Oblivion
Draco (Age 18)
Draco paced the length of Ary's small room. "When we get there, I want you to hide in the confessional," Draco said, his voice a chilling monotone. "I need to kill him myself."
Arys flinched before he spoke. "I want to help you. I can fight beside you."
"No," Draco snapped, resuming his restless pacing. "Your presence will only distract me. I will be constantly worried about you getting hurt, and I’ll need every bit of focus to succeed."
Ary's bit his lip, the internal struggle evident on his face. "Fine," he finally conceded, his voice heavy. "But if the situation becomes dire, I am helping. I won't just stand by and watch you get hurt."
A warmth bloomed in Draco's chest. He stared at Arys, stunned by the depth of love radiating from him. He knew Arys was a powerful wizard, despite his gentle nature. Beneath the kindness and love that poured from him, there was a core of steel. "Fine," Draco finally conceded.
An hour later, with the knife coated in basilisk venom clutched tightly in hand, they apparated to the shadowy stillness of the ancient cathedral. The air smelled of incense and stone. As promised, Arys slipped into a confessional booth, the dark wood swallowing him from sight. Draco took a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and stepped out into the nave, his footsteps echoing in the dark space. He moved like a predator, his senses alert, searching for any sign of his prey.
A loud crack echoed through the cathedral, shattering the silence like a bolt of lightning. A swirling vortex of black smoke materialized before the altar, solidifying into Voldemort and Nagini. Voldemort's crimson eyes, burning like hot embers, settled on Draco, a thin smile playing upon his pale lips.
"Draco," he greeted, his voice surprisingly warm. "You called?"
"Yes, my Lord," Draco replied, his voice steady, though his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "There's something I wish to speak with you about."
Nagini uncoiled and slithered towards Draco. She approached him with a curious flick of her forked tongue, but then recoiled abruptly, hissing softly, as if sensing the potent venom concealed within the folds of his cloak.
Voldemort's smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of suspicion. His eyes, narrowed slits of crimson fire, darted between Draco and his agitated snake. The warmth in his voice evaporated, replaced by a chilling edge. "Well, what is it?" he demanded, his voice rising an octave.
With a swift, fluid motion, Draco reached out with his mind, his powerful skills honed to a razor's edge. Voldemort's mental defenses were strong, a fortress of dark magic and iron will, but even they were no match for Draco's raw power, fueled by desperation and a burning desire for revenge. He slipped past Voldemort's shields with an ease that surprised even himself, penetrating the darkest recesses of the Dark Lord's mind.
Voldemort, sensing the intrusion, instinctively reached for his wand, but Draco seized control of his motor functions before his fingers could even graze the polished wood. Voldemort froze, his body locked in place, his wand arm suspended in mid air. His eyes widened in disbelief and fury, but his vocal cords were paralyzed, rendering him incapable of uttering a sound.
Draco moved towards Nagini, his hand slowly withdrawing the basilisk venom coated knife from beneath his cloak. The blade gleamed ominously in the dim light, its deadly purpose clear. Voldemort's eyes widened further, a flicker of fear finally piercing through his arrogant mask, but he remained trapped, a prisoner within his own body, helpless to prevent the impending attack on his beloved serpent. His Horcrux.
Draco sliced through the air with a swift, decisive arc. Nagini, her jaws agape in a silent hiss, didn't even have time to recoil before the blade cleaved through her scales, severing her head from her body. For a fleeting moment, a ghostly ethereal form emerged from her severed neck. It writhed in the air, a silent scream of agony contorting its features. This was the fragment of Voldemort's soul, ripped from its anchor, exposed and vulnerable. It flickered, its form growing fainter, struggling to cling to existence.
The ghostly form dissolved into nothingness, its silent scream echoing in the sudden stillness of the cathedral. Nagini's body, no longer animated by the dark magic that had sustained it, collapsed to the stone floor with a dull thud, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the vaulted ceiling. The Horcrux was destroyed, the final thread connecting Voldemort to immortality severed.
The air in the cathedral seemed to lighten, as if a suffocating presence had been lifted. A sense of hope bloomed in Draco’s heart. The Dark Lord, for the first time in decades, was truly mortal. The silence within the cathedral shattered. Voldemort's scream, a raw and guttural sound that echoed off the ancient stone walls, was a horrifying combination of fury, disbelief, and agonizing loss. It was a sound that Draco would never forget, a primal cry of despair that ripped through the sacred space like a hurricane.
His crimson eyes, wide with shock and rage, were fixed upon Draco, who stood before him, the bloody knife still clutched in his hand. The realization of Draco's betrayal, the destruction of his beloved Nagini seemed to hit him with the force of a physical blow. It was a wound far deeper than any inflicted by a blade, a shattering of his carefully constructed immortality, a glimpse into the abyss of true mortality that he had desperately sought to avoid.
