It came in waves.
The cold.
The strong, earthy smell.
The tightness in his chest, discomfort in his wrists, irritation in his skin.
The feeling of something else, something sharp, pinching his fingers.
The female voice, calling to him in a whisper, again and again.
"—do you hear me?"
"—wake up, you bastard—"
"—Jesus Christ, would you just—"
The soft tone in mismatch with the surly words—it was Ruth's voice, distorted by her mask.
"I'm no Jesus," he heard himself grumble in a low, deep voice that wasn't his own.
"Oh, thank God!" A loud sigh. "Well, it's not like I can call you by your name, can I?"
Why couldn't she?
And why was she whispering?
His eyes snapped open, and he jerked in his place, unable to move. Now, he remembered why.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Draco grimaced, mumbling something in response. A strange, thick smell hung in the air, distinct from that awful green substance he'd inhaled before passing out, but suspicious all the same.
As his eyes got used to the darkness, he began to take in his surroundings. There wasn't much to see: only solid, metal bars—before him, to his right, and to his left—beyond which lay only darkness.
His ankles were bound, and his arms were tied behind him to a cold metal pole that pressed against his back, while another rope was tightly bound around his chest, making it a little hard to breathe.
"Where are you?" he whispered.
"Right behind you."
He felt her slender fingers touch his. They were only barely warmer than the metal pole.
"They took all my weapons," she said. "Yours, too?"
Draco noticed then the absence of pressure on his calves: his hidden gun and knife were gone, as well as his wand. His cloak, bracelet, pouch, and the enchanted Galleon were also missing.
"Yes, mine too," he muttered, shivering. His shirt and trousers offered little protection against the cold.
"Can you do something?" she asked.
"Something?"
"Levitation, summoning... Anything?"
Draco tried to focus his magic, willing it to flow to the tips of his fingers. But he felt nothing. He tried again, and again, and again. Yet there was nothing but dull pain: in his chest, in his arms, in his wrists.
"Can you?" he asked breathlessly.
"No," she whispered. "I can't. Why—" Her voice hitched. "—why can't I?"
So, they were in a literal cage in someone's rancid dungeon, tied back-to-back to a filthy metal pole, stripped of all their weapons, and, on top of all that, somehow unable to use their magic?
Excellent, just excellent.
Draco clenched his teeth and wrenched wildly at his restraints, but they wouldn't give, digging viciously into his skin.
"Oh, for the love of—You just had to take that quill, didn't you?" he hissed. "You just couldn't help yourself—"
"What? How—how was I to know it was a Portkey?" she stammered, taken aback.
"Did it ever cross your mind that it's not the brightest idea to pick up whatever you—"
"No!" she shot back, raising her voice just a little. "You want someone to blame? Blame yourself for losing that goddamn card!"
Draco closed his eyes, and the image of Monique's dead body stood behind his eyelids. The blood pooling in her eyes. The torn off fingernails on the dirty floor.
How in the world did that card wind up inside his cloak pocket?
He shouldn't have held onto it. He should've burned it that same night. He shouldn't have taken it in the first place, good manners be damned.
What would that poor old woman think once she learned her granddaughter had been murdered? Not just murdered, but tortured for hours. And for what? The girl had known nothing. She had never even seen their real faces. She had been innocent, and now she was dead—all because of his own stupidity.
Draco swallowed hard, opening his eyes and staring blankly at the floor.
"You're right," he murmured. "The fault is mine."
After a pause, Ruth sighed. "No, it really isn't. I shouldn't have touched that—"
"Are you okay?"
"Are you?"
Draco heaved a sigh himself and rested his head against the cold metal, connecting their shoulders.
How were they supposed to get out of this mess? And why the hell couldn't he conjure magic wandlessly?
Was this the end?
Somewhere behind him, a door creaked open. He felt Ruth flinch.
The jingle of keys echoed, closer and closer. He saw his own shadow before him, faint and long at first, but rapidly shrinking, sharpening, and finally, shifting to the side. Draco turned his head to the right and saw him—a ragged man with a torch in his hand. The light illuminated their guns and cloaks lying scattered under a sconce on the wall. Draco's gaze flickered from the clothes to the man. They studied each other for a few seconds before the man placed the torch into the sconce and moved out of view again.
