Inell's Fanfiction Archive

i

Blood. Screams. Pain. The world is red and black.

Being a Death Eater isn’t anything like Draco once dreamed. As a child, he heard stories of the first war, heard tales of bravery and courage in saving their world from becoming infested with Muggles and those who don’t deserve to hold a wand. He dreamt of power and prestige, of heroics and worship. The reality is a nightmare, nothing like the golden dreams of his childhood. His father isn’t a courageous hero; he’s a cowardly murderer who bows before a creature that is no longer even a man.

It’s blasphemy to have such thoughts, but Draco no longer cares. He isn’t sure when he stopped caring, but he thinks that maybe it was the middle of his sixth year when his arm ached constantly from the Mark he had willingly-happily-accepted on his forearm and he was unable to sleep because of the fear and stress and sense of failure that enveloped him the moment his ‘Lord’ had given him the assignment. Dumbledore had been a dodgy old wizard, but murder was not something that fit into Draco’s dreams of glory and reverence.

Dumbledore is gone now, though he did not fall at the end of Draco’s wand. That makes it worse, really. His parents are in disfavor, their home overtaken by their ‘Lord’, a title that Draco doesn’t even want to give in his thoughts, yet he feels a sense of panic even thinking the other name. He knows of spells that can track whenever it is said, and he isn’t entirely certain that there might not be one to track thoughts. It’s better not to take the risk, not when every day might be his last and the path that he’s walking seems to get smaller and smaller until he’s scared he’s going to fall off and take his parents along with him into the flames of hell.

With a growl, he storms through the corridors at school. It is no longer the same, either. War changes everything-everyone-and not even Hogwarts has escaped the suffering fate that awaits their world. Children cry in the shadows, others scream from darkened rooms as the Carrows enjoy an endless supply of supple flesh that is just begging them to mar it. He hates them nearly as much as their ‘Lord’, though it is the wolf-monster that haunts his worst nightmares.

The corridors are dripping red. Everywhere he looks now, he sees blood and misery and pain. He thinks that perhaps he is going crazy. It runs in his mother’s family—he’s heard the whispers from others about the Black insanity and how it has warped his aunt and twisted her into the obsessed creature that she has become. The stench of blood is impossible to get out of his skin. Not even magic can make him stop smelling it, stop seeing it, stop feeling it dripping from his hands.

He hears another scream as he walks and his lips tighten as he refuses to show any reaction. One wrong action could lead to his downfall, and he refuses to slip. It is not just him, after all. It’s his parents, his family name, even his friends, though that word has become confused with the blurring lines that power and a taste of blood can cause. Some are lost while others are not. She-Carrow is cackling now, the sound making him walk faster as he seeks escape from what has become his reality.

Someone moving in the shadows catches his attention. There’s a flash of red hair, and he can’t help but follow. He knows who it is, even if she’s concealed by the dark. She and her friends are going to die. One day, he will look at their bodies lying twisted and together in a pile on the stone floor. Blood will cover the floor, and he’ll hear She-Carrow cackling as her brother tortures the bodies until there is nothing left but pale skin and broken bones. He has dreamt it, has heard them whispering their morbid plans for those they deem unworthy as soon as their ‘Lord’ allows them to play, and he is curious why Weasley and the others continue to fight when their fate is practically inevitable.

“Why do you do it?” he asks before he can stop himself. He is so surprised by his words that he stops in mid-step and feels a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. He grips his wand tightly and looks around, searching the darkened shadows for anyone who might have overheard him. He has stepped off the path and he’s terrified even if no one will ever know.

“Do what, Malfoy? I’m going to the library,” Weasley says in a tone that indicates no fear. He is tempted to curse her, to make her shake and scream and wake her up to the truth that everyone seems to know except her and her foolish friends. Crucio. It would be so easy, just one word and she would begin to break, but he hates the screams, hates the pain, and he can’t raise his wand. Not even when she steps into the pale light of the torches around them and glares at him defiantly.

“Curfew is soon,” he says sharply, tilting his chin slightly even as he feels a prickling on the back of his neck and has to grind his teeth to keep himself from looking around again. He steps closer to her and sneers. “The library is closed, Weasley. Besides, don’t you know that blood traitors don’t deserve the privilege of reading?”

For a moment, he thinks she might hex him. Her wand is in her hand, and she steps forward, as if she’s going to strike. He stands firm, not at all threatened by this little girl. She’s nothing compared to what he’s faced in recent months. Instead of cursing him, she bites her lip hard enough to make it bleed before she takes a step back. There is little sense of triumph at her withdrawal because he knows it’s not because she fears him. He isn’t sure why she gives up, and it intrigues him.