The scream continued, morphing into a series of strangled gasps and guttural sobs, a terrifying display of vulnerability from the usually invincible Dark Lord. His face contorted in agony and raw unbridled rage. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of his despair, the echo of his scream lingering in the air like a phantom.
The mental shackles Draco had imposed on Voldemort shattered, the Dark Lord ripping free with a guttural roar of fury. His wand snapped up in a blur of motion, the incantation exploding from his lips before Draco could even react.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" he screamed, his crimson eyes burning with murderous intent.
The jet of green light struck Draco squarely in the chest, sending him flying backwards. He crashed against the stone wall with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. But, to Voldemort's astonishment, Draco rose unsteadily to his feet, completely unharmed. The Killing Curse had inexplicably failed.
Confusion flickered across Voldemort's face, quickly replaced by renewed fury. He unleashed a barrage of spells, a torrent of hexes and curses that rained down upon Draco. Each one struck its mark, sending him reeling, but none inflicted any lasting damage. Voldemort screamed in frustration, his wand hand trembling, his knuckles white as he gripped it with bone crushing force.
Draco, his own wand now raised, retaliated with a jet of brilliant blue light. Voldemort deflected it with a flick of his wrist, sending a counter spell hurtling towards Draco. Their spells collided in a blinding flash of light and a deafening crack, the raw magical energy crackling between them like a living beast. A dazzling duel ensued, beams of light weaving and clashing in a mesmerizing dance of neon blasts.
Despite Voldemort's rage, Draco's power was steadily gaining ground. Fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to protect those he loved, his spell pressed closer and closer, forcing Voldemort to his knees. Finally, with a surge of raw magical force, Draco's spell broke through Voldemort's defenses, striking him squarely in the chest.
The Dark Lord staggered backwards, his eyes widening in disbelief. He collapsed onto the stone floor, his body momentarily still, his wand clattering away from his grasp.
From the shadows of the confessional, Arys emerged, his face pale but determined. Voldemort's eyes darted between the twins, his mind reeling from the impossible. Draco, a triumphant smile curving his lips, raised his wand once more.
"A twin bond!" Voldemort gasped, scrambling to his feet, his voice laced with renewed rage.
Draco's Killing Curse found its mark with a resounding crack, but instead of the oblivion he expected, Voldemort merely grimaced. His body flickered, weakened, but still very much alive.
"Do you really think Nagini was my only failsafe, you stupid boy?" Voldemort rasped, his eyes blazing with hatred as they darted between Arys and Draco. "I will be back, and you will pay for this betrayal!"
With a final, venomous glare, the Dark Lord spun on his heel, his form dissolving into a swirling vortex of black smoke. He vanished, leaving behind the lingering scent of sulfur and the echo of his chilling threat.
Draco stared after him, his mouth agape, his mind struggling to comprehend the events that had just transpired. Beside him, Arys swayed, his eyes glazing over as a new vision flooded his mind.
Draco ran to his brother, violently shaking his shoulders for what seemed like an eternity, until his eyes finally snapped back into focus. The glazed look vanished, replaced by a chilling expression of horror. He stared at Draco, his voice trembling as he spoke, each word a heavy weight dropping into the silence of the cathedral.
"He's not defeated," Arys choked out, his breath catching in his throat. "He is only weakened. There are... other Horcruxes."
Draco's stomach lurched, his heart plummeting into the depths of his soul. The hope that had flared so brightly within him just moments ago was extinguished, leaving behind a cold, gnawing dread.
"His life is hanging by a thread," Arys continued, his voice strained, "but after he regains his strength, he will be back. Stronger than before."
"How long?" Draco croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "How long do we have to track down the remaining Horcruxes before he returns?"
"A year," Arys said, his voice stiff, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the cathedral walls. "He will return. He will try to kill me first, now that he is aware of the bond. We must destroy the Horcruxes before then."
A heavy silence descended upon them, Arys's words pressing down on Draco like a physical weight on his chest. Then, Arys spoke again, his voice barely audible, each word a sharp shard of ice piercing Draco's heart.
"When he does return," he said, his face pale and drawn, "it's not you or I that must kill him. It's…Hermione."
Draco's breath hitched in his throat, his mind reeling. "Hermione?"
"She is the only one powerful enough to do it," Arys explained, his voice filled with a chilling certainty. "It will require powerful Fiendfyre, magic of an intensity that few can control. She will only be able to summon it if she is overwhelmed by anger and pain, by a grief so profound it consumes her."
Draco's breath came in shallow gasps as he struggled to comprehend the implications of Arys's words. "But how?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "What could make her angry enough to summon Fiendfyre that powerful?"
Tears welled up in Arys's eyes, his gaze unwavering. Draco knew then that what he was about to say would shatter his soul, leaving him irrevocably broken.
"I am so sorry, Draco..." Arys began, his voice thick with emotion.
