Forgiveness Comes With A Price

His dreams tasted of silt, and char, and ash. They were murky, as if he were floating down the river Thames, inhaling its semi-petrolium fluid. Its taste was identical to the smell of burning gasoline. He heard his mother’s voice cry out, echoing against the walls of his skull. He felt the agony of the cruciatus curse bloom in his chest, spreading throughout his body like a wayward lightning bolt—ironic, he supposed. 

The dream shifted, and he was staring at himself, only a metre higher. Other Draco was facing a tall, dark figure. Its face was obscured, but protruding from the shadows was a spindly, spider-like hand clutching a familiar, bony wand. 

“...... Tttttakkkkkee……itttttt……”

Tentatively, he reached forward. 

Draco awoke to a loud bang. Disoriented, he shot out from under Fleur’s sweater and scrabbled for his wand, forgetting it had been ripped from his hands by one Harry Potter.

“Shit,” he swore under his breath. No time was afforded to the dazed Slytherin before the basement door swung open. 

“Malfoy!” A gruff voice boomed in his ears. Draco winced.

“Hello, Mr Moody,” he responded stiffly. Fearful that Moody's eye socket would burst, Draco looked at the floor, disgusted by the strange, warped metal protrusion. He felt as though Mad-Eye could see his internal organs just as well as Draco could see the pattern of the wood grain.

“Up,” Mad-Eye commanded. Draco hesitated, wary. After a moment’s deliberation, he lifted his eyes to meet Moody’s.

“What?” he asked dumbly.

“Upstairs, Malfoy. Now.” The grizzled auror’s bulging prosthetic eye swivelled in its metallic socket. Draco nodded curtly, hurrying up the stairs. 

The sight that greeted him was not a pleasant one. Before him stood the proverbial ‘golden trio,’ two of which held suspicious-looking potions. 

“I just don’t think we need him,” Draco overheard Weasley hiss. 

“Nonsense, Ronald, you know we need- Oh, Draco! You’re awake!” Draco’s nose crinkled at the use of his first name. He far preferred Granger’s outright hatred to whatever pitying nonsense this was. Hatred was much easier to read. Moody’s hand clamped Draco’s shoulder as the old man ascended the stairs. He resisted the urge to flinch. 

“I’m trustin’ you with him for now, but let me make it very clear that his fate is up to The Ministry, not you.” Draco was deeply insulted by Moody’s blasé tone, which he used to speak of Draco as if he weren’t there. He could hear Moody’s eye do the can-can in its metal can can. “I’m lookin’ at you, Weasley.” The red-haired menace rolled his eyes. Draco found himself quite indignant.

“Is no one going to tell me what it is we’re actually doing?” He asked rather pointedly. “Why am I still here? Am I not being carted off to Azkaban?” Weasley scoffed. “I was under the impression it was your favourite activity.” Draco fixed Weasley with his best sneer.

Weasley did his best impression of a very miffed cartoon.

“You little-!”

“ Ronald .”

“Sorry.”

“You’re here because we need someone related to Bellatrix Lestrange,” Granger stated plainly. 

Harry added,

“We’re going to break into Gringott’s.”

—----------------

The quartet of what could only be described as suicidal idiots stood in a muggle alleyway near the Leaky Cauldron. Weasley and Granger were clothed in robes ranging from three sizes too big to ever so slightly too small. One by one, each uncorked their own grotesque potion, which Draco now recognised to be polyjuice, and downed it in one errant gulp. Potter, on the other hand, held a gossamer cloak bunched in one hand; he gripped it tightly, as though it were horrendously precious, and not simply – from what Draco could see – a tattered old scrap of fabric. 

“Eurgh,” Weasley belched, disgustingly. Draco cringed as Weasley and Granger’s faces began to bubble, stretching and shifting, squeezing into another form entirely. Weasley was entirely undignified, gagging and guffawing, whereas Granger was stoic as stone. It was almost impressive. 

Draco had observed the usage of polyjuice before, but never so closely. He watched as Granger’s moderately tolerable face morphed into the rotting jackal’s maw that was the face of Bellatrix Lestrange. Her piercing gaze shot bolts through his skull, pinning him to a wall of ice. Suddenly, he was back in Malfoy Manor, wand aloft, uttering that horrible, unforgivable curse. His blood froze and his breath quickened. 