“Don’t you have first years to torture?” she asks, her words stinging more than a hex. He thinks back to the first day of term when children were crying out in pain as he cursed them while Carrow whispered in his ears to ‘make it hurt or their Lord would be displeased’. Those children fear him now, but Weasley and her group have no respect at all for him. He should hate them for that, but he can’t muster such an intense emotion when he can’t even look at himself in the mirror anymore.

“Go to your dorm before I report you,” he snarls before pushing past her, his grip on his wand so tight that he’s surprised it hasn’t broken yet. He doesn’t make it but a few steps before he hears her speak.

“I do it because Harry’s going to win,” she says in such a confident voice that he has a flash of doubt before he realizes how foolish it is to have hope in a place like this, in a world like this.

“Potter’s going to die,” he tells her simply, glancing over his shoulder at her. “You’re a fool if you believe otherwise.”

“You’re a fool for following a madman,” she retorts, not backing down even when he turns and aims his wand at her. He steps closer to her, stopping right in front of her, but she holds her ground. Bloody impertinent bint. “Harry’s going to win, and You-Know-Who will be the one who dies.”

He snorts. “You plan to fight Him, yet you can’t even say his name.” He moves the tip of his wand along the curve of her jaw and forces a smirk. “They’ll make you scream until you beg for death.”

“I’ll die fighting. I’ll never beg,” she tells him before she slaps his wand away from her face and kicks his shin hard. “Don’t ever point a wand at me again unless you plan to use it, Malfoy.”

His leg hurts, and he aims his wand, muttering the first syllable of the word that has become such a common part of his language-Cru- before he realizes what he’s nearly done. He stops before he finishes it and blinks as he stumbles back from her. “Go to your dorm,” he growls before he turns and hurries away from her, his leg throbbing with every step.

ii

Something is wrong.

Draco isn’t entirely sure what it is, but he’s spent the last few months watching and listening, and he knows this isn’t right. School has been back in session for nearly two months now, which is hard to believe because it feels like years instead. It’s been a couple of weeks since his confrontation with Weasley, and he still feels a phantom pain in his leg whenever he catches sight of her.

There’s not even a bruise anymore, so he knows it’s all in his head, and that might be part of the problem. Everything seems to be in his head these days. He can’t trust anyone, and it feels like every minute of every day is spent living a lie. He thought that Snape was someone he could depend on, in a warped way that he can’t really put into words, but he knows now that not even Snape is safe.

No, that’s not right. He’s known that all along, since Snape killed Dumbledore to save him or to please their ‘Lord’ or for whatever selfish reason led his hand that night in the tower. He can only trust himself, and he isn’t entirely certain about that anymore. He sees things that aren’t there, probably because he rarely sleeps anymore and, when he does, his dreams are full of death and blood and the wolf hunting him through shadows until there’s nothing but pain and darkness. He is living inside his head because it’s safe there, because he can analyze and distance himself and protect his family by not making the wrong step.

Snape is the problem.

He’s one of the most loyal, the one who killed the Albus Dumbledore, the one that their ‘Lord’ gifted with the whole of Hogwarts to control, yet he’s the one who sneers when the Carrows are around and who recently took a wrong step, a worse one than any that Draco has taken, even if no one seems to have noticed. Draco noticed. Weasley and her two bumbling friends were caught trying to steal, were right there in Snape’s hands for him to punish in ways that would cease their silly rebellion and end the threat of dissent that keeps whispering amongst the students.

Their punishment was being sent to the oaf of a professor to prance around the Forbidden Forest. Others might hear that and fear for them, but Draco knows better. He’s made it a hobby to study Potter and his silly little friends for years, after all, and there isn’t any way that Snape isn’t also aware of it. Draco doesn’t know what it means, whether Snape plans to overthrow their ‘Lord’ or if he is working on an unknown agenda, but it’s been eating at him since it happened. He detests the unpredictable, especially now when every move must be carefully thought out and played perfectly.

When he sees Lovegood sneaking around the fifth floor, he sees an opportunity to get answers. He should have known better. Lovegood is daft, and he fears that he might end up like her if he keeps going the way that he is. She says words that make no sense and thoughts that are pointless. It’s particularly frustrating because she doesn’t seem scared of him. Instead, he sees pity in her eyes.

He gives her a detention before he leaves her standing in the corridor, hating himself for not being able to curse her himself and for feeling guilty for sending her to face the Carrows for nothing more than a look that he might have imagined.