"What is it, Arys?" Draco interrupted, his voice catching in his throat. "What must be done?"
"We need time to find the horcruxes," Arys said, his voice firm despite the tears streaming down his face. "You will need to tell everyone, including Hermione, that you have killed me. Make it seem like it was out of jealousy, a crime of passion. After some time, she will discover that I actually live, and must believe that you have trapped me somewhere, hiding me away. Voldemort must believe the same."
Arys paused, drawing a shuddering breath. "There will come a time when it is revealed that I am alive to both Hermione and Voldemort. They will work together to free me. Voldemort will betray Hermione and kill me in front of her, at which point she will unleash her fury, her grief, and destroy him with Fiendfyre, along with his final Horcrux."
"ARYS! You must be insane if you think I will allow that!" Draco cried out, his voice raw with anguish. "You cannot sacrifice yourself!"
"He won't actually kill me," Arys said, his voice barely a whisper. "It will be someone else."
"How? I don't understand," Draco pleaded, fighting through the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
"I saw an iron mask," Arys explained, his voice distant, as if recounting a dream. "She will think it is me that Voldemort has killed, but it will actually be someone else, Polyjuiced as me... someone who deserves death."
The blood drained from Draco's face. He would need to tell Hermione that he had killed her beloved Arys. She would hate him, despise him with a fiery passion that would consume them both. He couldn't bear the thought of returning to that dark place. He had just brought her within reach, only to lose her again in the most devastating way imaginable.
He fell to his knees, his body trembling, his head cradled in his hands. "Arys... I can't do this..."
"You must," Arys said, his voice unwavering, filled with a resolve that Draco had never heard before. "It is the only way."
The world twisted around Draco as he apparated. He materialized in the dimly lit study of the Manor, his legs nearly giving way beneath him. He stumbled, gasping for breath, his body trembling with the aftershocks of grief and the daunting task that lay ahead.
Arys, already disguised as Ruby, stood in the center of the room, his amber eyes watching as Draco fell apart.
Draco knew he needed to go to Hermione soon, to weave the cruelest lie imaginable, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He needed a moment to gather himself.
Arys, sensing Draco's need for space, gave him a small, understanding nod and quietly left the study in his fox form.
Left alone, Draco fully collapsed onto the cold stone floor, his body wracked with sobs. Loud, heaving cries tore from his throat, sounds of despair he never thought himself capable of. He wept for the future he had envisioned with Hermione, for the happiness that now seemed like a cruel illusion.
He laid there for a long time, lost in a sea of grief, until finally, the storm within him subsided. He rose unsteadily, his legs shaky, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. He made his way towards his room where Hermione remained trapped, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Before he could even reach for the door handle, he erected his Occlumency shields, a desperate attempt to conceal the emotions raging within him.
He opened the door, expecting to find Hermione curled up on his bed, but the room was empty.
Panic seized him. He ran through his chambers, calling her name, his voice echoing through the empty room. He searched the bathroom, the wardrobes, every conceivable hiding place, but she was nowhere to be found.
As he returned to the bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest, he saw Arys standing by the door in his human form, his expression somber and defeated.
"She's gone, Draco," Arys said, his voice heavy with regret.
"What do you mean, she's gone?" Draco gasped, his voice laced with panic.
"I am so sorry, Draco," Arys said, his gaze fixed on the floor. "It needed to happen this way. She couldn't remain here at the Manor while we hunt for the Horcruxes. She has to believe you to be cruel and capable of all you are about to do. If she were here, she would see right through you."
"I don't understand..." Draco stammered, his mind reeling.
"She has escaped," Arys explained. "She will be safe, but she won't be returning for a long while."
"But how?" Draco choked out, the panic rising in his throat. "How did she escape?"
Arys met his gaze, his eyes filled with a deep sadness. "I helped her," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
*****
Six agonizing months had crawled by, each one an eternity. Hermione had vanished without a trace, leaving Draco consumed by an unrelenting cloud of despair. Voldemort, too, remained hidden, a phantom menace lurking in the shadows. Draco had successfully tracked down and destroyed all the remaining Horcruxes, save for one, a ring. One he assumed Voldemort kept hidden with him.
These past months had been the darkest of Draco's life. He oscillated between a numbing emptiness, where he felt like a mere shell of his former self, and a volatile maelstrom of fear and anger that threatened to consume him. His magic, usually so tightly controlled, constantly overwhelmed him.
The thought of Hermione haunted him every waking moment. He tried to visit her in her dreams each night, desperate for even a fleeting glimpse of her, but an impenetrable barrier, like an iron door, blocked his path. Every night, he leaned against that cold, unyielding surface, his silent sobs echoing in the desolate landscape of her dreams.
He knew she was alive, Arys had assured him of that, but the uncertainty gnawed at him relentlessly. Where was she? Was she safe? Was she being cared for? Arys had insisted that her absence was necessary, a crucial part of their plan, but Draco couldn't shake the feeling that they had made a terrible mistake. If he had known that it would mean losing her, that she would be ripped away from him, he never would have agreed to this.