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice knocked him from his stupor. 

“Is he going to be a problem?” The death eater beside Bellatrix groaned. 

“Ronald!” Bellatrix chided, with stiff composure. Potter shot him a look.

“That’s not going to work,” Draco muttered. His vision cleared. Granger was too polite. She held herself nervously, not with the uncaged wildness of someone who’d lost her humanity long ago, but with the anxiety of someone misplaced. 

“Sorry?” Potter’s voice met his ear, perplexed. “What’s not going to work?”

“Aun-” He shook his head. “Granger,” Draco directed, “you’re behaving entirely too muggleborn to pass for Bellatrix Lestrange.” He realised as he said it that mentioning blood purity would likely escalate the situation unfavourably. 

“Say one more thing about muggleborns, yeah? One more thing, Malfoy,” Weasley growled, wand arm lifting. There was that murderous glint in his eye, yet again. Malfoy wondered what it would be that eventually sent Weasley hurtling off the edge. Draco wondered if the catalyst would be Draco, himself. Shockingly, a hand came up to stop Weasley in his tracks.

“Draco’s right,” Granger affirmed. Draco’s nose crinkled yet again at the use of his first name. He hardly thought they were close enough to be on a first-name basis. But, Granger had agreed with him, so he allowed her this momentary disrespect.

“What?!” Weasley looked scandalised. “‘Mione-”

“No,” she cut him off. “I’m too polite, too nervous. Tell me how to act.” She turned to Draco. “We need to get this right.” Draco was pleasantly surprised, meeting Granger’s gaze. The eyes that looked back at him were horribly familiar. Ambitious, one might say. Desperate. It was a good start. 

“Alright,” he began. Potter’s eyes landed on him, attentive. He tried to ignore them. “Bellatrix…” his thoughts ran circles around him. “Bellatrix Lestrange is a starved lion.” That felt right. “She’s always looking for weaknesses in her prey.” Granger widened her stance, narrowing her eyes. “Good, but she’s far less uniform. She’s lopsided – deranged.” Granger altered her stance accordingly; it was coming along quite nicely if he said so himself. Weasley and Potter watched on in incredulity. 

Draco relished making use of the countless observations he had made over his years with that manticore of a woman. “My aunt is always aware of her surroundings; she’s prepared to kill anyone she needs to if it ensures her survival, verbal encounters included.” Granger nodded. Weasley blanched. “If anyone begins to grow suspicious of you, do not preempt them verbally, but leverage your status as much as physically possible.”

“...Okay,” Granger contemplated. “Including blood status? And,” she cringed, “the fact that they’re goblins?” Before he could respond, Granger answered her own question. “I can do that.” Weasley’s head snapped to face her, concerned. He was quite pale now; his freckles stood out like droplets of blood in the snow. 

“Good,” Draco nodded. Potter’s brow furrowed and Weasley’s mouth gaped in disbelief. Really, they both should have expected that pretending to be a death eater came with Pretending To Be A Death Eater. “Carry yourself as though you own everything and everyone you see. Bellatrix believes she will, soon enough,” He shuddered, rubbing his arm subconsciously. 

“Thank you,” Granger smiled tightly. It surprised him.

“You’re… welcome, I suppose.” He couldn’t quite put his finger to the pulse of how he felt. It was some churning feeling in his stomach, full of adrenaline and anxiety. He couldn’t wait to be done with this.

“I think we’re ready, yeah?” Potter proposed. “We should head in before dark.” Promptly, he tossed his tattered rag over his head. The moment it landed across the boy’s shoulders, both disappeared. Draco blinked. He thought he might never get used to the sight of an invisibility cloak in use. He shook himself from his brief stupor, drew a breath, and steeled himself to resume his familiar act as the perfect, prodigal son.

“Shall we go?” He plastered on the politest of his smiles, turning to Granger and Weasley. The latter shuddered.

“Fuckin’ creepy, innit?” He muttered. Draco’s smile turned sour.

“Do us all a favour and keep your mouth shut, Weasley ?” He spat the name. His formerly red-haired companion turned death eater opened his mouth as though he were about to respond when Granger spoke.

“Honestly, the both of you,” she sighed. “Shut up and follow me.” She grinned. That familiar rotted jackal’s face contorted horrifically. It was perfect. 