So, Draco and Ruth weren't the only ones who couldn't use magic here. Interesting.
With more clinking and rattling, he heard the squeaky door of their cell open.
"Evenin'," the man said, jeering. "Finally getting to meet you, eh? Very pleased, I am."
Draco bet he was.
"What did you do to our magic?" Ruth asked coolly.
"Or rather, what did you do to this dungeon?" corrected her Draco.
The man came into Draco's view, keeping—as casually as he could—close to the bars, as if they were some kind of wild animals. Other than that, though, he hid his fear well.
"Oh, that?" He let out a laugh, low and mocking. "That's the Ashes of Gwion, that is. A gift from Yaxley. Stops you from using magic round 'ere. 'eard about your little talents. Quite impressive."
Draco saw it now—countless tiny particles of a grey, powder-like substance floating in the air like the thickest, years-old dust. Fascinating. He'd never heard of these Ashes. Whatever they were, they must have been quite a rarity. Draco doubted Snatchers had much of it.
"They can't last long," he said, presenting it as a fact rather than a question.
The Snatcher gave him an unpleasant smile. "Don't fret, mate, we've got all the time in the world to 'ave a chinwag."
He'd said the Ashes suppressed magic within a certain area. Would they be able to use magic outside this dungeon, or was it stuck to their clothes and would need time to wear off?
"Why didn't you take us to the Ministry right away?" asked Draco. "Surely you'd like to get rewarded as soon as possible."
The man's smile widened, revealing a lacking set of crooked, yellow teeth. "What, in a rush now? Spent months taking out my mates, and all of a sudden you're pushing for time? Nah, you ain't going nowhere 'til you pay up.
"And 'sides, Yaxley's off gallivanting until Wednesday. Need 'im 'ere to do any dealing, don't we? Thirty thousand might sound 'efty, but just look at 'ow many fellas it took to bring you down." He clicked his tongue. "Nah, that won't do."
The Snatcher took a couple of careful steps closer to Draco. Kneeling in front of him, he reached a hand toward Draco's face. A peculiar ring in the shape of a horned skull sat on his middle finger. These sharp horns pressed into Draco's neck as the Snatcher held his chin.
"That mask of yours is really something, eh?"
Oh, it really is.
"—makes you look proper scary, does it?"
The man's fingers travelled up, gripping Draco's mask. With a gleeful, "Bet you're not scary at all," he began to pull it off.
Draco, sensing the mask remain as solidly attached to his face as ever, savoured the look of surprise on the man's face as the illusion of the dark blue metal mask in his fingers vanished, revealing yet another layer beneath.
The Snatcher grabbed the mask again and pulled—harder this time—only to uncover another mask. He repeated the process several times, watching helplessly as the masks he'd removed melted away in his palms each time.
Cursing profusely, he stood and walked around Draco—to try the same thing with Ruth's mask, presumably. Judging by his continued swearing, that didn't work either.
"What kinda crap's this, then?"
"This is a work of art and genius," Draco heard Ruth say elatedly. "Only the person wearing it can take it off."
The Snatcher muttered something under his breath.
"I'll tell you what," she said playfully. "If you untie me, I will take it off for you."
There was a moment of silence, and then the man cackled. "What else you gonna take off for me, missy?"
"Untie me, and you'll find out."
Draco rolled his eyes.
"Right fox you are, eh?" The Snatcher was cackling again. "Untie me, she says. Nah, I've a better idea."
Draco tensed and strained his ears to guess what the man was up to. Much to his puzzlement, however, he heard the metal door open and close again, followed by receding footsteps and the bang of another door.
Where had he gone off to? How much time did they have?
"Don't you feel like saying something?" Ruth asked him. "Bless the Weasleys, maybe?"
"Bless the bloody Weasleys," he muttered.
"Did you say Weasley?!"
Only the ropes kept Draco from jolting back. Whose voice was that?
He squinted into the darkness to his left and, instead of another stone wall, discovered an entire row of cells. The voice clearly came from the central one—the closest to their cage. Draco saw a young man standing just behind its bars. Long-necked, dark-skinned, and dark-haired, he was a familiar face: a Gryffindor from Draco's year. Dean Thomas, was it? Barely illuminated by the torchlight, he was clutching the bars and peering at them with an expression of pure awe.