Now that he held the ultimate position of power, he had dispatched countless soldiers to search for her, ignoring Arys's protests. He barely slept, his nights plagued by nightmares of her suffering, of Voldemort finding her before they could enact their plan. He had lost all appetite, the food turning to ash in his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled, the last time genuine laughter had escaped his lips. All he wanted was to know that she was safe, that she was okay.
Adding to his torment was the relentless pressure of finding Voldemort. Arys's vision had revealed that the Dark Lord was hiding, inhabiting someone else's body, a parasitic presence masked by an unsuspecting host. But who? The uncertainty was maddening. They needed to figure out his secret identity so that they could introduce him to Hermione at the opportune moment, once she was found and returned to the manor.
Desperate, they had implemented the caste system, a brutal and discriminatory measure that divided society, marking individuals with magical tattoos. It was a desperate gamble, a way to flush Voldemort out of hiding, to identify any high levels of magic that might betray his presence.
Every night, Draco witnessed the horrific consequences of their decision. He watched as innocent people were forcibly tattooed, their fear and despair unbearable. Each night, he returned to the Manor, the images seared into his mind, and succumbed to violent bouts of vomiting and crippling panic attacks. But despite the toll it took on him, he knew it was the only solution to their current predicament, the only hope of finding Voldemort and bringing their plan to fruition.
The heavy oak door to Draco's chambers burst open, startling him from the light doze he'd fallen into. He hadn't even bothered to change from his day clothes, exhaustion clinging to him like shackles. Arys, his constant companion these days, was curled up in his lap, disguised as Ruby. The familiar weight of the fox and the warmth of the fire had almost lulled him to sleep.
Theo stood in the doorway, his eyes flickering between Draco and the seemingly ordinary creature nestled on him. A knowing smirk played on his lips. "Does that fox ever leave your side these days?" he drawled, his voice laced with amusement.
Draco gently lifted Arys from his lap and placed him on the plush velvet cushions beside him. "What is it, Theo?" he asked, his voice weary. "Any leads on Hermione?" The question hung heavy in the air, a constant ache in his chest.
"No," Theo admitted, his expression turning serious. "But there's a party tonight at The Basilisk's Den, and you're coming."
Before Draco could even muster the energy to protest, the door flew open again, revealing Blaise, Pansy, and Astoria. They descended upon him like a whirlwind, physically pulling him from the bed, his protests drowned out by their insistent chatter. Before he could even register what was happening, the familiar tug behind his navel signaled apparition, and the world dissolved into a dizzying swirl of colors. He hadn't even had a chance to change.
They materialized inside The Basilisk's Den. The atmosphere was charged with energy, the air thick with the scent of firewhisky and the murmur of countless conversations. The usual boisterous crowd seemed to freeze as Draco entered, their voices dying down to an awed hush. Every head turned towards him, bodies bowing in deference.
"Lord Malfoy," a witch whispered, her voice laced with reverence.
"My lord," a wizard mumbled, his eyes wide with admiration.
"What an honor to see you, my lord," another voice chimed in.
He felt a wave of suffocating pressure as he navigated through the throng of admirers, his friends flanking him like protective guards. He loathed this. He loathed the unwanted attention, the forced reverence, the weight of responsibility that had been thrust upon him. He had never desired power, never craved leadership. He had only ever wanted one thing in his life, and the universe seemed determined to keep it out of his reach.
They finally reached a secluded booth in the back, a small haven of privacy in the chaotic space. Blaise immediately headed towards the bar, returning moments later with a tray of drinks. As he settled back into the booth, the others turned towards Draco, their expressions a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"What has gotten into you, Draco?" Pansy finally broke the silence, her voice sharp with worry. "We're worried about you. You never leave the manor unless it's to follow a lead about Hermione or for leadership duties."
"Draco, is there anything we can do to support you more?" Astoria added, her voice gentle and understanding. "You just seem so...."
"You're walking around like a dead man, mate," Blaise chimed in, his tone blunt. "You need to get laid or something." Pansy and Theo nodded in agreement, their faces etched with concern.
Draco suppressed a shudder. The thought of being with another witch held absolutely no appeal. He took a long sip of his firewhisky, the burning liquid doing little to ease the hollowness inside him. He wasn't sure what to tell his friends. They had sensed the depth of his feelings for Hermione, the power she held over him, a power he had desperately tried to conceal. But what was the point in talking about it? It wouldn't change anything. Hermione was gone, and he was left with this gaping wound in his soul.
"I appreciate your concern," he finally said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "But I'll be fine."
Their skeptical stares told him they didn't believe his lie. He couldn't even convince himself.