There are children crying and sniffling in the corridors. He can’t seem to find anywhere in this castle that is quiet. Everywhere he goes, there are screams and crying and a growing insurgence led by Longbottom and Weasley. The thought of anyone following those two is surreal enough without adding Lovegood to the leadership that seems to have taken over where Potter and his two shadows left off. The students should keep silent and do as they’re told because the Carrows don’t care what bloodlines run through their veins if it means they can have their malicious fun.

When he sees a sign advertising for members for Dumbledore’s Army posted where any bloody person can walk by and see it, he stops walking and stares. They’re all crazy. For one brief moment, he envies them but it’s fleeting. He values his life too much to ever do anything so stupid. With a wave of his wand, he removes the advert and goes downstairs.

He needs to get away from this castle, to run and escape and breathe easily instead of feeling as if he’s suffocating with every breath that he takes. He doesn’t run, of course. He walks slowly, giving no indication to anyone who might notice him that he’s tense or disturbed. He is Head Boy, the junior Death Eater who has to be an example to everyone, and he plays the part perfectly. No one will ever doubt his loyalty or question his allegiance.

Finally, he is outside. He stands there for a moment simply breathing. It is silent here, the screams and crying behind him now, and he feels liberated as he makes his way to the Quidditch pitch. There are no matches this year, but he has his broom in the Slytherin team room so that he can fly. There are few benefits to his position in this war, but permission to go flying is the most important one. He needs his broom, needs to fly into the clouds where no one can find him, needs to be away from the red and black that seem to color his vision of the world now.

He is nearly there when he feels a tingle in his legs. With a muttered curse, he reaches for his wand, but it’s too late. The hex has caught him by surprise, and he can’t retaliate before he’s falling forward. He lands hard, his cheek hitting the muddy ground and stinging from the impact. He can feel dampness seeping into his robes, and, for a moment, he wonders if anyone will even miss him if he never goes back.

“Leave her alone.”

His visions of being consumed by the muddy earth are interrupted by a hissing voice near his ear. He blinks and tries to roll over, only to discover that he’s unable to do so. A wave of panic spreads over him as he finds himself immobilized, and he can’t breathe as the scent of mud and grass surrounds him. There’s a lighter scent, he notices, something fresh and pure that belongs here in the mud with him.

“If you want to attack someone, you can face me, and I’ll kick your arse.”

The hissing voice is back. Dimly, he wonders if he’s imagining it. No one would ever dare speak that way to him, even if they wanted to. Something soft brushes his face, and he blinks again, only able to see the clearing to the side of where he lies. He tries to talk again but it’s impossible. His vocal cords are as frozen as his body. The feeling of helplessness makes his eyes sting as he tries to fight, tries to get free, to no avail.

“You’re not so powerful now, are you, Malfoy?” The voice is no longer hissing, but it buzzes around his head in low tones that are familiar yet aren’t. “On your belly lying in the mud. What would your father say?”

He struggles to breathe as he hears his father’s voice in his head confusing him with his advice: telling him to get up and be a man yet also telling him to keep his head down and survive. Survive. That’s all he does these days. Try to survive, try to keep up the act, try to stay sane. Sane. Is he already lost? He fears he is, but that means he isn’t, doesn’t it? If he can fear it, he hasn’t become it. The realization calms him, slightly, but he can feel heat in his cheeks as he flushes from gasping for breath.

“Oh, bloody hell. Poncy git. Breathe, why don’t you?”

The woman-girl?- sounds annoyed with him, and he is almost amused, yet not, because he is the one lying motionless in the muddy grass listening to her threats. Suddenly, the tension in his body lifts, and he clenches his fingers into the grass, feeling it beneath his palm as the charm is removed.

“Leave Luna alone or, next time, I’ll let you lie there and die.”

There is no hesitation in the threat. No waver of voice. He believes it, and that shocks him. He rolls onto his side and looks up to see Weasley in the process of standing up. Her black robes are muddy at her knees, and her hair is falling around her flushed face in a curtain of red. The world is red and black.

“Are you daft, Malfoy?” she questions in an obnoxious tone that makes him snap out of the daze he’s been in.

“You don’t scare me, Weasley,” he says, cringing slightly when his throat aches from speaking. What had she done to him? Nothing she learned herself. She’s not that clever. Potter taught her or maybe that Mudblood bitch.

“I should,” she says in that same low tone that makes his skin crawl and his hand itch for his wand. She leans down, keeping her wand aimed at him, and stares at him in a way that makes it impossible to look away. “We’re in this until the end.”

