Bloodlust

Summary:

Perhaps, Draco understands something about giving up your life for your family. Perhaps The Order could reach him, somehow, with weeks' worth of time and all of the luck in the world—perhaps they really could turn Draco Malfoy. [Order/Death Eater Dramione.]

[Chapter 1: A Snake In The Owlhouse]

August 8th, 2000, The Order of The Phoenix's Secret Basecamp.

Harry Potter hasn't laid eyes on Draco Malfoy for years.

Looking at him now, it almost feels like nothing has changed. Of course, that's not true, everything has changed. Harry knows better than to judge a book by its cover, especially when he knows for a fact that half of Draco's pages have been stained with blood. He wonders what remains from the prologue, if anything. It hasn't been long since the Battle of Hogwarts, all of two years and change, and yet looking down at Draco Malfoy's magically-bound figure, it feels as though several lifetimes have passed. What should have been the final battle had instead been the catalyst for a years-long game of cat and mouse, and tonight Harry wonders if he and Draco might switch up the game. He always hated chess, though in times of war you must sacrifice your freedom of choice in more ways than one.

Draco has always been somewhat of a wild-card, even back then. For someone so marred in arrogance and imposing superiority, he also seems to posses a sense of insecurity so potent, it cannot possibly hide from his features. It's unclear whether his hatred of Muggleborns stems from the oppressive views of his family, or if it emanated from his deep desire for approval. Perhaps it's simpler than all that, perhaps his bigotry was born the day that he was finally dethroned from his top spot in Potions class, and by Granger, the fake Witch no less.

Whether or not Draco had a sympathetic reason for the way he behaved, Harry's empathy has long since waned in his former bully, as has the rest of the Order's. Draco made his choice, on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts, when he made the sobering decision to choose heritage over righteousness, and he's never stopped killing since.

"Come to have a look at your new prize, Potter?" Malfoy's dry hiss rings out loud within the constricted space of the tent. His voice, all dry drawls and painful familiarity, hurts Harry in a way he could never hope to explain. It sends flashes through his mind, memories better forgotten and replaced. Memories of when things were normal, easy—you know, fighting dungeon trolls levels of normalcy, as opposed to kidnapping your former classmates levels of insanity.

This had been a surprise to Harry, hearing of Malfoy's capture. He'd been away from the camp for some time, just shy of a month though it felt like longer, especially with Ron Weasley's incessant complaining and Hermione Granger's frequent lectures. An unsuccessful Nagini-hunt was his reason for leaving, and on the eve of their final week in the woods, they'd received word from Kingsley via the Protean Charm coins that Hermione had so brilliantly created as a method for secret communication. The message had been painfully brief, stating something about apprehending 'a Malfoy' with zero specificity. This, despite the cryptic warning, is a sight that nothing could have prepared him for.

Harry opts to ignore the drawling provocation from Malfoy, tearing his attention away from their captive to instead greet his captor. "Good evening, Kingsley."

The scarred Wizard shuffles absently towards the other end of the tent, where Kingsley Shacklebot is leaning over a make-shift office desk area in the back corner, mulling over papers and folders and stolen sips of firewhiskey here and there.

Kingsley offers a warm smile as welcome and answers in a nonchalant manner, as though he doesn't currently have a captured Death Eater glaring at him from behind narrowed eyelids. "Good to have you back with, at last. The young Miss Weasley has been besides herself with worry."

"Is she ever not besides herself with worry?" Muses Harry, half seriously and half humorously. "I was hoping we'd be returning with at least something new, but once again I've worried everyone for nothing." He says it matter-of-factly, but the weary disappointment of the words swim inside of his green irises, unmistakable.

"Give yourself a break, Mr Potter. The weight of a world on your shoulders is more than enough to carry, don't you think?" Kingsley's words are tender, and it's everything Harry's needed to hear all month. He tips his glass of firewhiskey to the air before guzzling back the remainder of the glass. "I presume the others have returned with you?"

"They're gathering some supplies on their way back. Shouldn't be too long." Harry slips his arms out of his deep blue peacoat and folds it before laying across the back of his chair. A steady sigh escapes from his lips as he wearily rubs the back of his aching shoulder-bone. "You know what Ron and Hermione are like, they'd never let us return completely empty handed."

It's all so monotonous, for Draco's taste. He has to crane his neck to stare holes into the back of his former rival's head. Come on Potter, quit acting like this isn't the best day of your pathetic, miserable life.

