Granger.
"However," Yaxley's eyes rose from his parchment and skidded across their faces, "we received many, many comments that they were expecting number 41 to be more… skilful." His stare fell on Draco, sitting in the third row along with his fellow Trainers. "We heard disappointment."
At this, Voldemort's face hardened, and his eyes darkened with a chill, calculating coldness. His tongue swiped across his front teeth under his upper lip.
A tense silence filled the room, and Draco's throat constricted with nerves, his palms clamming up. He wiped them on his knees. He had many fucking things to say. For once, that player Forty-Fucking-Eight had almost killed her.
"We will not discuss this in group furthermore," Yaxley added coldly. "But, Trainer Malfoy and Trainer Crane, you are expected to remain in your seats after this meeting. We'll discuss this together."
Draco frowned and swivelled his head to the left, across Zabini, catching Liam's confused eyes. Trainer Crane? Why both of them?
Zabini elbowed him, mouthing what the fuck?
A foreboding feeling settled in his insides, creeping up his spine.
A thousand theories rocketed in his mind. Maybe they wanted Crane and he to exchange bands. Maybe Crane would be the one to train Granger, now.
He tightened his fists, and half-listened for the rest of the roundup, which wasn't long. He heard splinters of advice. Morsels of useless statistics that meant absolutely nothing.
Then everyone was standing up, filtering out of Town Hall.
Draco caught Zabini's eyes across the room. Something passed between them, a silent interaction that maybe was all in his head.
I'm fucked.
Don't be so dramatic.
Zabini disappeared. Yaxley remained at his place, monitoring the room as it emptied out. Voldemort was sitting in his chair, and Nagini was draped across his shoulders, long neck reaching upward to twist around the throne's intricate backrest.
At last, Town Hall was empty and quiet.
"What's this about?" Liam asked.
Yaxley gave the tiniest smile and crossed his hands behind his back. He looked at the Dark Lord before bowing respectfully. "They're all yours, my lord."
"Thank you, Yaxley. If you could please clear the chairs." Voldemort unfolded from the throne, black robes pooling around his bare white feet, and walked to the front of the room where Yaxley had stood. "Step forth," he directed at them. His wand was in his hand, although he wasn't clutching it.
They weren't told twice. Their chairs scraped on the floor, and Draco and Liam stood before the Dark Lord, side by side. Keela jumped to her feet and followed her master quietly, deciding to stay a few steps behind him.
Not sitting. Watching. Listening. She acted like Draco's personal bodyguard, and he fucking loved it. Because he could do the same with her. They shared a powerful bond, strengthened by trust and respect.
Yaxley had waived his wand, doing the house-elves job, and casted a spell on the chairs that began stacking by themselves. Row by row, chair by chair, stacking up, and pushed to the sides. Widening the space.
Draco kept his stare trained on a wrinkle at the corner of Voldemort's lips. Not quite meeting his eyes. Wondering what he did wrong. No, he knew but—wondering where it went wrong. Did Voldemort overhear anything?
Or was this all about Granger? Again?
About her not generating enough fucking money for them?
And Liam… Why?
At last, Yaxley finished his task and retreated to a corner of the room, out of Draco's line of sight. Yaxley's rise in Voldemort's ranks had happened quite fast over the years. Bellatrix had died in some way during the Battle, and the Dark Lord had quickly searched for his next second-in-command.
"What have you heard tonight, Liam?" Voldemort asked with a breathy voice, pacing in front of them.
Liam cleared his throat. Took a second to think. "The numbers are good, my lord. We were expecting more suicides, but they didn't happen."
Voldemort hummed. "What haveyouheard tonight, Draco?"
He inhaled, imbuing his voice with firmness. "Numbers are good, but the bets could have been better." He knew what the Dark Lord wanted him to say. "My lord."
"Yes, yes…" Voldemort sighed, before unfolding Nagini off his shoulders. He laid her on the floor, where she stayed curled around herself and watching them with unblinking eyes. "That… golden player of ours."
The room seemed to cool by several degrees. The Dark Lord stopped pacing and faced them, piercing glare settling on Draco.
He closed his mind, occluding. Refusing to show him anything.
But Voldemort wasn't prying. There was no presence knocking at the entrance of his mind. Still, his stomach churned.
"Not so golden, is she?" he hissed.
Draco's head bowed slightly. "I'm doing everything I can, my lord."
Voldemort hummed again, and his eyes tightened. Flitted to Liam and back to him. "Fight him."
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm asking you and Liam to fight. Right now."
