Hopeless, Guttural, and Ugly
His body is a husk, dried out and brittle, and his heartbeat rings in his ears, a pounding cacophony, inescapable and violent.
His mind is blank, but not the fuzzy cotton, white noise, peaceful and familiar blanket of occlumency. He’s blank in the same way conjured animals are blank. Flesh and blood, but empty, the moment before they wither into ash as the magic ends.
Draco always knew his father was callous. He could be cruel at times. Unfeeling, at times. But this? This is fucked.
This is beyond fucked.
The idea of a prisoner had remained abstract in Draco’s mind, a worst case scenario—something he probably hallucinated in his panic—and he had approached it like it was a game. A fucked up game of hide and seek. But now that he’s found he can’t pretend anymore.
The truth is lying there, chained to the dirty stone floor of his childhood home, with tangled and grimy amber hair and torn muggle clothes. With wrists chafed red and raw from rubbing against shackles. Barefoot. Sallow skin so pale it’s almost green. And with Hermione’s face.
It’s real, right now, in front of his face. He can feel the air in his lungs, the tremble in his fingertips. The seconds spinning past him, happening quicker than real time.
She’s asleep, curled in a ball.
Draco can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and it’s threatening to shatter him.
Theo rushes forward, never one to stumble in a crisis. His whole childhood was a crisis—he has had ample practice. Draco’s childhood was sunny, idyllic. Beautiful. And his parents loved him . He never had to—This is—Draco stumbles in a crisis. He freezes.
So Theo rushes toward her, and Draco follows when he can urge his legs to move.
She wakes from the sound of their footsteps, and she scrambles backward until the chains stop her. Her eyes are red, bloodshot from crying. She squints into his wand-light, sneering.
“And here I thought you forgot about me down here.” Her chin trembles as she looks up at them. She must think that he is Lucius. “Come to kill me at last?”
There’s a pair of black shoes lying just out of her reach. Her eyes cut to them. There’s blood on the pointed heel of one, like she stabbed someone with it.
Theo kneels in front of her, and she shrinks back.
“Brought a friend with you, love? By all means, it’s a–” Her voice breaks. “—a party down here.”
Her eyes finally seem to adjust to Draco’s wand-light, and as she searches Draco’s eyes, relief blooms across her face. “I thought you were—You look like him.”
Theo takes out his wand, and she flinches.
“Get that thing away from me!”
She wasn’t provided a chamberpot, not even a bucket, and the cellar stinks. The only thing she was provided was a glass of water. It sits next to her on the dirty floor. Her fingers tighten around it, like she could use it as a weapon if they approach any closer.
Water sloshes out of it and onto the floor, then immediately refills itself.
“Ma’am I—” Theo starts, lowering his wand. He glances at Draco. “We’re just trying to help.”
Draco nods. “We’re trying to help. I knew my father had—we’ve been looking for you.”
“Christ, you’re—you’re just kids. That man, he’s your father?”
Draco nods.
“What does he want from me?”
Draco shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He was looking, just in case. He wasn’t supposed to find anyone. “I don’t know.”
“You’re wizards. My daughter—she’s like you.” Her chin juts forward. She tosses her hair. “She’s—she’s about your age. You have to help me get out of here, so I can get back to her.”
“You’re Hermione’s mum.” Draco’s hands are shaking. The light at the end of his wand wavers, and then goes out. He swears, then re-lights his wand.
“Fuck. You’re Hermione’s mother ?” Theo pales. “Merlin. This is so fucked.”
Her bravado falters, and she shrinks back, tugging against the chains. “Is she in trouble? Has he got her too?” Her voice rises. “What has he done to my baby?”
“She’s not here,” Theo assures her. His voice is soft and even, and he has his hands spread wide at his sides, palms forward, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “I don’t know why he’s taken you.”
“Who are you?” she accuses.
“I’m Theodore, this is Draco.” He inches closer, still with that same gentle voice. “We’re going to get you out of here, ma’am.”
Her chin juts into the air. Draco can’t look away from her eyes, Granger’s eyes. Green instead of gold. “You’re her classmates. You’re the boy that bullied her, and then kissed her.”
Theo drops his hands, frowning. “You kissed Hermione?”
“I—Yeah. Um—” Draco kneels next to her, and to his surprise, she lets him prod his wand at the shackles. “ Relashio .” They spring off her wrists and fall with a thud to the floor.
She rolls her wrists, audibly sighing with relief. With the shackles off, it’s easier to see the extent of the bruising and lacerations they caused.