Malfoy's exasperated moan rings through the tent, as if it had been summoned by the mention of those names, and suddenly the jovial mood from moments before has twisted into the type of suffocating tension that could only be birthed from a situation this mental. Harry wonders how he even got here, sat just steps away from a person who's been ordered to end his life, forced to determine whether he should be considering the same thing.

To have a life inside of your hands is a revolting feeling—to have the life of a man you despise inside of your hands is more complex, but still, no less difficult. Harry's stomach twists with the thought of it. Malfoy had been relentless with his taunts towards Harry and his friends, but that was school, and since then he'd been relentless with his wand, which is a much less forgivable trait.

Here Harry was, hoping for a few more moments of calm normalcy before descending into whatever the fuck he'd just walked into here, when Draco decidedly refuses to let that happen.

"Potter, are you going to keep acting as though I'm not here, or shall we begin with the interrogation? As exhilarating as it is to see your scar-face after all this time, I'd rather bleed than be forced to listen to you prattle on."

Harry's head whips around and he catches Malfoy's playful gaze—ah, there you are, old friend. So the arrogance and the bully mentality still persists, some things truly never change. Steeling himself, the dark-haired wizard takes a in breath so deep he almost chokes on it. "Hello, Draco. How long has it been? Two years, three?"

"Two years, three months, six days."

Harry blinks, Malfoy smirks.

It's not an answer he expected, but then again he's learned not to expect anything anymore. Not since Snape and how wrong Harry had been. Not since Dumbledore and how wrong everyone had been. Not since discovering that he himself is a Horcrux and that the success of this entire war hinged on a suicide mission. It became difficult to live upon the knowledge that his future is limited. Nevertheless, here he is, leading a small but mighty resistance to hunt down a big fucking snake and the monster who controls her.

Perhaps, Draco understands something about giving up your life for your family, too. Perhaps The Order could reach him, somehow, with weeks' worth of time and all of the luck in the world—perhaps they really could turn Draco Malfoy.

Kingsley rises to his feet, shooting the Chosen One a solitary nod as he departs from their magically-extended prisoner tent. Draco watches as he exits, a demented type of revenge-lust tugging at his facial features. To think, all these years evading consequence, just to be caught by a fucking middle-aged Auror named Shacklebot. Blaise will never let him live this down.

"I'm surprised you allowed yourself to be captured," Harry says, as if reading his mind. He slowly draws his frame away from Kingsley's desk, taking the seat with him to situate it directly across from the increasingly sweating blonde. "Have you lost your spark in recent months, Draco?"

Malfoy looks down at his dirty, mud-caked fingernails and observes them absentmindedly. If he's trying to annoy Harry without barely even saying a word, he's achieving it. "Everyone has their off days, no? I'm sure you remember yours very well. Two years, three months and six days ago."

Memories flash across Harry's mind like a violation—Remus, Tonks, Fred—and for a second, he wants to lose his cool, to unleash the buckets of repressed tears that have been itching behind his eyes for years now. It should have ended that night, it shouldn't have begun at all. Now all that's left is the unwavering loss of so many allies who gave up their lives to end a war which now feels endless.

Harry doesn't reply right away, instead opting to take in the sight laid out before him. Draco Malfoy, aggravating bully turned assassin, is tied down to a white, wooden chair, made only whiter by the contrasting black material of the Death Eater uniform he's wearing. He's relaxed against the weight of Kingsley's Incarcerous spell, the magical ropes binding him to the unforgiving wood. He's practically slouching, gangly long legs sprawled out in front of the seat.

Draco looks considerably older, skin paler, for it haven been only two years. His face is gaunt, framed with pronounced cheekbones, cut sharp like diamonds. His eyes, once bright with egotistic glee, now look as though they're made from pure serrated steel and trauma, as if he has any right to claim that after all he's put others through. His hair is no longer slicked back and perfectly manicured, now much longer in the front, wisps of white-blonde cascading across his eyes as though he hopes the strands may block out the sights he sees. Draco looks tired. Haunted, in a way. Possessed, in another.

After a quiet moment of contemplation, Harry strikes. "I seem to recall seeing a struggle in your eyes, as you made your stand in the courtyard that night."

Draco snorts. "You saw what you wished to see. I know exactly where I stand, Potter."