They sat and talked for what felt like hours, the weight of Draco's grief pressing down on their conversation like an unwelcome guest. Empty glasses accumulated on their table, precariously stacked into wobbling towers, as they attempted to drown out the somber mood with firewhisky.
Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by two witches who appeared beside their booth. They were a striking pair, one with fiery red hair that cascaded down her back and the other a petite blonde with eyes that sparkled like champagne. They introduced themselves, their voices a touch too loud, a touch too eager, but Draco's mind was elsewhere. He didn't catch their names, didn't care to. He simply offered a curt nod, his gaze distant.
Blaise invited them to join their group, and the witches eagerly slid into the booth, one on either side of Draco. He felt their eyes on him, assessing, appraising. He could practically feel their gazes boring into him, but he refused to engage. He remained silent, his body language screaming his desire to be anywhere but there. He longed for the familiar solitude of his room, the comforting presence of Arys, the quiet that allowed him to wallow in his misery.
His friends, attuned to his every shift in mood, sensed his growing discomfort. "Draco, stay for one more drink, please?" Astoria pleaded, her voice soft but insistent.
"Yes, please don't leave yet, my lord," the blonde witch purred, her breath warm against his ear, sending an unwelcome shiver down his spine.
Pansy watched with a knowing glint in her eye. "Blaise, Theo, Astoria, come with me to the bar to get drinks," she announced, rising from her seat. His friends readily followed, casting curious glances at Draco as they left him to the mercy of the two witches.
Trapped between them, Draco felt a surge of panic. He was cornered, like a stag surrounded by hungry wolves. He desperately scanned the room, searching for an escape route, a way to slip away unnoticed. But the witches were relentless, their bodies pressing closer, their perfume suffocating him. He felt like a fly caught in a spiderweb, struggling in vain to break free.
The blonde witch reached beneath the table and began tracing her fingers up and down his leg. A wave of revulsion washed over him, and he had to suppress a flinch. He felt trapped, suffocated by their unwanted attention.
"If you want to go home," the blonde whispered seductively into his ear, her voice thick with promise, "perhaps you would like some company?" The redhead nodded eagerly, her eyes gleaming.
The redhead reached under the table and gently grabbed his cock without warning. Her touch was like a spark igniting gunpowder. Draco exploded out of his seat, his chair clattering to the floor. The redhead, caught off guard, tumbled to the ground with a startled yelp. Without a word, without a backward glance, he apparated back to the Manor, the image of the redhead's shocked face burned into his memory.
The familiar tug behind his navel deposited him back into the quiet solitude of his chambers. He stumbled towards his favorite armchair, collapsing into its worn embrace with a sigh of exhaustion. Arys lifted his furry head from where he lay curled on the bed, his amber eyes watching Draco with concern.
Draco's mind, still reeling from the encounter at the pub, conjured up a phantom image. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he saw Hermione, her form shimmering like a heat haze, reclining gracefully on the settee across from him. He blinked, and the vision vanished, leaving the settee empty and the room feeling colder. He rubbed his temples, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going mad.
"Arys," he whispered, his voice hoarse with despair, "I can't do this anymore." He buried his face in his hands. "Yesterday, I had to authorize the marking of a five-year-old boy," he confessed, his voice cracking with emotion. "His mother was holding him while he cried and screamed."
The memory of the child's terror, the mother's anguished sobs, haunted him. He had become the very thing he had always despised. He had traded his soul for a power he never wanted, a responsibility he couldn't bear. And for what? Would they even succeed? His was gambling with innocent lives, upholding a regime that tore families apart, that inflicted unimaginable pain on innocent people. He felt sick to his stomach, the guilt gnawing at his conscience.
Arys uncurled himself from the bed. His furry paws padded softly across the plush carpet as he made his way towards the armchair. With a graceful leap, he landed in Draco's lap. Draco buried his face in Arys's soft fur. Silent tears streamed down his face, soaking into the fox's thick coat.
The gentle rocking of the chair, combined with the soothing warmth of the fire and the softness of Arys's fur, lulled Draco into a restless sleep. His tears gradually subsided, replaced by shallow, exhausted breaths. He slumped further into the chair, his body finally succumbing to the overwhelming fatigue that had been weighing him down. Arys remained curled in his lap for the rest of the night, as he often did these days.
****
More time crawled by, each day heavier last. Draco stood on a raised platform, his voice booming through the cathedral. Rows of soldiers stretched out before him. He addressed them with a chillingly detached authority, outlining the next phase of their operation - the segregation of witches and wizards based on their magical abilities. It was a cruel plan, one that would further solidify the oppressive regime's grip on the magical world. A plan that Draco never planned to enact.
His carefully constructed cold indifference was shattered when a soldier burst through the cathedral doors, interrupting his address with an excited cry. "My lord!" he gasped, his voice echoing through the vast space, "We have identified a level ten! In the square, right now!"