Well, that was certainly a strange sight.
"It's really you," Dean whispered, fascinated.
"Dean," came a warning voice from the adjacent cell. In it sat a portly, fair-haired man.
Draco looked around and saw more faces: another man and two goblins, each confined in their own cell. None of them shared Dean's enthusiasm, though. Instead, they regarded Draco and Ruth with tense stares and narrowed eyes. Were they silently watching and listening the entire time?
"But it's them, Ted!" exclaimed Dean.
"I can see that."
"And they're friends of the Weasleys!"
Nearly choking, Draco cleared his throat and said, "I wouldn't put it like that."
"Hey, let's focus!" said Ruth. "Can you help us? Do you have anything on you? A knife, maybe?"
Dean shook his head regretfully.
"No," said the man named Ted. "They took everything."
The others said nothing. Both Draco and Ruth swore under their breath.
"Wait." Dean's face lit up. "I think... I think I might have something for you."
He rushed back to his dirty mattress and retrieved a small object from underneath it. When he returned, Draco saw what it was—a lighter.
"That's great!" Ruth said. "Throw it here!"
Dean crouched down and aimed for their hands. As he swiftly rolled the lighter across the floor towards them, deftly avoiding the bars in the way, Draco snatched it with Seeker-like reflexes.
"Does it work?" Ruth asked.
"I think it does," Dean replied, though not too confidently.
With the lighter out of his line of vision, Draco found the button by feel and pressed it. Watching Dean's face, he instantly knew that the flame didn't ignite. It took him three more tries before Dean finally gave him a thumbs-up. Without further delay, Draco began burning through the rope that bound their wrists to the pole.
"Thank you," said Ruth, placing a bit too much emphasis on the words.
Draco scoffed. Didn't she have bigger things to fuss about than him being impolite to some annoying Gryffindor?
"You're welcome." Dean beamed at her.
"What's your name, kind stranger?" Ruth asked him.
"Dean. Dean Thomas."
"Why didn't they take you to the Ministry?"
"The Ministry cells are overflowing, so we're awaiting our trials here for the time being."
"Are all of you muggleborn then?"
"Well, except for the two goblins." Dean laughed. "This here is Dirk Crisswell," he said, pointing to his right, "Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. Well... former Head, anyway."
Dirk grumbled, clearly unhappy with Dean's candidness. Oblivious to this, Dean pointed to his left and continued,
"And this is Ted Tonks—"
The name caught Draco off guard, and he almost let go of the button. As Dean moved on to the goblins, Draco tuned him out, focusing on the fair-haired man instead.
Ted Tonks. Tonks. Wasn't that the name of his estranged aunt's husband?
But before he could pursue that thought, the doors to the dungeon opened once more. Draco tugged at the ropes, but they remained as unyielding as before. Noticing a faint smell emanating from below, he kept the flame ignited for as long as he could. However, as the door to their cage rattled, he had no choice but to let go, quickly hiding the scorching-hot lighter in his palm.
"Miss me?" came the voice of that same Snatcher. "Well, I'm back, and with some toys too."
Draco heard more rattling sounds. Ruth's shoulders stiffened against his.
"Wanna play, missy?"
"Don't touch her!" Draco shouted. "Don't you dare touch her!"
"Oh, you volunteer?" the man jeered. "Fine by me."
As Ruth began crying out in protest, Draco dug his nails into her palm, passing her the lighter and silently begging her to shut up and focus on the ropes.
With a strangled noise, she cut herself off mid-sentence and said no more.
The man walked up to Draco and dropped a heavy bag on the floor in front of him. The sound of a lighter igniting blended with the clatter, and Draco felt the warmth of fire once again. Unsuspecting, the Snatcher crouched down and spread the bag open so Draco could see its contents.
Draco sneered. "What, are you going to pull off my nails too?"
The man shook his head, rummaging through the dirty tools inside the bag. "Nah, that's Grime's style. Grime, you've met 'im today," he clarified. "Or was it yesterday already?"
Suddenly, his hands froze as they stumbled upon an object—a short knife that looked decidedly out of place with its distinctive bright and shiny appearance. Silver, forged in the form of a cross-shaped spearhead.