Harry is quiet at first, simply nodding in understand while watching for signs of deception. The former Slytherin's poker face is impressive and Harry is forced to repress a sense of pride in it. He's turned someone before—one of the Greengrass sisters—though it was clear to everyone in the Order that Astoria had been forced to fight for Voldemort's cause by her maniacal Death Eater father, not to mention the mindless brainwashing aftermath that was Daphne Greengrass.

This is different. This is someone who's hated Muggleborns since he learned what the word meant. Someone who had personally wished death on Hermione Granger when they were just children. A man who'd gone from failing to kill Dumbledore one year, to hexing defenceless former classmates the next. Harry knows he won't be easy to turn, or to even crack, but with the younger Death Eaters he will always try—because a reluctant ally is always better than a dead kid. Even Malfoy, now slowly creeping towards his early 20's, feels no more than a teenager in the sense that his entire young-adulthood is being stolen by someone who's just using him to win the war.

Harry straightens in his chair and shifts uncomfortably. His mind is racing, he can barely settle on a thought before a new one pushes its way into focus. He decides to switch topics, lest Draco catch on to his secret plot. "There's some information I'd like from you. I trust Kingsley has gotten you up to speed on what sorts of answers we're looking for?"

Draco's eyes roll, and it makes him look young again. "Indeed, your Auror friend gave me an ear-full on the way here. Like I said to him, I wouldn't be able to tell you the location of Voldemort even I wanted to. It's not information My Lord easily sacrifices, especially not to his Death Eaters, who have an increased risk of capture. You're wasting everyone's time."

"I guessed as much would be the case," Silence, then, bargaining. "Though that doesn't make you entirely useless to us, Malfoy. I'm sure someone as high-ranking in Voldemort's army as yourself must know a thing or two."

"Or, three."

It's a joke that makes Harry want to laugh, though laughter is such a rare sound now that he's not even sure he remembers how to. "Care to divulge?"

Draco pulls his lips into a tight line and says nothing. Harry has his answer.

Just then, movement outside, footsteps and what sounds like the voice of a certain red-haired former Quidditch keeper begins to seep into the cracks of the tent. The voices are muffled and sound far-away until suddenly they don't, until the word "Malfoy" is spat at full volume and the door to the tent is ripping open with the speed of light. In steps a tall boy, followed closely by a shorter girl. Their faces wear an identically matching expression: trepidation.

Ron Weasley has grown considerably in recent years, more so physically than emotionally. His hair is still a messy mop of tangerine, though now it's even more tousled and boyish from years of living on the run. It's his body that's experienced the most drastic change: the wider shoulders, the sinewy frame. He'd always been lanky with a fair dusting of muscle from playing Quidditch, but his body had finally filled out from years of running through forests and punching trees for no reason in particular. His simple blue sweater clings to his skin as though it may burst into shreds at any second, the fabric clearly too small to support his muscle. If you hadn't known he's the Order's leading war-strategist, you might think he's a Quidditch champion.

Hermione Granger's change, on the other hand, was entirely psychological. Her appearance seems to be an unmoving thing, no matter how much time passes. She looks older in the face but then so did everyone. Her hair retains it's mild bushiness, it's wildness, despite countless attempts to tame it. The main difference was to her skin, her 'Mudblood' scar, a remnant of another time. It seems almost comical that despite now being in a position to never have to hear that word spoken, technically she can never escape it.

She hides the scar with long sleeves today, tucked safely out of sight by a plain black t-shirt. The pair of dark blue jeans that hug her curves are worn-in and have seen better days. Clothes are not quite the priority during supply raids nowadays, now that Order members are dropping like flies and others are returning wandless.

Harry turns his attention to his two best friends, who cautiously approach the scene, Hermione's eyes narrowing into angry little slits while Ron reaches for his wand out of pure instinct upon laying eyes on the familiar Death Eater garbs wrapped around Malfoy's svelte frame.

"Has Kingsley gotten you both up to speed on the…" Harry briefly glances towards the tied-up Draco from the corner of his eye. "—situation?"

Ron's eyes are trained on Draco, who's yet to even acknowledge their entrance as he leans back so far in his chair that his head tips backwards, eyes closed, mind shutting off. He'd rather be dead than be here, tied up and forced to listen to Ronald fucking Weasley gloat about his failure. Ron's already closing distance, moving to stand close to Harry's chair while Hermione shuffles behind him. "I could kill him, Harry. After weeks of hunting, he drops this on us before we even unpack."