A voice, barely audible, snickered over Draco’s shoulder. Potter, naturally.

Draco and Weasley fell in step behind Granger as easily as breathing. She would make an excellent leader, Draco mused. She wobbled a few times on cobblestones in her high-heeled boots, which Bellatrix would never do by accident, but frequently did on purpose. So it all worked out. 

When the doors to the Leaky Cauldron opened, the loud chatter and cheerful noises of the wizarding pub were immediately silenced. There was an unwelcome pause. Draco coughed.

“Smile,” he whispered through gritted teeth. Through the corner of his eye, he watched as Granger did just that. At first, a tentative smile. Draco cleared his throat. Granger straightened her back and began to grin – wildly – like a maniac. 

Draco felt pride soar in his chest, which he promptly tamped down because that was an odd thing to feel about helping someone impersonate your insane aunt. With the confidence of the Dark Lord’s right hand, Granger flounced her way through the pub, gleeful as anything. Wherever she went, glares as sharp as daggers followed. Draco and Weasley pursued her faithfully.

As they made their way through Diagon Alley, Draco could feel the stares following them, could see the wands aimed at them, could taste the terror of the wizards who watched them. All this, merely for three death eaters on their way to Gringott’s. 

Years ago, perhaps Draco would have been pleased. Now, it only made him acutely aware of the rot in his lungs seeping from the blackest pit of his forearm. It threatened to ooze from him, infecting everything he cared for. 

He could sense Granger losing confidence as they approached their objective. There was no time to fix it.

—

Before the trio – or, Draco supposed, quartet, if one counted Potter – stood Gringott’s bank in all its lopsided glory. He could feel the false death eaters flanking him steel themselves. 

The moment the doors opened, he was hit with a blast of cold air. The stark contrast to the hot summer sun that had been beating down on them was a welcome change. Granger made an almost silent, strangled noise. 

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Granger had only to pretend to be a death eater for, what, an hour? Two? Draco had been pretending his entire life. He supposed he was much closer to the person he’d pretended to be than Granger was to his aunt Bellatrix, but the point stood. 

After a moment’s deliberation, Granger began to walk. Not strut. Not sashay. Walk. Draco cursed her in his mind – had they not just discussed this? Fortunately, the goblins appeared only semi-interested. Could that be described as fortune? 

Alarm bells rang out in his mind as they made their way further down the great, wide entrance hall. Draco had been here before, many times, with his father. Back then, these same goblins simpered and grovelled before them. This was something else. Unease grew in him as they approached the podium. When they reached it, the goblin at attention was not fulfilling his role. Draco sneered.

“Ehem,” Granger cleared her throat loudly. He winced. His aunt would never be so polite. The goblin did not lift his head. “I demand to enter my vault,” Granger amended. Her tone was too prissy, it was really something they should have discussed. “My nephew and I are going to inspect it.” Granger grabbed him by the shoulder, grinning toothily. That was better, he supposed. The goblin did not look up. Weasley shifted uncomfortably.

“Identification?” the goblin drawled, disinterested. Granger froze. There was a moment of silence.

“You’re really quite terrible at your job,” Draco mused without thinking. Granger glanced at him, hastily concealed panic shining in her eyes. “Do you think we should spare him, beloved aunt of mine?” At that, the goblin’s head shot up. The speed at which Granger plastered on a false smirk was worthy of Salazar Slytherin.

“I hardly think identification will be necessary,” she sneered at the goblin. 

“Madam Lestrange, Mister Malfoy!” The Goblin appeared remarkably calm. Draco’s unease grew. He heard footsteps. A glance from his periphery showed him that a guard had begun to advance on the group. 

It hit him. This was a trap. 

As he came to this realisation, the goblin at the podium stood and descended out of view. Simultaneously, a guard began to approach from behind. Apparently, Potter had come to the same conclusion, as a faint whisper rang in his ear.

“They know. Someone’s told them we were coming.” Potter’s panicked voice stirred waves of anxiety that were practically palpable from Weasley. 

“Harry,” he whispered. Draco winced. “Harry, what do we do, Harry?” Weasley was an idiot, but Draco could hardly believe how utterly stupid he was being. Just as he was about to stamp on the dolt’s big toe, another goblin emerged. 