Her eyes are brown. A dull muddy brown that is almost cold as she stares at him. He blinks and looks away. “Keep the daft bitch out of my way and there won’t be a problem,” he says finally. It’s not giving in. It’s not letting her win. He certainly has no intention of going after Lovegood unless she forces him to, so it’s merely using a fact to free himself from Weasley’s company.

“Next time, I won’t be so nice,” Weasley warns as she straightens and looks him over. With a nod, she turns and walks away, looking over her shoulder with every step until she disappears from view.

When he realizes that he’s still sitting on the muddy grass with ruined robes and drying mud on his face, he tenses and reaches for his wand. He cleans himself up and takes a moment to compose himself before he continues on his way to the pitch. He needs to fly.

iii

There is a restlessness that seems to have taken over the school. The castle itself seems to be agitated. Draco finds it curious as he stares at the solid walls and wonders if it can feel like they do. Does it miss them during the holidays? Does it feel the sense of panic and fear that so many felt this year? Does it hate the Carrows as much as everyone else? He touches the stone and can almost feel it pulse beneath his palm.

He is glad to be back at school. The Christmas holidays were worse than he imagined possible, and his home felt more like a prison than Hogwarts does. They’re both prisons, really. Guarded by others like him, others with marks on their arms, but that mark is the only similarity. He is not like them, even if he foolishly aspired to be in his youth.

After the holidays, he can think that with more conviction than ever before. He has seen them do things that will haunt his nightmares, has heard screams of pain and the last gurgles of breath before life is gone too often to ever want to become like that. Survival means nothing if that is the future that awaits him if his ‘Lord’ wins this war. He scrapes his fingernails against the stone of the castle as he sees an endless path before him where one wrong move will see him at the other end of his ‘Lord’s’ wand.

There is no escape. Triumph or defeat doesn’t matter because he is doomed regardless. His parents are responsible for their own choices, but they will suffer for his if he does anything wrong. Is it worth the risk to their lives to just give up and end it now? He is not a coward, despite what others mutter when he refuses to torture for enjoyment, but there is no future, so what is the point in continuing the act?

The castle wall seems to vibrate, and he pulls his hand away quickly, taking a step back as he stares at it. It’s not moving. He rubs his temple before he turns and walks away, moving through the corridors quickly. There is no answer to his question. Not that he wants one. He is glad to be back amongst the shadows of Hogwarts, but he already wishes he were anywhere else. No, not anywhere. Home is no longer home, and he dreads having to return for Easter.

But he won’t think about that right now. Maybe Potter will show up and get himself killed before then, and then he’ll have worse things than returning home to worry about. No one knows what the future might hold, he reminds himself, even as his mind flashes back to the tiny path with Death Eaters on one side and his ‘Lord’ on the other, all aiming their wands at him and just waiting for a misstep.

When he reaches his destination, he fingers the folded parchment in the pocket of his robe. This is a mistake. He knows it is, so he doesn’t understand why he’s still considering it. Even with the altered slant in handwriting and the cheap parchment, there is a risk. Still, he made a promise, even if it was by omission instead of acceptance, and a Malfoy always honors their promises.

He rubs his thumb over the parchment one last time before he quickly removes it from his pocket and forces it under the base of the statue near the Ravenclaw common room. As he walks away, he thinks of the words written on it and wonders if they are vague enough to conceal his identity without being so imprecise that his promise won’t be kept.

Lovegood is alive.

There isn’t really anything else to say. He isn’t going to betray his family by giving the location of where his ‘Lord’ is keeping the daft bint, after all. Promise or not, he will protect his family if he can. It’s why he stops himself from thinking about his future before he goes to the dark place that he can’t come back from. Weasley will find the note and know that Lovegood is alive. That should fulfill Lovegood’s request that he tell her friends that she’s okay, even if she will have no idea that his silence to her desperate entreaty was acceptance.

It isn’t until the next day that he realizes how great the risk truly is. Lovegood had assured him that the spot is known only to Lovegood and Weasley, a place for secret messages between friends from different houses, and now Weasley knows that someone else is aware of it. He thinks that she will be relieved to find out that Lovegood is alive and won’t be concerned with who told her the news, but he can see her searching the tables during breakfast as if she’s looking for something--for someone. She has to let it go before Snape notices. The bloody bitch is going to get him caught if she isn’t careful.

After classes, he knows what to do. It’s his mistake, so he has to fix it now before it leads to discovery. For once, he feels as if he has the upper-hand as he quietly follows Weasley through the shadowed corridors. When she reaches a dark corner where he knows no one will be lurking, he aims his wand and binds her. It’s tempting to enjoy the moment, to brag and celebrate at having her at his mercy, to threaten her as she did months ago. It isn’t a time for that, though.