The air crackled with sudden energy. Draco's heart pounded against his ribs, a wild drumbeat of anticipation. He had waited so long for this moment, yet now that it was here, a wave of nausea washed over him. They had finally found him. They had discovered Voldemort's hidden identity. The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. They were one step closer to the terrifying climax of this nightmare.
He fought to maintain his composure, his face returning to a mask of icy calm. He dismissed the soldiers with a curt nod, his mind racing. He descended from the platform with a newfound sense of urgency. Each step echoed through space, the sound sharp against the hushed anticipation that hung in the air. He strode towards the towering oak doors that led to the square, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He pushed open the heavy doors, bracing himself for the chaos he expected to find.
Instead, an eerie silence greeted him. The usual bustle of the square was replaced by a stillness that was both unsettling and ominous. His eyes scanned the scene, taking in the newly gathered groups of soldiers and civilians, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and confusion. Theo knelt in the center of the square, his face contorted with anguish. He cradled a limp figure in his arms, but Draco couldn’t make out who it was.
His breath hitched in his throat, a cold dread seeping into his veins like ice water. Something wasn't right. The unnatural stillness, the hushed whispers, the fear etched on the faces of his soldiers – it all painted a picture far more sinister than the capture of a level ten. He quickened his pace, his boots pounding against the cobblestones, a grim determination hardening his features.
"I heard we've identified something quite interesting," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady, masking the tremor of fear that threatened to break through.
As he drew closer, the figure in Theo's arms stirred slightly, slowly turning her head to look at him. Time seemed to freeze. His blood ran cold. He knew those eyes, even swollen and bruised. Eyes that had once shone with intelligence and defiance were now filled with pain and fear. It couldn't be. His mind reeled, refusing to process the horrifying truth unfolding before him.
Hermione.
Bruises bloomed across her pale skin, deep cuts marred her delicate features, and her hair was matted with blood. She had been brutally beaten, her small body broken.
Draco's breath caught in his throat, his lungs burning with the lack of air. The world around him seemed to tilt, the sky threatening to crash down upon him. He stumbled, his legs suddenly weak, and he had to grab Theo's shoulder to steady himself.
"She's okay, Draco," Theo reassured, his voice a strained whisper, his hand reaching out to grip Draco's arm. "She's going to be fine." But his words lacked conviction, his gaze darting between Draco and Hermione, a flicker of something unreadable – pity? fear? – passing through his eyes.
Draco remained frozen, his body rigid with shock, his mind unable to comprehend the brutal reality before him. He stared at Hermione as if she were a ghost, his heart shattering into a million pieces. The woman he loved, the woman he had searched for tirelessly, was here, broken and battered, a victim of the very regime he was now forced to lead. The weight of his guilt threatened to crush him. A fierce battle raged within him. Every instinct screamed at him to rush to her side, to scoop her broken form into his arms, and apparate away to the farthest corner of the earth. He longed to shield her from further harm, to erase the pain etched on her face, to whisper reassurances and promises of safety. He yearned to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her skin against his, to chase away the terror that haunted her eyes.
But he couldn't.
He was frozen in place, his body a traitor, refusing to obey the commands of his heart. The weight of his position, the watchful eyes of his soldiers, the ever present threat of Voldemort – it all held him captive. He was a prisoner in his own gilded cage, bound by duty and fear.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality. He couldn't risk exposing his true feelings, not now. Not when they were so close to ending this reign of terror. He had to play the part, maintain the facade, no matter how much it tore him apart. He forced himself to take a step back, his gaze lingering on Hermione's battered form. He had to stay the course, to see this through to the end. Only then could he truly protect her, only then could he offer her the safety and love she deserved.
"Draco, you need to breathe," Theo urged, his voice tight with a growing sense of alarm. He gently squeezed Draco's arm.
But he was too far gone. The fear that had initially gripped him was rapidly morphing into something far more potent, far more dangerous. Pure, unadulterated rage surged through his veins, eclipsing all reason and restraint. His vision blurred, the edges darkening as if a veil had been drawn over the world.
"Breathe, Draco," Theo repeated.
The sky was swiftly overtaken by a swirling mass of ominous gray clouds, casting an eerie gloom over the square. A cold wind whipped through the stunned crowd, carrying with it a sense of impending doom. The very earth beneath them began to tremble. At first, it was a subtle vibration, barely a shudder. But with each passing second, the tremors intensified, the cobblestones beneath their feet shifting and grinding against one another with unsettling force. A low rumble, like the distant growl of a beast, filled the air, causing the crowd to cower.
"Who. Did. This?" Draco's voice, amplified by the unnatural silence that had fallen over the crowd, boomed through the darkening square. Each word was punctuated with a promise of retribution. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Hermione, a burning intensity in his eyes that mirrored the rage within him.