Both Trainers looked at each other, not really understanding. "What… kind of fight, my lord?" Liam asked, brow furrowed and betraying his confusion.
"Wandless," Voldemort commanded, cold as a corpse. "I want to see you two fight each other until one of you surrenders or is unable to."
Seconds passed, frigid. The Dark Lord stepped back, leaving them even more space in the middle of the room. Draco and Liam looked at each other again, tension seeping through both their features. Slipping past their usual wall.
"Now," Voldemort ordered.
Draco immediately looked at Keela, too close to them, and pointed at the left corner of the room. "Go sit." He whistled to punctuate his order, and she looked at him interrogatively, tilting her head. "Go," he repeated more firmly, snapping his fingers.
She whined slightly and walked away but didn't sit.
Liam took out his wand and reached out his hand. Draco placed his own wand in the palm of his hand, and Liam placed them on the ground, out of reach.
They were both wearing their Trainer's uniform. Draco had fought with Liam before, multiple times, for training purposes. Liam was slightly older than he was, but not exactly stronger than him. He just had this vigorous blow and unbelievable fast and unpredictable footwork that made him the best hand-to-hand fighter in the Empire.
So, no—he didn't want to fight him until he was unable to.
"Come on, Malfoy," Liam chided, already smiling. Like this was a joke. "I'll go easy on you."
Draco lunged first, not surprised when Liam dodged, quick as a cat. But he pivoted and immediately engaged in close combat, not letting him get the upper hand.
Strike with his left fist—missed.
Liam countered with a quick jab. Gripped his shoulders, and knee-kicked him in the chest.
The air left his lungs, but he wrapped his arms around Liam's body. Pushing with all his might. His uniform smelled like sweat. Liam had to back a few steps, but attempted a headlock that Draco saw coming.
He drew away, sending his foot kicking right behind Liam's knees. He buckled under the blow, and Draco took advantage. Sending his knee directly in his face.
Liam's blood splattered on his uniform, and he growled low in his throat. Stepped on his feet. Draco noticed the change of light in his eyes. The shift in his intentions.
Blood was running from his nose but his murderous glare pinned Draco down before he dashed at him, reaching for his throat. Draco instantly slammed his elbow into his forearms to bend them, and Liam leant forward.
Draco headbutted him.
A yell of pain wailed out of Liam's mouth, and his hands covered his face. Draco briefly glanced at Voldemort, wondering if he'd make them stop. If this was enough.Clearlyhe had the upper hand, there was no need to—
Liam's bloody fist connected with the side of his jaw. Pain exploded inside his mouth as he bit his tongue—hard—and hot blood pooled in his mouth. He spat. The side of his face burst into throbbing flames.
Keela barked warningly. "I'm fine, Kee," he called, blood staining his teeth.
He swiped the back of his hand against his mouth. Eyes casting up to his fellow Trainer.
Liam looked horrible—wicked smile, crimson-covered teeth, cruel eyes.
Something in Draco snapped. Wiped clean.
He hurled himself at Liam with a beastly grunt, his conscience withdrawing in the back of his mind. Not even blinking. The impact of his weight against Liam's hard body made them both tumble down. Hitting the floor like a heap.
A light went off in Draco's mind. No thoughts. No questions. No calculations.
All that were left were sensations. Instincts. And a blur of colours.
Liam's face swelling. Purple and flesh and blue.
Draco's knuckles splitting open. Bleeding.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
Hitting until Liam's body slackened under him.
Until he heard another bark.
Loud and clear, ringing in his mind.
He stopped moving, blinking reality back into focus.
A German shepherd. A dog, his dog, was watching him intently, a few feet away. She was slightly leaning forward, growling with warning but not showing teeth.
Then he felt pain. A throb crawling into his hands, numbing his knuckles, his fingers. He realised he was sitting—no, straddling Liam Crane.
Oh, fuck.
"You did well, Draco," Voldemort praised behind him.
But he couldn't take his eyes off Liam. The constellation of blood on the floor. Bleeding nose. Bleeding lip. Eyebrow arch gaping open. Both eyes swollen shut, splotched with bruises. His jaw was slack. A faint puff of his chest proved he was still breathing.
Draco jumped on his feet, horrified. Tried to locate his wand. Keela had gotten closer to him, whimpering with sadness, licking his bleeding hand. Her tongue was hot and soothing.
"Don't bother, Draco," Voldemort said, satisfaction brightening his features. "Yaxley, if you could please bring our guest in and take Liam out to the Healers."