Harry cracks a lazy smile in response. "Kingsley is a stickler for a surprise."

Slowly Draco allows his posture to weaken and his head to drop, taking in the sight of the pair standing now so close that he could smell the girl's flowery perfume. His nose wrinkles, it smells Muggle-made, before of course it is. The torture begins earlier than expected.

His gaze lingers across Ron's jittery frame for only a matter of seconds, just long enough to register his presence in the room, fleeting away just as quickly like the red-head truly meant nothing. Then, Hermione. She gets his full attention and the look he receives in return is equally intense. His eyes drill into hers like they have the power to make the entire world crumble around them, and perhaps they did, now that his magic had become unpredictable under Voldemort's teachings.

There's something almost violating about the look they share—how his eyes rake through hers like he's performing telepathic fucking surgery on her gaze, grey and brown colliding and twisting into each other like fireworks and stars, how they drag her in and hold her there as if against her will.

After what feels like an eternity of this silent battle, Hermione finds herself faltering and crosses her arms protectively over her chest, supressing a wince when she feels her scar grazing across the fabric of her sleeve, reminding her of the last time Draco's stare had been this intense. It feels as though eons have come and gone since that night in Malfoy Manor, yet the memory burns as clearly as if it happened the week prior.

Draco's lips fall into a dangerous-looking tight lipped smile that sets the entire tent on edge, even himself. There was always just something about Granger, the sound of her voice was practically dopamine-inducing to him. Whether it be her predictable personality that was oh so easy to tease, or the way she made it even easier to trigger the Chosen One and his friend, Second Best.

More than that, though, there was a level of respect Draco felt for Hermione that he'd never care to admit, and that terrified him beyond all comprehension. Because it's a sin, he's heard. He knows more than anyone that Death Eaters are shaped by their singular viewpoints and not by their feelings. He's sure even Voldemort could admit that there was something special and uniquely talented about Hermione Granger, the only difference is that Voldemort thinks it 'stolen' and Malfoy thinks it 'inevitable'.

"Granger." Draco drawls, as though no time has passed between them, as though this is the Hogwarts Grand Hall and he's shouting insults across tables just to get a rise.

In the corner of her eye, Hermione sees three things happen in quick succession: Ron tenses. Ron growls. Ron steps forward and points his wand square between Draco's eyes. "If you have something to say, spit it out now before this gets messier for you."

Draco finally tears himself from Hermione, turning his head to look up at Ron in a stony, fierce sort of way. Ever unyielding, always taunting. He'd almost missed this, the way Weasley's nostrils flare and his heartbeat thunders at the will of anyone who speaks ill of his friends. The dichotomy between their personalities is vast and this explains it: Ron is fuelled by love and loyalty, and above all else, by emotion. Draco is fuelled by his lack of empathy, his desperate need to fill his void with the pain and stress of others. He's a leech with a faulty moral compass. They couldn't be any more opposed if they tried.

"You look quite different, Weasley. Did you finally realise that your wand-skills left much to be desired, so you've instead opted for physical prowess?"

It's a cheap shot, and so school-yard, but of course Ron's blood runs cold anyway. "If you're so interested—" The ginger begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. A threat. "I can show you exactly how little need I have for a wand."

Hermione steps forward and grabs at Ron's hand, though he absently swats it away like a pestering wasp. "Ron, stop it right now. Sit down." She moves towards the side of the tent, her arm fully outstretched towards him.

For a long moment Ron does absolutely nothing, fingers twitching, mind racing. He glares into Malfoy's blank eyes, trying to convey every single negative thought about him into one menacing death-stare. His opponent doesn't faulter, not even slightly. In fact, Draco's chin rises even higher in the air—a mockery of the highest degree. It's a challenge, one that Ron desperately wants to win. Nevertheless, he retreats, because the only thing able to counter the satisfaction of an argument with Malfoy is the fear of an argument with Granger. He lets Hermione take his hand and lead him towards the set of chairs off to the side of Malfoy's interrogation station. Hermione sits down and begins fussing with her shoe-laces to take them off after a long day of walking, and an even longer month of relentless snake-chasing, to no avail.

Ron grumbles as he pulls his sleeves down—he'd have given anything to draw the air out of Malfoy's lungs with his own bare hands, in fact he's practically been training for it for years, for the possibility of being separated from a wand and doing what has to be done via other methods. After only five minutes within his insufferable presence, the Death Eater was starting to look like a perfect training-dummy. Ron folds his arms into a cross, his wand poking out between his fingers and still very much pointed at Draco's face. Ready. Waiting. Praying.