Draco's eyes, narrowed and sharp as shards of ice, swept across the crowd, seeking out the perpetrator. His left hand clenched around his wand, the grip so tight that his knuckles whitened. The veins in his hand and forearm stood out, taut and pulsing, like a roadmap of his anger. The air crackled with magic, raw and untamed. The crowd instinctively took a step back, sensing the dangerous energy emanating from him.
One by one, Draco's gaze pierced through the crowd, his eyes like twin lasers, dissecting each individual with ruthless precision. He delved into their minds, sifting through their recent memories, searching for the culprit. The square fell into an eerie silence as his magic washed over them. Soldiers stood frozen, their eyes glazed and unfocused, their minds laid bare before their leader. He saw flashes of their actions, their thoughts, their deepest fears, leaving no corner of their psyche unexplored.
Suddenly, Draco's gaze snagged on a familiar soldier, a burly man with a cruel glint in his eye. A thin streak of dried blood crusted beneath his nose, a telltale sign of a recent struggle. With a subtle flick of his wand, the soldier was ripped from the crowd, his feet leaving the ground. He yelped in surprise, his arms flailing wildly as he was drawn towards Draco, his body suspended in mid air. His boots scraped against the cobblestones, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake.
The soldier's face contorted in a mask of terror, his eyes wide and pleading as he desperately reached for something, anything, to grab onto. But there was nothing but air. The crowd parted around him, a sea of faces reflecting a mixture of shock and fascination. They watched his helpless struggle with bated breath.
Draco held the soldier suspended, a puppet master toying with his marionette. The soldier's struggles grew weaker, his breath coming in ragged gasps. With a sharp nod, Draco released the soldier from his magical hold. The unseen force abruptly relinquished its grip, and the man crumpled to the cobblestones with a sickening thud. He landed hard on his knees, his body folding into the ground. The terror in his eyes was replaced by a vacant stare, his mind still ensnared.
Beads of cold sweat trickled down the soldier's forehead, his body trembling uncontrollably as Draco continued his silent interrogation. He delved deeper, peeling back layers of the man's memories, exposing his darkest secrets and hidden desires. Images flashed through the soldier's mind: the brutal attack on Hermione, and the sickening satisfaction he felt as he inflicted pain.
Draco's face remained impassive, betraying no emotion. But beneath the surface, a storm of fury raged. He saw every strike, every bruise, every cut inflicted upon his witch, and with each horrific image, his anger grew.
“You enjoyed that didn’t you? You sick fuck.” Draco whispered.
A thrill of grim satisfaction coursed through Draco's veins. He had found his prey. A cruel smile, devoid of any warmth or humor, tugged at the corners of his lips, and his posture straightened, radiating an aura of power and menace.
The soldier's muscles twitched involuntarily as a subtle tremor rippled through his frame. He began to scratch at his skin, a fleeting touch at first, then growing more frantic, his fingers digging into his flesh, leaving angry red welts in their wake. He stood, terror filling his eyes, as a loud scream ripped from his throat.
Draco grinned as he continued to slowly boil the blood from within he soldier’s body.
The soldier began ripping his clothes off frantically. He looked like a wild animal caught in a trap as blistering boils covered every inch of his exposed body. Steam began to seep from his pores as he ran hysterically toward the fountain. The bubbles began to break through his skin, releasing sprays of steaming blood onto the cobblestones, taking large chunks of his flesh with them.
Just as the soldier had nearly reached the cool, inviting waters of the fountain, his muscles tensed and he froze. In a sudden gesture, he flung his arms wide. It was a moment of pure abandon, a desperate surrender to an unseen force. One last scream ripped from his throat just as his entire body exploded into bloodied ribbons, the boiled remnants of his insides splattering against the ground with a sickening squelch.
Draco tore his gaze away from the scene, his stomach churning with a potent cocktail of revulsion and lingering rage. A flicker of satisfaction sparked within him, but it was quickly extinguished by a wave of bitter disappointment. He wished he could have taken his time, savored the punishment, and drawn out the soldier's suffering. He yearned to inflict a pain that mirrored the agony Hermione had endured, to make him pay tenfold for every bruise, every cut, every terrified tear. But there was no time for elaborate vengeance.
With a heavy heart, Draco moved towards Theo and Hermione. Each step was deliberate, measured, his boots echoing against the cobblestones. He stopped a few feet away from them, his gaze fixed on Hermione.
"Theo, take her to the manor."
Theo, still cradling Hermione, nodded silently, his expression a mixture of concern and apprehension.
Hermione struggled against Theo's grip and with a sudden burst of energy, she broke free, springing to her feet in a single, fluid motion. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted frantically in every direction, searching desperately for an escape route. The sight nearly broke Draco’s heart in half.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he watched Theo's hands close around her waist. He held her firmly, anchoring her in place as her legs buckled, her strength failing. He leaned in, his lips close to her ear, and whispered an incantation, stealing the fight from her limbs.