“Lovegood is alive. Be content with that and stop looking for more.” He sounds ridiculous attempting to conceal his voice, but he also doesn’t sound like himself, so he assumes that it’s effective.

“Where is she?” Weasley demands, not seeming to care at all that she’s frozen in place with an enemy aiming a wand at her back.

He can’t help but roll his eyes at her. She is sorted correctly, obviously, because she is rash and stupid like other Gryffindors. “I said to stop looking,” he repeats as he pokes his wand into her back for good measure.

She visibly tenses before she whispers, “Malfoy.”

“Just stop,” he growls. He doesn’t know how she knows that it’s him, but he’s careful not to confirm her guess. “She’s as safe as she can be. Be glad she’s not being tortured and raped by the animals who follow Him.”

“The animals like you,” she spits out.

He grips his wand tighter and bites his tongue as he feels a need to deny her accusation. He doesn’t care what she thinks. She’s nothing. Potter’s little whore, blindly following the great Hero to a certain death. That’s all. He steps closer, until her hair is brushing against his face, and he moves his wand down her ribcage. “I could kill you and no one would find your body for days.”

“Then do it,” she challenges, frustrating him with her utter inability to be frightened of him even when she should be.

Crucio. He thinks it and closes his eyes as he imagines her shuddering and twisting her body from the pain. He feels nauseous at the thought and takes a step back. “If you don’t stop, I’ll make sure that she suffers and knows it’s because of you.”

That threat works, he realizes, storing it away for future reference. Threats to her own life mean nothing but she becomes docile when her friend’s life is in danger. It is one of those confusing things about Gryffindors, and something he isn’t expecting from Weasley. It gives him the opportunity that he needs, though, so he’ll think about it later. Now that she’s quiet, he quickly walks away, only releasing the charm once he’s hidden in the shadows.

iv

The Carrows are becoming impatient.

It’s obvious to Draco, but there isn’t anything he can do. Snape watches them carefully, but never in a way that people notice. He only notices because he watches Snape and has since the failed detention last year. Snape tries to be careful, but he’s making foolish errors recently. He’s distracted and seems to have been since the holidays.

The holidays. That’s when everything seems to have changed. The students are still restless after that taste of freedom that some had, and he thinks many won’t return from Easter holidays. The Carrows are stepping out of line, disobeying their ‘Lord’s’ orders, and he wonders if they will be punished if they are discovered. By then, it might be too late, but he hopes that he lives to see the day when they are brought to their knees and screaming in pain.

They think he is one of them. The mark on his forearm is an invitation to be included in their plans, to hear their dangerous mutterings about how the school is run, to listen as they discuss ways to fulfill their desperate needs for things he doesn’t really understand. They hate the DA. They want them all to suffer, every last one, but they focus their attentions on Weasley and Longbottom and Finnigan. Two are Purebloods, but the other is only Halfblood, which makes him bear the brunt of it.

Not for long.

The Carrows are anxious and want more. Snape must know, if Draco knows. Neither will say anything. They both wear masks, Draco realizes, and life is nothing but an act for them. Everyone has masks, of course, but they chose theirs when they knelt before their ‘Lord’ and allowed themselves to be branded. He doesn’t know what side Snape is on, doesn’t know if Snape is on any side but his own, but he knows that Snape won’t say anything to stop the Carrows. What are the lives of a few annoying children when compared to surviving a war?

It isn’t something that he should care about. He hates the Gryffindors and their foolish attempt at rebellion. He’s tried keeping the peace, which is his responsibility as Head Boy, but he hears them whispering sometimes and isn’t sure they’re taking his advice seriously. Not that they know it’s from him. He’s been extremely careful when he’s left the scraps of cheap parchment during the last couple of months.

Really, it doesn’t matter. They deserve what they get because they chose to fight instead of trying to live through it. Still, he can’t stop thinking about it. The closer it gets to Easter, the worse his nightmares become. It’s bad enough thinking about Lovegood living in the dungeon, wondering if she’s been tortured or worse during his time back at school, but the thought of what the Carrows will do to those they consider their enemy make Lovegood the safe one.

Tomorrow, they’ll board the Hogwarts Express to go home for Easter, so he knows that he’s running out of time. Out of time for what, he isn’t sure. There’s just this feeling that he has to actually do something, and he hates it, because he doesn’t really want to do anything but prepare for the upcoming holiday and the balancing act that he’ll have to do once he gets home. At least his ‘Lord’ isn’t around right now. The last letter from his mum said that the house is quiet right now, or as quiet as it can be with his aunt there.