“Why didn’t you tell me you kissed her?” Theo hisses. “Does Lucius know? This is so fucked, Draco.”
“He didn't have to. I already told you what he knows–” Draco’s voice is strained. His lungs feel like they’re filled with water. “—and it’s enough for this, apparently.” He gestures at Hermione’s mum, who’s watching him closely.
“ What does he know?” she asks, frowning.
Theo grabs his shoulder. “Tell her. She deserves to know.”
He shakes his head, and her jaw tightens in the same way Granger’s does, when she’s holding her words back.
“I can help heal that,” he says instead, feeling the words tumble out of his throat. He watches himself reach for her hand.
Silently, she lets him take her hands.
“Wait Draco,” Theo says. “ Scourgify first.”
Draco nods, and then cleans her skin with a spell. Both he and Theo don’t know spells for bruises, but they’re able to coax her skin back together over the raw flesh. His movements are jerky, and it’s like someone else is moving his body and his wand, and he’s sitting back, watching.
“Did his father—Are you hurt anywhere else?” he hears Theo say.
“Not that I can tell.” She’s still watching him, eyebrows pinched together. “He did a spell on me a few times that first day. It was—unbelievably painful. But—I don’t think it left any external damage.”
“Do you remember the spell?” Theo is asking her.
“ Crishio ? Maybe?”
“ Crucio ?” Theo meets Draco’s eyes worriedly, then frowns when Draco doesn’t respond.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I don’t think there would be any lasting damage from just a few times.”
“Draco,” she says, after a moment’s silence,“please tell me what happened. She’s my daughter.”
He swallows hard. She’s still holding his hand, squeezing lightly, like a mother would do. Like his Mother does sometimes when she can tell he’s upset.
Draco shakes his head. It’s all his fault.
Everything is his fault.
It’s all his fault, his fault, his fault—
“Draco,” she says softly. “Please tell me.”
He gasps, feeling the water in his lungs rise up and sting the back of his eyes. His throat burns, and the sensation starts to ground him. “He thinks I’ve—” He shakes his head again. “Dark magic, it leaves traces, and—and I felt so guilty. It was all my fault, all the bullying. If I hadn’t—never mind. But there’s this girl, Rowle, who had bullied her so badly. She pushed her down a staircase—one of the moving ones, with stone steps—and I was so angry, and guilty—I cursed her with dark magic. And dark magic, it uses your emotions. And then those emotions escalate. So he thinks I’ve compromised myself, that—that it’s—that it’ll— he says it’ll get worse. That I’ve lost my—my ability to choose, that the magic will force me and—”
Hot, wet tears make thick tracks down his cheekbones and to his chin.
“Oh honey,” she says, cupping his cheek with her hand. “That’s not what he’s scared of.”
She’s looking at him like a mother would. A look of pity. A muggle pities him. He could laugh.
He has to fight his body to stifle the laugh.
“What do you mean?” he says.
“He’s not trying to give you agency, Draco. He’s trying to take it away.” She wipes his tears with her thumbs, and Theo turns away, pretending not to see him blubbering like a baby. “Magic is always the excuse for your people, but it’s just that. An excuse. Your father doesn’t want you to have choices, Draco. He wants to control you.”
He nods. It’s so simple when she says it like that.
“What do I do?”
“I don’t know, honey. But the first step is getting me the hell out of here.”
“She’s right.” Theo’s voice is tight. He turns back toward them. “We need to hurry. Let’s get to the floo. Where’s the nearest one, Draco?”
“Um, the library—no, the drawing room.”
“Let’s go.”
But they never get to the drawing room. At the cellar stairs, Hermione’s mum is stuck at the bottom.
“I can’t cross.” Her hands come up, flat against the air, like it’s a pane of glass.
“Grab my hand,” says Draco.
Maybe as a Malfoy, he can let her through the ward. But—no. Even when he pulls her, she can’t cross. She flinches, stepping back from the invisible barrier, like she’s been stung.
“Do you have police?” she asks, and her voice is still so calm. How is she so calm?
“Police?” asks Theo, echoing Draco’s thoughts.
“Legal authorities,” she explains, “people you can call when there’s a crime.”
She means Aurors.
“We could send an owl?” Draco says.
“It wouldn’t help. An owl could take all day.” Theo shakes his head. “We could floo to the ministry?”
“Would anyone be there?” Draco’s voice comes out high-pitched and warbley.
Draco meets Theo’s eyes and sees his own sinking panic reflected there.