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” he began. “Would you mind presenting your wand?” Granger scoffed, nervously. 

“And why should I do that?” She stared defiantly at the teller. She should have been more aggressive with her language, but Draco wasn’t going to argue semantics. (he would, on any other occasion. Draco adored semantics.)

“It is simply the bank’s policy,” the goblin responded, quite calmly. What an arsehole. “I’m sure you understand, given your inclinations toward privacy.” Smug bastard. 

“And I’m sure you understand,” Granger pressed forward. “That you are not to keep what is mine from me.” Her voice shook imperceptibly. The goblin leaned forward, unafraid.

“I’m afraid,” how ironic, “I must insist.” Very rapidly, Draco began to feel as though the walls were closing in. All the while, the guard from the back of the room advanced on them. Draco could feel his heart pounding in his throat. He could see, even from the side, the panic in Granger’s eyes. She was completely frozen. 

The silence was palpable, as though the very building were holding its breath. Just as Draco began to fear that all was lost, there was a lone whisper from beside the podium. 

He doubted it would be audible to anyone unaware of the invisible presence in the room, and he doubted that, even when audible, it would be understandable to anyone unfamiliar with the words. 

He happened to be in the perfect position to parse exactly what it was that the golden boy had uttered at that very moment.

“ Imperio ,” came the rogue whisper. 

Abruptly, the goblin before them changed drastically in demeanour. He sighed contentedly, as though savouring the smell of a fresh bouquet of roses. His shoulders slumped and he smiled, as though deeply in love.

“Very well, Madam Lestrange,” he practically sang, “if you will follow me.” 

So this was the plan all along. The group was, after all, noticeably lacking an escape plan before now. The more he considered it, the more idiotic he realised the plan to be—and he had already believed it to be a complete trainwreck. 

How on earth he had gotten himself into this situation, he had no clue. What a truly blunderous fool he must have been. It was very Gryffindor of him, he realised with a shudder.

The goblin—Bogrod, they learned—led the whole circus that was their troupe of clowns to the wide mouth of the vault-laden cavern in which they would locate… whatever it was they were looking for. Draco had yet to be informed. 

Harry shed his cloak, and one by one, each of them was herded into a small, rickety old cart. It wasn’t so much a cart, per say, as it was a set of seats dangling over the abyss, connected by a few metal rods. Draco was reminded of why he hated this place. 

He had visited this seemingly bottomless pit of riches with his father many times as a child, in most cases, to handle a withdrawal. His father wanted him to know why he was better than others. In retrospect, this was likely not the best of parenting decisions.

With a lurch, the trolley took off. Draco braced himself in his seat, gripping the arm rests so tightly that his knuckles turned a sickly greenish white. His stomach jilted up to his throat as the not-cart ricocheted between stalagmites, dodging barriers at blinding speed. The caverns below Gringott’s were a massive grey blur in his vision, interspersed with bursts of light from what Draco could only assume were torches or braziers. 

As they hurtled through the darkness, the air became colder and wetter, condensing in their breath and against their skin. Soon enough, waterfalls were as common a sight as stones. The deafening noise of the rushing air was nothing compared with the crashing and roaring of the waterfalls against cave walls. Draco wondered if they came straight from the Thames. 

Just as he had the thought, he found himself suddenly submerged in ice.

It was piercingly painful. He realised as soon as they emerged from it that they had not, in fact, been submerged in ice, but had crashed their way through a waterfall. 

A cursory glance at his compatriots confirmed a suspicion. Granger was back to her mousy self, and Weasley’s hair was once again bright orange. The pain persisted. It emanated from his arm, and a distinct writhing beneath his skin alerted him to just what they had passed under. 

Suddenly, the cart jerked to a halt. Immediately, a klaxon pierced the air, offensive to the senses as the waterfall had been.

“Shit!” he cried in alarm. Potter and Weasley echoed him in sentiment. He had no time to think as the rest of the group registered their sudden magical nakedness. Including Bogrod. He took one horrified, suspicious glance at the group before they were suddenly thrown from the cart. Draco had barely enough time to swear before he was hurtling toward the ground. 