Harry smiles over at his friends, a brief greeting, before resuming his earlier task. He faces the tied-up blonde and leans forward in his chair slightly, closing in, observing every twitch and every breath as though they could read him an entire trilogy of unspoken truths. He wastes no time. "Now that you're done trying to rile up my friends, shall we get back to the matter at hand?"

"I'd prefer to continue riling up your mates, but if we must, we must."

A weary sigh, Harry's struggling. He knows that this is going to take far longer than predicted if Draco can't even answer a single question without twisting the metaphorical knife. That's what conversation felt like with this man—jab, jab, jab, he pokes and prods and twists until his opponents' emotional regulation begins to seep through the wounds like a pieced juice-box. He knows what to say and he knows how to make it hurt. He doesn't even need a wand, really, not when his most powerful weapon is his dirty mouth.

"Excellent. I thought we might begin with a question I've been wondering for some time now." Harry's neck straightens, his bones cracking under the pressure of so many restless nights and bent pillows. "What made you decide to join Voldemort's army?"

A combination of a snort and a cackle escapes Malfoy's mouth. An easy question, at least, and one that won't result in his death should he ever return to his Lord. "I'm so glad you asked, Potter. You're expecting me to say that my Father forced me into the role, or that I was protecting my poor late mother. Am I close?"

Harry fights an amused smile, because of course his childhood rival can still read him like a textbook. It comes with the history of hating someone for longer than you've even really known them. "I was hoping that would be your answer, yes, but I gather you have a different one for me today?"

Draco ignores him momentarily, turning to look at the pair sat to his side, a contemptuous glint in his leer as he observes Ron's wand pointing right at him. It's a risk, it's a stupid risk, but he's going to say it anyway—because it's entertaining and because there's nothing else to do in this tent besides choke on the fucking tension like its an animal bone.

His gaze settles onto Hermione again and their faces begin to swirl with differing emotions: Hermione, anticipation. Malfoy, sadism. "My reason is a rather simple one," He looks Hermione up and down like he's a hungry jackal tracking an injured gazelle. The room stills and quiets to the point that they can hear every breath and heartbeat, the anticipation of an inevitably cutting remark is thick. He smirks at the feeling of discomfort as though it's a warm blanket. "There's no greater feeling in the world, than killing a filthy Mudblood."

"That's it!" Ron. Because of course. He pries his back from the taught tent wall and stalks towards Malfoy with all the speed and fury of a lion. Still, he has that Gryffindor spirit, and there's no stopping his emotional outbursts now. He'd felt himself move before Malfoy had even had time to finish the slur entirely, he knew it was coming, subconsciously he's learned to expect the needless hatred of Death Eaters, and to expect that nothing good can come after the words 'filthy little—' where Draco Malfoy is concerned. For a second it feels like nothing has changed. If they stayed in this tent bickering together, maybe they could trick themselves into pretending they were rowdy children again. All it would take would be a peak outside the window to remind them of reality.

Harry is on his feet and stepping in front of Draco just in time to grab hold of the mean punch swinging towards his face. He feels how tightly held the fist is and supresses a shudder, Gods only knows what sort of direction Draco's nose would've been pointing towards had that hit connected with its target.

"You need to calm down, you know that's not how we do things unless entirely necessary." Harry turns to look at Hermione, who's face has gone noticeably red with pure, unbridled rage. He's careful with his tone, an evenness to combat the tension. "Both of you need to leave the tent. You don't need to sit here listening to anything that this prick has to say unless it's useful."

Draco smiles at that. Success, and so easy. After several minutes of 'Draco's' and artificial hospitality, he's succeeded in breaking down Potter's good spirit. Now that the insults are mutual, they can finally talk for real. "Yes, run along you two, flee from the big mean Death Eater. It'll make my week."

Hermione examines him from behind heavy eyelids, she can't remember the last time she slept longer than six hours but if she had to guess, Malfoy never slept. He's not what she remembers from school, but somehow it's like they've never been apart. She'd spent so many years avoiding his presence in hallways that it feels almost vindicating to see him in such a position now. It makes her feel superior, which had been a near impossible thing to feel during a war for her literal right to exist. She uses it, lets it fuel her as she rises to her feet and takes quick, purposeful steps towards the chair.