When his head starts to hurt from thinking about the Carrows and Easter hols and tortured DA members, he knows that it’s time to go flying. In the air, he’ll escape everything and be able to stop thinking until he has to stop and go back inside. Maybe one day, he’ll just keep flying and never come down. It’s a nice dream to counter all the nightmares and the reality that he faces every morning.

As he nears the pitch, he notices someone lurking near a tree. He grips his wand as he keeps walking, keeping an eye on the tree in case he needs to defend himself. The figure moves and he sees red hair that’s familiar. He doesn’t loosen his grip on his wand, but he does slow his steps. Weasley is unpredictable, and he still can’t figure her out, so he has no idea what she’s doing skulking about.

“Why do you do it?”

The question catches him off-guard. For a moment, he feels a sense of déjà vu as he remembers a dark night many months ago when he spoke those same words to her. He curls his fingers more firmly around his wand and keeps his attention focused ahead of him. He can see her peripherally, so he has enough time to react if she tries to hex him, not that she’s tried since he got the best of her.

“Do what, Weasley?” he asks in his most bored tone to indicate to her that he’s not distracted enough for her to attack without him defending himself.

“You know what, Malfoy. I’m not stupid. I know it’s you.” She sounds so smug that he has to grit his teeth to keep from saying something without thinking.

“I think the level of your intelligence is debatable. In my opinion, you’re certainly not clever or smart,” he drawls, sounding almost like his old self, even if he hasn’t felt like the boy since he was branded.

She snorts. “Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

She steps away from the tree, and he glances behind him quickly to make sure they’re not visible to the castle. What is she doing, approaching him out in the open like this? Does she have a death wish? His true opinion of her intelligence is drastically reduced in the span of a few seconds.

“Like a cat,” she says thoughtfully. He glances at her and sneers, not sure what she’s saying but annoyed that she’s staring at him without a care in the world. “Always so nervous and always watching things. I know you’ve given us the warnings. Why?”

“You’re obviously deranged, Weasley. Go back to your dorm before I have to give you detention.” He is pleased that his voice didn’t waver when confronted with her accusations. Warnings, she says, like he’s been doing them favors or something.

“I saw you put the parchment down tonight,” she tells him before she reaches into the pocket of her robe and removes the cheap parchment. “Why shouldn’t we return from our holiday break?”

“You must have been seeing things,” he snaps, rubbing his thumb over his wand as he stares at her and resists the urge to look at the parchment. He refuses to believe that she managed to hide without him catching her. He’s too careful, too alert, and she’s not known for being restrained.

She tilts her chin stubbornly. “I saw you and this piece of parchment. I know what I saw, Malfoy. It’s the same handwriting as the other notes, and I know it was you who threatened me after Christmas.”

“We weren’t even at school after Christmas.” He debates using a memory charm on her. It would be very simple, and the risk would no longer be there.

“Stop being so literal.” She frowns. “Answer my question. Why shouldn’t I return after Easter? What’s going on?”

“Literal? Impressive. I suppose you learned that from the Mudblood bitch,” he drawls as he takes a step closer to her. “As for what’s going on, Weasley, it’s called a war.”

“Don’t call her that.” Weasley points her wand. “I know it’s a war, you arse. What I want to know is why you bothered to tell me not to come back to school. Your other warnings have been vague, but this was blunt.”

There she is again with her talk of warnings. He simply left an occasional note whenever he knew the Carrows were in particular form because it made things more peaceful for other students. He certainly isn’t doing anything because he’s suddenly had a change of heart or because he cares about anyone except himself. He might hate his ‘Lord’ and this life he’s leading, but he knows who he is, even if Weasley doesn’t.

“Perhaps you should stop asking questions and simply listen to the advice,” he says firmly. He’s not about to admit to giving the suggestion that she’s holding. He still isn’t sure why he does it, but he knows that school will be disrupted terribly if the Carrows are allowed to act out their plans, and he keeps coming back to his responsibilities as Head Boy, which is a logical reason. Keeping those they want to torture out of the school will prevent that, so, good, it is entirely selfish. He’s relieved at that, because the thought of it being anything else is something he doesn’t even want to consider.

“We’re not going to run away and hide. We’re not cowards, like you,” she says in that hissing tone that makes him want to hear her scream.