“ Arresto momentum !” Granger cried, barely a metre from the ground. The group screeched to a halt before tumbling unceremoniously onto the craggy cavern floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Bogrod was quite indignant. “You cannot be here! Why-” 

“ Imperio ,” Potter sighed. Once again, Bogrod went slack and pliable. 

“Er, guys?” Weasley blanched. His face was white as a sheet. Draco’s brows furrowed in exhaustion and annoyance. What now? “That’s a dragon,” Weasley whimpered.

Before them, the narrow ledge they had so mercifully landed on widened into a towering, cavernous space: in which laid a massive, snowy-white dragon. Its skin was marred by a thousand scars stretching tapestries across its icy scales, each more grotesque than the last.

The majestic beast was lashed in chains, bolted to the floor. Its mountainous hide heaved with each pained breath. The earth rumbled with its every exhale. Draco wondered how they hadn’t felt its presence earlier. 

To his surprise, Draco felt some form of sympathy for it. He saw himself in its pitiful form. He saw a beast trapped and resigned to its entrapment. Something in him ached to release it; to free this creature, to give it hope. He quickly tamped the feeling down. 

“Is it? I couldn’t tell.” Draco attempted sarcasm. His voice came out shakier than intended. At the sound of his voice, the dragon stirred. Ice shot through Draco’s veins, piercing his forearm as the dragon reared its head. Its marred maw unhinged, its throat turning a deep, burnt orange as it prepared to spew forth an inferno. 

Before the heat could reach Draco’s face, a noise akin to a cowbell sounded. Before his eyes, the dragon once regally poised to strike cowered before the sound, as though it were expecting some form of terrible punishment. Again, a pang of familiarity shot through him. 

“Here,” the goblin to his left, still shaking the object in his hand — the source of the sound — directed the party toward a basket near the entrance to the cavern. “Each of you, take a clacker.” Granger eyed him with suspicion. “It is trained to expect pain when it hears this sound,” the goblin enthused. “Only the best security for Madam Bellatrix!” He beamed. 

Weasley, obviously terrified, scooped a ‘clacker’ from the basket. The moment he moved the horrid device, the mountainous creature in the centre of the cave roared in terror, folding its mountainous body into a crevice in the far wall. Bogrod, in turn, shouted, 

“Quiet, beast!” He beamed back at the group. “Go on! Take one of your own!” This level of enthusiasm from any victim of the imperius curse was markedly unusual. Draco shook his head, admitting that perhaps he owed Potter more credit. Perhaps he had a certain affinity for the dark. He was, after all, rumoured to be a parselmouth. 

That being said, Draco felt uneasy in holding a ‘clacker’. He shook his head, willing the weakness away from himself, and took one from the basket.

Granger was the last to take one, and with it, she kicked the basket over the side of the cliff. 

“That should stop any pursuers,” she smiled, sweetly. Draco shivered.

After that, they very quickly made their way to the vault. At its entrance was an ornate black and gold door, furnished with cogs and gears of what Draco could only assume to be solid gold. 

Bogrod made quick work of it, pressing his palm to the surface at the centre of the contraption. The group watched as the gears turned incomprehensibly, a sequence of clicking and whirring. The door split in two and opened to reveal a moderately sized vault, laden on all sides with gold and jewels. It was dripping in finery, lined wall to ceiling with riches. 

As they made their way into the vault, Draco was careful to avoid coming into contact with any of his aunt’s belongings. 

“Be careful,” he warned. “She’s cast a Gemino curse on everything in this room.” He paused. He wouldn’t put it past Weasley to have no knowledge of dark curses. “Items will multiply exponentially if you touch them.” He eyed the ginger meaningfully. “So don’t.”

“Blimey,” Weasley muttered, taking much more care where he stepped. “I won’t, mate.” Draco nodded.

After a moment of silence, Granger spoke.

“ Accio horcrux,” she muttered. Weasley snorted. 

Horcrux. So that was what they were there for. A suicide mission to destroy the dark lord. Draco shook his head incredulously at the sheer stupidity of this endeavour. 

“You’re really not trying that one again, are you?” Weasley raised an eyebrow at her, oblivious to Draco’s shift in demeanour. So, they must have destroyed — or at least found — horcruxes in the past.

“Oh, shut up, Ronald, do you have any better ideas?” Draco cleared his throat. Potter remained silent, laser-focussed on the far wall. 