Just as she reaches Ron's shaking shoulders, she puts her hand on his upper-back. A message. Sit down, I can handle myself. Ron understands, reluctantly, and takes a few steps back, allowing Harry to return to his seat free of fear of a scuffle. She shakes her head at Malfoy, like he's pitiful and she feels sorry for him—it makes his veins feel colder than usual. "We're not scared of you, or anyone else who hides behind masks."

"Oh, you really should be." His voice is dripping with murderous intent and sick gratification. He draws out each word as though he wants them to sink into her mind and never leave. "Your name has been at the top of my list since Third Year, when you had the nerve to slap me in the face."

At this, Hermione's lips spread into a self-satisfied grin. The memory of her palm stinging after connecting with Draco's cheek dances across her mind's eye, reminding her of the days where this insufferable prick was the worst of her worries. "Thank you ever so much for the reminder. I had almost forgotten how great that slap felt."

Draco's leg twitches against his magical restraints. His arms dig into the arm-rests, nearly enough force to snap the wood apart. When he doesn't budge, he begins to lean his face closer towards Granger, as far as he can possibly lean. He turns his head to the side, ever so slightly. It's an invitation, and she almost considers it, before he speaks. "I'll give you another reminder right here. Come closer, Mudblood."

This time, neither of her friends have a chance to make their displeasure known as Hermione's wand whips out of her pocket and points to Draco's face. She hisses out 'silencio' like it's a curse-word. A peaceful quiet fills the tent, finally, and Hermione releases an exaggerated sigh of happiness. "That's better. Isn't that so much better, Harry?"

Harry's eyes fill with a type of warmth and pride reserved only for moments where Hermione Granger kicks fucking ass. He's missed this side of her, it's what drew him into their friendship so effortlessly. "You're quite right. Though you have also made it near impossible to interrogate him any further."

Ron begins to circle the chair, all the while dodging death stares from Malfoy who furiously begins to mouth a selection of the nastiest words and slurs he can think of—luckily for him, nasty words are a large percent of his vocabulary. Ron groans and points out, "He's never going to give up anything, he knows Voldemort will Avada him for even thinking it."

Nodding, exaggerated head-banging sorts of nods come from the silenced wizard. He's desperate to still feel like part of the conversation, being ignored or muted is a fate worse than death for the attention-grabby child of neglect that was Draco Malfoy. His stare burns holes into Granger's eyes as it flickers from her wand, to her face, back to her wand, back to her face.

Hermione lets out an exhausted breath and releases her Silencio spell. "You get one more chance to stop with the colourful Muggle-slurs, and then we're leaving you here to rot all night. Do you understand?"

Coughing, as though he'd been unable to speak for hours, which is how it felt to him, Draco's face floods with fake sincerity. Even false, it looks alien on his features. "I can't give you locations on our side, but I can warn you which location of yours we are aware of and planning to attack. I have one condition and it's entirely non-negotiable."

"Go on," Harry quirks a brow, untrusting. He offers a side-long glance towards his friends before settling back to Draco's eyes, searching for something, anything that might explain whether this is supposed to be a joke or not. He finds nothing, the poker-face is too strong. "What's your condition?"

Draco drops the mask of seriousness and earnest intentions instantly, his lips morphing from a tight line to a curved smirk. He practically sings his reply, "For you and Weasley to shove off. I'll only talk to the fake witch."

And with that, the first day of interrogation ends just as abruptly as it began, with Hermione dragging a cursing Ron out of the tent, followed quickly by a scowling Harry, leaving behind a cackling Malfoy to sit alone in his make-shift prison for the remainder of the night. The Death Eater's crazed laughter rings throughout the entire camp, a stark reminder of his presence dirtying such a once calm and kind environment.

He makes a mental note of the looks on his enemies' faces, and he thinks about them as he drifts off into a stiff, uncomfortable sleep, slumped in his chair, dripping with sweat and burns from his fight with Kingsley. All is well, he feels better than he has in months. Who knew being held captive could be such a thrill? Only to someone who thrived on chaos and strife. Only someone like Draco Malfoy.

xoxo

Authors Note:

Hiya all, thank you for reading. This is one of my stories back after taking a long time away from writing, and it's my first Harry Potter fanfiction ever actually, so if I've made in any mistakes in terms of the Harry Potter lore/spells or anything please let me know if you have the time to do so! Thanks,

-aiko