Her eyes widened in panic and betrayal, her gaze never leaving Draco’s. She tried to speak, to cry out, but the words were trapped in her throat. Her struggles ceased, her body finally going limp in Theo's grasp.
In the fleeting moment before her eyes closed, he was drowning in her gaze. It was a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. The force of it struck him like a physical blow, a punch to the chest that took his breath away.
It was the most agonizing moment of his life. To see the woman he loved, the woman he would die for, look at him with such loathing, such disappointment... It was unbearable.
He watched helplessly as her eyelids fluttered closed, her body slumping against Theo's.
*****
Weeks after Hermione had returned to the Manor, the charade reached its climax. Draco found himself alone in his bedroom with her. He was acutely aware of the vial concealed within the folds of her clothes, the potion that would soon render him unconscious. She had no idea he anticipated it, that he had meticulously planned for this moment for over a year.
Fear gnawed at him, a tight knot in his stomach that threatened to choke him. He was terrified that their plan would fail, that Hermione would be exposed and suffer the consequences. The thought of her enduring further harm sent a shiver down his spine. He had spent the last few weeks watching her heal, both physically and emotionally, from the brutal attack in the square. He had witnessed her gradual warming towards him, the hesitant smiles, the shared moments of vulnerability, the stolen moments of passion in the library. Just when he thought he couldn't love her anymore, his heart continued to grow and expand, overflowing with a love that defied reason and circumstance.
But a nagging doubt lingered in his mind, a constant whisper of uncertainty. How much of her affection was genuine, and how much was a calculated performance to gain his trust and free Arys? She had played the part so convincingly that it both warmed him and broke his heart. As crazy as it seemed, he clung to the hope that after all of this was over, she would forgive him, that they could forge a future together, free from the shadows of deceit.
He had finally discovered Voldemort's shocking disguise – Professor Dankworth, of all people. The caste system had actually worked as intended. All the pain and suffering wasn’t for nothing. He wondered what had become of the real Dankworth, likely long dead at the hands of Voldemort. After the discovery, they had introduced Hermione to Dankworth, and everything had fallen into place.
Arys, over the last couple of weeks, had been hidden in the shadows, disguised as Ruby. He had gleaned crucial information about Hermione's plan to free Arys, giving them the upper hand. They knew exactly when she would arrive at the chateau and what she intended to do. In response, Vincent Crabbe had been Polyjuiced to resemble Arys and placed in the dungeons, awaiting his fate in the iron mask. Draco’s only regret was that he didn't have more time to personally torture Crabbe for drugging Hermione, but the idiot would meet his deserved end soon enough.
Hermione's touch broke through Draco’s anxious thoughts. Her hand gently stroked his back, a soothing gesture that momentarily calmed him. He released a shuddering breath, his body trembling in her arms. She leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head.
"You can talk to me, you know," she offered, her voice soft and laced with concern.
He didn't respond, his throat tight with unspoken emotions. If only it were that easy. He wanted to kiss her deeply, to hold her back, to tell her that everything he had ever done had been with her in his thoughts, that his love for her was the only thing that kept him going. But she still needed to believe the lie.
He had already consumed the potion, there was no turning back now. He closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to any deity that might be listening, pleading for their plan to succeed. He prayed for Hermione's safety, for a future where he could spend the rest of his life proving his love to her. He allowed his mind to wander to a place he had scarcely dared to venture before.
He was swept away by a fantasy, a vision of a future he desperately yearned for. He pictured Hermione at the end of a flower strewn aisle, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. She was radiant in a flowing white dress, its delicate lace whispering against the stone floor as she moved. Her hair, a cascade of dark curls, was adorned with tiny white blossoms, and her eyes, those brilliant, expressive eyes, shimmered with tears of joy. A wide, genuine smile lit up her face, a smile that reached all the way to her eyes and radiated pure happiness.
The scene shifted, and he found himself cradling a newborn in his arms. A tiny, perfect replica of Hermione, with a tuft of curly brown hair and eyes that mirrored his own. He gently traced a finger across her soft cheek, marveling at the miracle of life. His heart swelled with an overwhelming love, a love so profound and fierce that it threatened to burst from his chest. He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger, a silent promise to protect and cherish this precious gift. This was the future he craved, the future he was fighting for. A future where love was enough, where he could finally be free to be himself, a husband, a father, a man worthy of Hermione's love.
Another desperate plea echoed in the chambers of his soul, a silent bargain with fate. Whatever the outcome of this mission, whatever the cost, he begged for their destinies to intertwine. He longed for their souls to find one another, in this life or the next, to transcend the boundaries of time and circumstance and unite in a realm where their love could flourish. A place where their souls could dance freely, entwined in an eternal embrace, bathed in the light of truth and acceptance.
He clung to these visions as he surrendered to the potion's embrace. A small smile bloomed on his face, a flicker of hope in the darkness. Then, oblivion claimed him.