He reaches out and grabs her hair, pulling her head back before she can react. “I’m many things, Weasley, but I’m not a coward,” he growls lowly before he lets go of her and shoves her slightly. “You’ll have detention when we get back for insulting the Head Boy. Perhaps I’ll arrange for it to be with Carrow. He seems especially fond of you.”

“You won’t do that,” she says confidently after studying him a moment. “I don’t care if you do, though. I’ll be here after break. You’re not going to force me out of here.”

“You stupid bint,” he mutters. “You’ll be dead if you come back. What good will you be for your Saint Potter then? For your family? Will they be able to finish this war without getting themselves killed if you’re gone? Don’t be so bloody selfish.”

“Dead?” She blinks and shifts, obviously as surprised by his words as he is.

He almost laughs at how stunned she looks at hearing she might die when she’s faced him and challenged him to kill her before. Not so brave in the face of reality. It’s oddly endearing. The hard edge to her is gone as she apparently tries to accept that he’s serious about her being killed. “Even Purebloods are expendable when they do nothing but cause trouble,” he says simply, watching her lower lip tremble as she finally seems to listen.

“They wouldn’t--“ Weasley hesitates before she tilts her chin again. “I don’t care. I’ll come back because I’m not going to hide. I don’t need to be protected.”

Well, her apparent lapse into good judgment hadn’t even lasted five minutes. He glances in the direction of the castle, a nerve in his cheek twitching as he stares into the distance. “If you get yourself killed, Potter won’t stand a chance. Is being stubborn worth losing the war?” He glances at her and sneers. “Not that Potter’ll win anyway. He’ll be dead in the end, same as you.”

“You don’t want him to lose,” she whispers. “Bloody hell. That’s why you’ve left the warn--“

Before she can finish, he presses his lips against hers. He can’t let her say it. He doesn’t want to hear it, especially not from her. It’s not true. It’s all lies, made up by her to excuse his selfish behavior. He doesn’t know why he kisses her to keep her quiet, but it works better than a silencing charm. He moves his hand behind her and pulls her closer as he scrapes his teeth against her lip. That seems to snap her out of her shocked daze because she pushes at his chest and stumbles away when he lets go.

“I should hex you for that,” she says as she wipes her lips with the back of her hand. She’s stopped talking about his motives, at least, so it accomplished its purpose.

“Then why don’t you?” he challenges, slightly delighted that she didn’t protest immediately. Not that he cares if she wanted to kiss him or not. He just did it to stop her from talking. He watches her, waiting for her to raise her wand, but she shakes her head and runs towards the castle instead. His gaze follows her until she’s gone.

With a shake of his head, he goes to get his broom. He’s more in need of a flight now than he was before.

v

It’s really over.

No, that isn’t true. In some ways, it’s just starting. Draco thinks of a saying he’s heard, about endings being nothing more than beginnings, as he looks around the Great Hall. People are celebrating while others are mourning. There is death and life all around. Everywhere he looks, he can see it. The saying isn’t entirely accurate. Some endings are just that: an ending.

Vincent won’t have a new beginning, after all. Draco curls his fingers into his palm and tries to stop breathing as the scent of fire seems to surround him. It’s been hours since Vincent died, but he can still feel the heat, still feel the fear as he grasped onto Potter’s broom and left his friend behind to die. It’s his fault that Vincent’s dead, even if he tried to stop it. He’s known all year that Vincent was getting too close to the Carrows, that he was taking to torture too easily, but he never did anything about it.

His aunt’s body is lying in a room nearby, along with others bearing their ‘Lord’s’ mark. No. Not that. Voldemort. He can think it now, can’t he? It feels odd in his head, foreign, and his instinct is to say Lord, but he’ll learn. Eventually. Others aren’t so lucky. They’re lying dead with others, sent away from the heroes who will be written about and praised everywhere. Destined to become villains when the stories are repeated in the future. He hates most of them, but there is more to the world than just good and bad.

If he’s learned anything over the last two years, it’s that.

It’s a mistake to stay here. There are heroes all around hugging and crying and doing heroic things that make him feel like even more of an outsider. His future is a blank now, but he knows that he’ll have to tread carefully, that he’ll have to wear his masks and give his best act if he wants to escape with his freedom. His father will go back to prison. His mother will be safe. She helped Saint Potter, he’s heard, though he isn’t sure how or why. His parents are somewhere in the crowd, but he needs space, so he wandered away when things became too overwhelming.