"Of course, my lord." Yaxley disappeared in the blink of an eye.
"I-I don't understand," Draco stammered, heart beating wildly in his chest. His jaw was hurting, his hands were aching. He touched the top of Keela's head, trying to focus on the texture of her fur. His lungs were starting to get small.
Liam moaned and squirmed weakly. Like his everything was broken.
"Leave that mutt alone while I'm talking to you," the Dark Lord commanded, his nostrils flaring with anger.
Keela closed her mouth with a wet sound and Draco shushed her away. She stepped back, again—hazel eyes always darting back to him, her master.
Yaxley reappeared in the room.
Draco's mind went blank. Anger surged in his veins.
She was here.
Yaxley had brought Granger. In Town Hall.
"Thank you," Voldemort said, and it sounded like a purr.
She was looking around her, looking frightened. Her brown eyes were wide with confusion, trying to read the scene before her. He saw the anxiety spiking in her system as she realised she was just mere feet away from the Dark Lord.
Her eyes skittered around the room, her arms tightened around herself. He saw the change, the worry, in her eyes when she looked at his hands. Her hair was damp, darkening the uniform where they fell.
Their eyes locked and an understanding passed between them. He hoped so.
She had better not say a fucking thing.
"What is this about?" he asked, not caring how his voice sounded low, demanding.
He hadn't noticed Yaxley take Liam away.
Voldemort's lips curled with a knowing smile. "Tell me, Draco, this is the mudblood you have been training?" He started pacing again.
He didn't look at her. "Yes."
"Can you tell me, please, if her arms and legs are functioning as they should?"
His brows twitched. The tang of metal still coated his entire mouth. "Yes."
"So, you are telling me that the mudblood is well-fed and all of her limbs are functioning as they should?"
He drew a sharp breath. "My lord, I truly apologise if number 41 hasn't been performing up to expectations."
Voldemort hummed. Composed. Calm. "Yes, I suppose you are." A short pause. He suddenly pivoted, looking at Granger. Examining every inch of her body. He inhaled, slowly, like he could soak in her smell.
His pale face crinkled with disgust. "She's nothing."
Draco kept his focus on him. Decided it was best not to reply to that.
"You and Liam are the best Trainers we have," the Dark Lord continued, gaze falling back on him. "Possibly the best since the Empire started."
He hesitated. "—Thank you, my lord."
"Tonight, I needed to see who truly was the best. Because you see, Draco, we need the best to train this mudblood."
He blinked, his eyes sinking to a point on Voldemort's chin. "I'm… already her Trainer, my lord."
"Yes, yes…" Voldemort sighed theatrically. "But she wasn't quite enough, was she? Not quite ready. We promised our loyal audience a golden player. Instead, they got… this. A weak, struggling shell."
His heartbeat slammed against his ribcage. It was a surprise that nobody seemed to hear it. But Keela felt it, because she whined, sounding like a feeble whistle.
His eyes hadn't slid back to Granger. "I'm sorry."
"We will have to change our strategy, Draco. I have decided to remove you from your Trainer duties."
His heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry?"
"The mudblood will be removed from her band, and you will train her personally. Not with the others. She can't get better with the other weaklings wearing numbers. She needs the ultimate training experience and she will have it."
No.
No,no—
"Should Liam have won the fight this evening, he would have been given the task, and Marcus would have taken up the vacant Trainer position. I'm asking you to make this mudblood the best player we've got. I do not care how you do it."
It was humanly impossible to—she couldn't even beat the fuck out of someone. And the second game would be too much for her—
"No." The word slipped out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say it. He stumbled upon his words, trying to explain. "She—My lord, I've trained her, the… mudblood. And yes, she can improve but it takes time, it takes years—"
"You faithless servant!" Voldemort's eyes seared with rage, and he dashed to him, bringing his ghostly face right in front of his. "You dare refuse a direct order from your Lord?"
"I'm trying to explain—"
"Crucio!"
Draco flinched, waiting for the pain to hit, to uproot him. It didn't.
But the shriek of Keela behind him startled him. He swivelled around to her.
Realisation smacked him, and a part of his soul fractured, forever sinking to oblivion.
"NO!" he screamed, bolting for his dog. She was writhing on the floor, quivering with spasms. He had never heard such high-pitched yelps from her. She was crying for him, begging, whimpering with pure agony.
"STOP, STOP, STOP!" he bellowed to Voldemort.
Somewhere in the room, Granger was screaming too, but he couldn't distinguish her words.