Draco knew this type of blade. Bellatrix had owned one of these. It was a torture tool, not meant to draw blood, but to hurt, to prolong suffering, to leave scars. Permanent scars. Did the man even know that?
"That'll do nicely," he said, scooping up the knife. "Mask stuck to your face, is it? Don't worry, we'll slice it right off."
Slice it off?
Draco stared at the silver blade.
Bless the blasted Weasleys. Bless their very souls.
"It doesn't work like that," he said, hiding his terror behind condescension.
"Why, 'ave you tried?"
Stifling a hiss of pain as the flames licked his wrist, Draco ground out, "It doesn't take a genius to realise that such intricate charmwork can only be countered with magic."
The Snatcher grinned. "I'll take my chances."
"Hey, you arsehole!" Dean shouted from his cell.
"That is completely unnecessary," Ted chimed in.
The Snatcher ignored them. He inched closer, slowly moving the knife towards Draco's face. But just as the blade touched his skin, right below his right ear, the man paused, sniffing the air.
"What's that smell?" He scowled. "Something burning?"
The acrid smell of smouldering rope had indeed become impossible to ignore. As had the heat searing near Draco's wrists. But the ropes weren't burned through yet. They needed more time.
"Can't you tell?" Draco drawled. "It's your own stenchy powder reacting to fire, moron."
He nodded towards the torch on the wall, and the Snatcher gave it a sideways glance before turning his attention back to Draco.
"Moron, is it? I ain't the one slagging off a bloke with a knife in my face." He pressed the blade against Draco's skin, right under the edge of the mask. "Reckon you oughta take that back now, don't you?"
Draco tried to spread his wrists apart, but the ropes held firm.
Well then.
He hunched closer to the Snatcher's ear. "Go. to. hell. How's that for an apology?"
The man's thin lips widened into a sadistic grin. "You asked for it, mate."
With those words, he drove the sharp tip of the silver blade into Draco's skin. For several moments, Draco could feel nothing but the unbearable sting of the cursed silver just beneath his skin, all other sensations immediately forced from his mind and body.
As he grunted in pain, desperately trying not to scream, he felt Ruth's free hand clasp around his. Somewhere, someone was shouting. It took him a moment to realise it was Dean.
"Does it 'urt, pretty boy?" the Snatcher asked mockingly.
The knife edged further down Draco's jawline, the wound sealing shut as soon as it was opened, etching rough, angry scars into his skin forever. Draco clenched his teeth and gripped Ruth's small palm, hard. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, and tears slipped unbidden down his face.
"Oh, it should," whispered the Snatcher, leaning closer to the emotionless mask. "It should 'urt terribly."
Draco wished he could spit in his face.
The blade continued further down, scraping ever closer to his chin, all while the heat from the lighter grew harder and harder to endure.
"I will end you," Draco gritted out, "you filthy piece of shit."
"Oh yeah?"
The man shifted his grip.
And drove the blade even deeper.
Draco's world exploded into raw, blinding pain. With his wrists ablaze and a deep, guttural sound escaping from his throat, he tore through the remaining strands of rope and broke free.
Before the man's grin could falter, Draco's right hand seized the knife, wrenching it away from his face, while his left delivered a punch to the man's jaw, knocking loose another tooth from his already jagged smile.
Having won the knife, Draco instantly swung it at the man's throat, but the man stumbled back, and the blade bit into his shoulder instead. He yelped, raising his hand to cover the wound as he turned to flee. Draco lunged for the keys at the man's waist, but they were just out of reach.
Slicing through the rope binding his chest, he heard the frantic jangling of keys, followed by the clatter of a door being slammed shut and locked. He glanced back and saw the Snatcher breaking into a run towards the massive double doors, still clutching his shoulder.
Coward.
Once finished with his own ropes, Draco knelt in front of Ruth to sever hers. Their gazes met, and her transformed features lost their artificial charm and twisted in horror.
"Holy shit—" Her freed hands flew up to his face, not quite touching it. "Jesus, I'm so, so, so terribly sorry. I—"
Continuing to cut through the ropes, Draco managed a chuckle through the stinging pain in his jaw.