Now, he’s leaning against a wall watching everyone, specifically noticing those who aren’t there. Snape is dead. He isn’t sure where the body is, but it isn’t in the room with his aunt. Snape would be glad about that. Draco knows that Snape never liked Aunt Bellatrix. Very few people did. His mother is mourning quietly, but not even his father can feign grief. He thinks about Snape and the whispers he’s heard, about what Potter shrieked out, about how someone could be willing to die to make amends to someone long dead.

Saint Potter is gone. He isn’t sure where, but he doesn’t see crowds of fawning people, so he knows Potter isn’t around. Someone mentions seeing him sneak away with the Mudblood bitch and the oaf Weasley, but Draco doesn’t care enough to pay attention. Potter survived, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that yet. Even worse, Potter and his annoying sidekicks saved him and Greg, which is something else that he doesn’t care to think about right now. If ever.

People are looking at him, staring, and he tries not to betray his impulse to hide. The mark on his forearm is obvious with his torn robes, and he feels like he’s waiting for Aurors to come find him and send him to prison along with his father. They can share a cell, he supposes, though he prefers not to because his father snores. With a sneer at anyone whispering about him, he turns and walks out of the Great Hall. When they come for him, they can bloody well find him.

When he’s out of the Great Hall, he finds it easier to breathe. The castle is a mess, and he has to step over fallen stones and around broken glass as he walks. He happens upon a blood stain and stops in his tracks, staring at it as he scratches the mark on his arm. It looks almost as if the castle, itself, was bleeding, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s possible. It is more of a victim than most in this battle, after all, suffering so much damage that he isn’t sure how it’ll ever get fixed.

“Here.”

He stiffens when he hears the voice behind him, turning so suddenly that he only stumbles and falls. He catches his balance and stares at Weasley as she holds out a broom. “What?” he snarls, immediately defensive as she quietly looks at him. He doesn’t like this abnormal quiet, not when she should be hexing him or screaming.

“It’s a broom.” She thrusts it at him so forcefully that he can’t help but take it. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and she looks pale.

Belatedly, he remembers that one of her many brothers is lying in the Great Hall with the other fallen heroes. He tightens his grip on the broom. “Why?”

“You always go flying to escape, don’t you.” It isn’t a question. She shakes her head and shrugs a shoulder. “I saw you sneaking out and thought you might need it.”

The realization that she knows that about him is like a kick to the gut. His grip tightens even more as he stares at her. “I wasn’t sneaking anywhere. I don’t belong in there,” he says with a grimace. “Why aren’t you with Potter?”

“He’s with Ron and Hermione. He needs them, not me,” she says simply. “I couldn’t breathe in there anymore.” She frowns. “Maybe I’m escaping in my own way.”

“By following me?” He starts to take a step back but moves to the side when he remembers the bloodstain. It’s superstitious, possibly, but he can’t step on it. Not consciously.

“By following you.” She looks confused, which is appropriate because it doesn’t make sense to him, either. She’s lost a brother, so she should be inside crying with her parents and mourning or with Potter celebrating his great triumph. Not standing in a bloodstained corridor with one of the villains.

He glances at the broom he’s holding then back at her. “I’m going flying.” He hadn’t planned to, but it seems a waste of a decent broom not to now. It’s not his, nor particularly new, but it’ll fly alright, he figures.

“You were right,” she says suddenly, before he can walk away. “About me being selfish. Before. If I’d died--“ She trails off and glances back towards the Great Hall, her lower lip trembling. Probably remembering whichever of her dozen brothers is the dead one.

“You shouldn’t say that too loudly. It’s not the best time to say that I’m right about anything,” he points out. He’s surprised when she turns towards him and moves closer. She kisses him quickly, and moves away before he can even think about what she’s done.

“Thank you.” She still looks bewildered, and he wonders if she got hit with a curse during the war that messed with her mind. His lips are tingling from where she kissed him, which is ridiculous because it didn’t even last long enough to tingle. “Uh, I’d better go. See you around, Malfoy.” She steps away from him, looking at him curiously before she turns and goes back into the Great Hall.

It’s almost surreal, and he isn’t entirely sure that it really happened. If not for the broom in his hand, he’d think it was just his imagination. He looks at the floor for a moment before he steps around the bloodstain and heads outside. When he steps into the fresh air, he takes several deep breaths, trying to replace the smell of battle and fire that’s lingered around him for hours.

Since he doesn’t have to walk to the pitch to get his broom, he mounts the borrowed one and takes off from the front of the castle. He flies into the sky, going faster and faster until he can’t think of anything except the wind in his hair, the sun on his face, and soft lips that might be a beginning. Of what, he isn’t sure. He’ll think about it later. For now, he flies and looks at everything around him and considers never going back.

The world is bright again.

End