All there was was Keela. His dog. His friend. His world. The agony, the crunch of her bones breaking and mending again and again and again. Her tongue sagging out of her maw. Her convulsing paws—the utter despair and incoherence in her wet eyes. Not understanding what she had done to experience this.
His throat closed up, a storm clenching his stomach. Sending ripples of fear like he had never experienced before. Tears sprang to his eyes—and he knew, he knew he would lose her, right on this floor, right—
"Stop! Please!" Granger yelled, voice choked with urge. "I'll do everything you want! Please, please…"
She had moved closer to the centre of the room, both palms in front of her. Voldemort's wand lowered, and the curse subsided.
Keela fell silent, limp and panting on the floor. Draco stroked her with frantic, shaking hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he repeated in a murmur, voice broken by sobs. He kept shushing under his breath, although she wasn't making any noise. "I'm sorry, my girl, I'm sorry…"
"You think you can address me, you pathetic little mudblood?" Voldemort hissed.
Granger still had her hands raised. "I'll be your golden player. Please. I'll be everything you want me to be. Just—please, don't hurt the dog."
Voldemort scoffed, mouth curving in a snarl.
"It doesn't matter if Malfoy trains me night and day" she added, voice quivering and uncertain. "If I don't indulge him, if I don't push myself, he'll make no progress."
"You foul creature—"
"I know what you want, and what you need." Her voice was gaining confidence, but Draco kept focusing on Keela's breathing, monitoring her eyes. Kept stroking her. Kept consoling her.
"If I pass the second game with flying colours, I want you to let my parents go."
Voldemort's mouth closed and his eyes widened with shock. He laughed incredulously—snickered was more like it. "You think you're in a position to bargain with me?"
"I think you don't want to lose any more money, or spectators."
"The problem is, I'm not quite sure you won't kill yourself if your parents are freed." The Dark Lord's face darkened with thoughts. "Draco, get up."
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—
"I won't ask twice."
Keela was pleading him to stay, but for her sake, Draco unfolded his throbbing limbs from the floor and stood. His red-rimmed eyes burned into Voldemort's face. Wishing he had a blade toslashat him, peel his reptilian skin away anddiguntil he reached his black soul and rip it out of him andcutit until he was fucking annihilated and forgotten.
"I will not kill myself," Granger retorted.
Voldemort tutted. "Here's what we will do."
They both waited. The Dark Lord appraised them, gaze flitting between them. After a few seconds that seemed like minutes, his eyes settled on Draco. "I'm afraid you are becoming too much like your father, Draco." He licked his thin lips. "A whining disappointment."
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—
"And you, mudblood," his gaze slid to Granger, "I believe you need an incentive to play. Obviously your parents weren't enough for you to—how did you phrase it? Push yourself."
Draco's heart sank all over again.
"Therefore, I accept your condition. However, if you fail to impress our audience at the second game, I will kill Draco and his mutt."
"But I promise I won't—" she started, but Voldemort raised his hand, shutting her mouth with a non verbal spell.
"Quiet," he hissed. "Now, I need to speak with Yaxley. I won't be around much this month, I have to go to China. But I choose to trust you, both of you—do not disappoint me."
He bent down to pick up Nagini, wrapped her around his shoulders. Then he disapparated, leaving them in a deafening silence.
Granger, released from the muting spell, lunged to him. "Draco, I'm so sorry—"
"Don't." He turned his back on her and hurried to Keela. She was awake, but still panting. He fell on his knees and grabbed her head, resting his forehead between her eyes.
"I'm so sorry…" he whispered, petting her like she was the softest thing on this earth. Because she was. "You'll be fine, Kee. I'm sorry." His hands still had uncontrollable tremors, the adrenaline not quite out of his blood flow. He felt the swirl of his thoughts, his heartbeat hammering and lungs squeezing.
He didn't want that to happen here. In front of her.
He didn't have enough energy, enoughcareto think about what Voldemort had just said. To care about his given name shaped in Granger's mouth.
Next thing he knew, she was kneeling on the other side of Keela's body and tentatively reached out her hand to touch her. He almost growled, almost wanted to bite, to scream for her to get the fuck away.
But the gentleness with which she began to caress Keela soothed something inside him. Calmed the hurricane of panic tightening his lungs and clamming up his hands.
He finally managed to lift his head to her, and saw that she was crying too.
End note (trigger warning): Animal torture (Crucio spell). Sounds and spasms will be described. The scene doesn't last long, just a few sentences.