They could floo Hogsmeade and try to get Dumbledore? Or snape? No. Definitely not Snape.
They could floo to Diagon Alley. But is there anyone there that would help? Everyone that Draco knows would never help a muggle.
They could floo to the Weasley’s. A blood traitor would help. Their father works in the Ministry. With muggles.
But any of these options would get Father sent to Azkaban. Surely there’s a better solution.
“Mother,” Draco breathes with dawning relief.
“I don’t know, Draco,” says Theo.
“No!” Hermione’s mum says, frantic now.
“Mum will know what to do.”
“No, honey. Please.” Her hands tighten on Draco’s arm. “You can’t ask your mother. She’s married to him. It’s too risky.”
“You don’t understand. She won’t stand for this. She’ll help.”
“Draco, are you sure?” Theo’s hands rest on the top of his head, running over his too-short, brown hair.
Draco swallows, nodding. “Trinket.”
Hermione’s mum makes a soft, wailing noise, and her knees give out. Theo has to catch her.
“Young master.” Trinket appears before them, twisting the ends of his pink pillow case smock. His ears quiver.
“Wake Mother quietly. Don’t wake Father. Tell her I need to speak to her urgently. Don’t tell Father that we’ve found Mrs. Granger or that we’re in the cellar.”
“Young Master shouldn’t have called Trinket,” Trinket moans. Big teardrops roll down his round face.
“What do you mean?”
But Trinket’s already gone.
A moment later, Mum appears in the cellar, in long, black, cotton sleepwear. She takes one look at Hermione’s mum, huddled against Theo, weeping, and draws a long sigh.
“Draco,” she says, “you’re not meant to be down here.”
“Mum! You have to help. We found Hermione’s mother. Father must have taken her. Can you get her out? I can’t get her to cross the ward. It’s burning her.”
Mum closes her eyes, and tension stretches across her forehead. She brings one finger to her temple, as if brushing away a headache.
“Narcissa,” Theo pleads, “can you help?”
Hermione’s mother straightens, meeting Mum’s eyes.
Mum looks into her eyes, but she doesn’t speak to her. “Draco, Theo—Boys, you aren’t meant to be down here.”
“Mum. You have to help.”
He was sure that she would help. She wouldn’t stand for this.
Mum turns sharply to Draco. She wets her lips. For a long moment, she looks unsure. There’s worry lines on her forehead, and she’s giving him that look that she usually reserves for doling out the greatest of disappointments, for informing him that the elves made cauliflower again, or he isn’t to have anymore chocolate tonight lest he have a stomach ache. He can’t fathom why she’s giving him that look now, when a woman’s life is at stake.
But then her eyes harden and she tightens her grip on her wand. “Draco. I can help, but I need to dismantle the wards before apparating her out.”
Relief makes a physical sweep of his body, melting the tension in his muscles away.
“You’ll help me?” Hermione’s mum’s voice is so small.
Mum nods. She points her wand at the door, closing her eyes and mumbling spells. White, cloudy light fills the room, and when it touches Draco, it sends a jolt up his spine.
The spell is billowing and ethereal, and Draco has never seen anything like it before. It’s dazzlingly beautiful, and it ends too quickly.
The clouds freeze as Mum’s spell falters. Lucius stands at the top of the cellar steps, eyes blazing.
Draco’s reaction is immediate and automatic. “ Stupify !”
Lucius twitches his wand and the red blaze of magic dissipates into the door, next to him. A second later, Draco and Theo’s wands are flying up and into his left hand.
Mum lowers her wand, but she takes a firm step forward, pushing Draco and Theo behind her. The white, cloudy magic falls with an audible whoosh to the floor where it dissipates completely.
Lucius makes a tutting noise. “Did someone call a family meeting and not inform me?”
The four of them remain frozen, silent.
“Narcissa, my love,” Lucius says, cold eyes fixed on Draco, “take Theo upstairs. Draco and I need to have a little chat.”
Mum wilts. She nods tightly. She takes Theo by his arm, leads him up the stairs. At the top, she looks back at Draco, worry again swept into the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head. Lucius doesn’t look away from Draco as he shuts the door firmly behind them.
A single eyebrow stretches, and his lips twitch.
Behind him, Draco can hear the uneven staccato of Hermione’s mum’s breath. It’s a hopeless sound, guttural and ugly.
Draco thinks he may be crying again. His heartbeat is ringing in his ears. The world is warped and blurry, impossible. The world is a python compressing his chest, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he cant—
His heartbeat is ringing in his ears, and he can feel himself shattering.