"What doesn't kill me makes me stronger, right?"
She gave him a faint, disbelieving smile.
"You fool."
As soon as the last rope was cut, they both dashed towards the bag containing the tools. Careful not to brush his burned wrists against anything, Draco searched for something long, but the longest item he could find was a two-foot metal pipe with a curved, forked end. He grabbed it and approached the bars, reaching his hand through towards the guns.
Finding something herself—something tiny—Ruth ran towards the lock and began to fiddle with it.
Meanwhile, Draco sank to the floor and stretched out his hand with the tool as far as he could. But it wasn't enough. The clothes, dumped on the floor like trash, remained at least two feet away from the curved end of the tool.
He repositioned himself and attempted to thrust his leg through the bars, but the gap wasn't wide enough. Cursing, he turned to Ruth, who was busy trying to unlock the door. Warring with himself for a moment, Draco decided not to distract her and slumped to the ground to try again.
Just then, he heard heavy footsteps—lots of them. The doors to the dungeon swung open, and Draco saw the Snatcher again, followed by five more men rushing down the stairs to join him.
"Almost there," Ruth whispered.
Noticing her fiddling with the lock, the men sprinted across the room towards them. Draco came to stand behind her, gripping the pipe and the knife in his sweaty palms as he watched her slow, deliberate movements.
"Got it!" she said, as the lock clicked open.
She whisked the lock away just as one of the Snatchers slammed into the barred door. The heavy lock clattered to the floor inside the cage, and no one spoke until it grew still.
"You're not gonna get nothing, Scabior," said the man at the door.
The man to his left—the one who'd tortured Draco—snapped back defensively, "But they're 'ere! They 'aven't got away."
So, Scabior was the bastard's name. Draco made sure to remember that as he scanned the other Snatchers—all men, all quite large, all holding big wooden clubs in their hands. Their choice of weapon certainly seemed curious. But it wasn't. Really, the reason behind it was rather obvious. The Snatchers—those greedy sons of bitches—were reluctant to use knives against them, as the reward for dead Undesirables was considerably lower.
Well, that would be Draco and Ruth's one advantage.
But could they truly take them all without magic? Two against six? They may have been training for months, but they had never engaged in a real hand-to-hand fight, especially not against so many.
Silence stretched on as neither Snatchers nor Draco and Ruth made a move to open the door, staring each other down instead.
The Snatcher by the door eyed Ruth with a greasy smile, practically licking his lips. Draco stepped closer to stand at her side, only to find that instead of being disgusted by the man, she was encouraging him, her crimson lips curling into a seductive smile.
As her hands touched the bars and slowly moved up to meet his, Scabior broke the silence, looking directly at Draco. "Give it up already. There's more of us, and loads more are on their way—"
He was cut off by a scream from the nearest Snatcher as whatever Ruth had used to pick the lock went right up his nail.
Without hesitation, Draco kicked the door open, slamming it into the screaming man and knocking him to the ground. As he struggled to rise, Draco drove the knife into his throat and left it there, so the wound wouldn't close. One man down. Tossing the metal pipe to Ruth, Draco locked gazes with Scabior and smirked.
"We'll take our chances."
And all hell broke loose.
In the semi-darkness, surrounded by floating ashes, the seven of them danced across the stone floor to a chaotic symphony of angry snarls, pounding hearts, and loud, Gryffindor-style cheering coming from one of the cells.
It was a dirty, wild, rapid dance, and, not being a passive spectator himself, Draco only saw it in flashes:
him pushing off the bars and kicking Scabior in the chest,
Ruth's knee thrusting into someone's groin,
the dead Snatcher's head being pushed in as people tripped over it and stepped on it mid-fight,
someone's head getting slammed between the cage and its door with a distinctive crack.
The entire time, both Draco and Ruth kept their sights on the guns but found themselves being pushed further and further away.
As Draco dodged someone's fist, he made yet another desperate run for the guns, only to be met with a heavy club slamming into his kidneys. It knocked the wind out of him. Stumbling back and gasping for air, he felt two pairs of strong arms seize him from both sides.
Scabior came into view, his features distorted and blurry.
"Slippery, aren't you?"
He removed his ring and hid it in his pockets before delivering a sharp punch to Draco's jaw. Pain crashed against Draco's skull, but that was only the beginning.
Scabior landed blow after blow, vicious and unrelenting. Tasting blood on his tongue, Draco fought to break free, but the grips on his shoulders and arms remained solid and vice-like.
Out of the corners of his vision, he caught sight of Ruth and the other Snatcher circling each other like sharks.
Suddenly, she feigned a move to the left, then turned rapidly and launched her foot towards his chest. But the man had been expecting that. He caught her leg mid-air and yanked it, sending her crashing to the ground.
Receiving another punch to his side, Draco heard Ruth cry out in pain as the man above her slammed his boot into her stomach.
His mind cleared then, and he decided he'd had enough.
Hearing Dean's shouts directly behind him, he seized the opportunity. Using the force of Scabior's kick, he propelled himself and the two Snatchers behind him backward. The two men, caught off guard by the sudden movement, stumbled back and slammed against the bars.
"Get them!" Draco shouted.
Fortunately, this Gryffindor had brains. One of the men released Draco as Dean Thomas's long arms wrapped around his neck in a chokehold.
Draco drove his elbow back into the second Snatcher, then another elbow in his throat. The man began choking, and Draco threw him further along the bars, where Ted's ready arms caught him by his broad shoulders.
He didn't have time to nod his thanks, because Scabior had already caught up with him. He swung at Draco wildly, and Draco bent backwards, the punch missing his face by mere inches.
Scabior swung another fist, but Draco was faster. With a quick pivot, he dodged to the side and slipped behind the man. His boot connected squarely with Scabior's back, sending him face-first into the stone floor.
Not wasting any time, Draco sprinted around the cage toward the single burning torch illuminating the frenzy, not stopping until finally, finally, finally, his hands closed around a gun handle. Relief surged through him like never before.
Swiftly, he switched off the safety and aimed at the Snatcher pressing his shoe against Ruth's stomach. The shot rang out, echoing through the chaos, and the man dropped to the floor.
Draco ran out from behind the cage and, with two more perfectly aimed shots, took down the two men still struggling against Dean and Ted.
With his eyes, he searched for Scabior in the darkness. But Scabior wasn't hiding; he was charging toward Draco from around the cage.
Draco instinctively aimed his gun at him, heart pounding in his aching chest, but just as he prepared to pull the trigger, the weapon jammed.
For a brief, paralyzing moment, Draco stared down at the gun in bewilderment, and that was all the time Scabior needed to tackle him to the ground, the treacherous gun flying into the darkness.
Clutching Scabior's ragged clothes, Draco waited for Ruth to get a hold of the working gun and shoot the bloody man.
But as they continued to struggle on the floor, Ruth didn't come.
Draco chanced a glance in her direction and was astonished to see her running the opposite way, toward the double doors, a metal pipe clutched in her hands.
Just what on Earth was she doing?
He looked on, nearly failing to block another punch to his face. As Ruth inserted the pipe into the door handles and pressed herself against the doors, it finally dawned on him: the promised backup was here.
Not a moment later, the doors rattled, and Draco heard a whole damn chorus of voices behind them.
The Snatcher grinned ear to ear, letting out his foul breath. The sight and smell of it were so maddening that, without thinking twice, Draco crashed his forehead into his.
With both their heads ringing, they rolled across the floor in a tangle of limbs.
"You son of a mudblood!" Scabior cursed, locking Draco underneath him.
As Draco tried to roll them over, Scabior punched him in the ear.
More pain resounded through Draco's skull. Yet it wasn't all Draco felt. There was something else, coursing through his veins, making him feel alive.
Judging by the look on Scabior's face, he felt it too. They both glanced around and found the air suddenly clear.
Scabior immediately reached for his wand pocket, but Draco caught his wrist with one hand and placed his free palm against Scabior's chest.
"Time's up, scumbag."
With that, Draco ripped his heart out.
That same moment, the doors to the dungeon were blasted open—the Snatchers behind them finally able to make use of their wands.
Draco stood up and saw the same ugly man from yesterday—Grime, they called him—enter the room, leading a group of seven more men. They looked around, unable to locate Ruth in the dark corner to their right, as their eyes had not yet gotten used to the darkness.
They were a bulky crowd, and all of them had wands. But when the door shut loudly behind their backs, they weren't the ones smiling.
Six hexes of different colours flew towards Draco, and he flung Scabior's body in front of him to block them. As it floated, absorbing the hexes, its ripped-out heart, no longer beating, dropped to the ground from beneath his sweater with a splat.
Draco heard the gasps of shock that quickly turned into screams of terror, as the shadowy figure finally got to work.
With a smirk, Draco sent the heartless body crashing at the feet of the two men closest to him. They recoiled from it, and he seized the moment to hurl them both against the wall, summoning a wand from one of them in the process.
Blocking another wave of hexes, he locked gazes with Grime and beckoned him closer.
The fool took the bait and rushed towards him with a snarl, casting hexes, one after another. Draco blocked them all.
"Avada Kedavra!" the man yelled, and a bright, green ball of light escaped the tip of his wand.
Draco dodged it and cast a powerful Knockback Jinx non-verbally. The man crashed onto his back, and his wand rolled all the way to the entrance.
Defiantly, Grime scrambled to his feet and tossed back one side of his cloak, revealing Draco's pouch fastened to his waist alongside a wand holster. From the holster, he drew out a wand. The Wand.
A corner of Draco's lips curled up.
As the man began to cast another Killing Curse, Draco raised his hand. The incantation was uttered, but the wand produced nothing; instead, it wrenched itself free from Grime's grasp and flew to Draco's lifted hand.
In a panic, the man looked over his shoulder, but there was no one to back him up. The only two Snatchers who weren't lying lifelessly on the ground were held high in the air by Ruth, struggling against the invisible force binding them in a chokehold.
Except... it wasn't invisible. Squinting into the darkness, Draco saw two ethereal wisps of black matter around their throats. This unsettled Draco, but he had no time to ponder what it was.
When they were no longer kicking their feet or moving at all, Ruth let their dead bodies drop to the floor. It was then that the ugly man tore his eyes away from it and ran.
With an effortless, almost lazy gesture, Draco summoned all the scattered wands to his feet and locked the doors with a non-verbal Colloportus.
Grime crashed against the wood and desperately pulled at the door handles. When they didn't give, he spun around and pressed his back against the door. His pockmarked face was pale, and his eyes were wide as he watched Draco come closer.
"Don't kill me," he said in a slightly trembling voice. "I'm the last one. I'm the only one who can tell you everything."
Draco ignored him and continued his slow advance.
"Listen, son," he heard a voice behind him.
It was Ted. It occurred to Draco that this was the first sound he'd heard from the cells in ages.
"Listen," Ted repeated, his voice placating. "I think you should stop now. He's defenceless."
Well, of course he was defenceless. Draco stripped him of his wand after the man had tried to murder him. After he'd planned to ambush them. After he'd spent months selling people to the Ministry. After he'd tortured an innocent girl to death.
Just short of reaching the door, Draco came to a stop.
"Don't kill me," the Snatcher continued pleading, his hands up in the air. There was nothing left of his tough facade. "I will tell you everything you want to know, if you only... if you only show me m-mercy."
Draco's lips twisted in disdain as he looked at the man before him. This pathetic coward, this filthy piece of trash, this... this pitiful excuse for a human being dared to ask for mercy?
"Listen, listen to me!" There was an urgency in Ted's voice. "You don't have to do this."
He didn't understand. None of them did.
Draco brandished his wand—making the Snatcher shrink back even further—and summoned his cloak and gun. The cloak wrapped around his shoulders with an elegant flourish, and before the man could breathe a sigh of relief at not being hexed, Draco swapped his wand for the gun, aiming it at the man's forehead.
"Trust me, this is mercy."
As the bang echoed off the walls, no one said anything.
Draco summoned the pouch from the Snatcher's dead body and spared him no more glances, heading in the opposite direction. Following a single flick of his wand, all the cell doors clinked open. But no one came out.
He walked over to Ted's cell and, with a heavy sigh, entered it himself. The man refused to look at him, sitting still on the edge of his mattress. Draco didn't let this affect him now. He extended a wand to him—the one he'd earlier won from one of the Snatchers—and said,
"Take us to your wife."