“Potter, do you feel anything?” It was just a hunch, but Draco could see an intense look on his compatriot’s face. 

Beyond that, something in him felt connected to the boy. Something tugging deep in his stomach and prodding at his wrist. Potter nodded. 

All of a sudden, there was a burst of fiery, sharp pain at Draco’s wrist, as though a burning hot knife were being pressed torturously into his skin. He cried out, clutching his arm. In the process, he stumbled, landing on a small golden bracelet. 

“Shit,” he managed, before all hell broke loose. 

“Give me the sword!” Potter cried out to Granger, eyes ablaze, who threw him a remarkably familiar looking longsword. It sailed through the air, landing in Potter’s palm as though moulded to fit there. 

The room shook with the torrential flood of multiplying riches. Potter, the nutter, forged his way forward into a pile of gold, setting off chain reaction after chain reaction, quickly building himself a mountain of galleons and trophies. Potter’s long arms clawed at the pile, hoisting him higher and higher, enough to loop the tip of the ornate sword through the handle of an unassuming trinket on a high shelf. 

Surprisingly, it did not shake, nor did it multiply. The horcrux, then. 

“Hermione!” Potter cried, “Catch!” He flicked his sword in her general direction.

As he uttered the word, Granger leapt into action, arms high above her head as she caught the horcrux sailing through the air. Draco wondered how it was that she had never tried out for the Gryffindor quidditch team. She could easily give any one of his chasers a run for their money.

“Bogrod!” Potter spluttered as he rode the wave of gold toward the vault’s door. “Get us out of here!” Draco could admit that when Potter barked orders, it would be difficult to deny him. 

“At once, Mister Potter!” Bogrod placed his palm to the vault’s entrance and, as the gears ground open, a river of golden trinkets shot out into the abyss. Therein lay the flaw in Bellatrix’s whole “curse the gold to multiply” plan. 

Now, a new old problem presented itself. How to escape Gringott’s bank. It had only been achieved once before, and they’d already raised the alarm. 

“I have an idea!” Granger shouted over the din of the klaxon and the gold. 

“What is it?” Weasley hollered back. Really, Draco would need hearing aids by the end of this. 

“Follow me!” Granger waved her arm in the direction of their pursuers. Draco briefly considered whether she had gone mad. Nonetheless, Weasley, Bogrod, and Potter fell into step behind her without hesitation, and so he had no other choice.

In their mad dash toward danger, Draco heard a shout.

“Up there!” 

They had been made. Draco urged his legs to beat the floor faster than ever before, hurtling toward a familiar white dragon’s lair. 

“What’s the plan, ‘Mione?” Potter grabbed her by the arm.

“We’re going to escape on the dragon.” Granger grinned, manic and wild. 

If the polyjuice potion were still in effect, Draco would have said she was doing an excellent job of imitating his aunt. Also, was she out of her mind???

“You’re mad,” Weasley griped. For once, Draco agreed with him. Imagine that. 

“And how do you propose we free the gargantuan fiery mass that would just as soon eat us as our pursuers?” Draco hissed. 

“We’ll figure it out!” Granger had a gleeful look in her eye that Draco had never seen before. He simultaneously admired it and was quite perturbed by it. 

“Course,” Potter grinned. “That’s a favourite, innit?” 

“Of yours, maybe,” Weasley snorted. 

Before any more casual friendly curse banter could be thrown around, a blast of red light shot out from the floor below and crashed into a nearby pillar, too close for comfort. The pillar was decimated, and the ceiling above them groaned with potential collapse.

“Go!” Granger shouted, corralling the group toward the dragon. 

As they approached, a roaring and a heat confronted them. It was as hot as a furnace and as loud as a waterfall. 

The extra clackers were gone. He supposed that Granger had been right to dispose of the basket.

“At least Bogrod’s got our clackers,” Weasley huffed.

“Where is Bogrod??” Potter hissed, looking around.

“Shit,” Weasley moaned.

Looking over the ledge, Draco could see clear as day, Bogrod. He was waving enthusiastically at their pursuers.

“Hello there!” He cried. 

The dragon reared its head, there was a blast of heat, and Bogrod was no more.

“And there they go,” Granger mourned. “Honestly, is it that hard to keep an eye on one goblin?” She fixed the group with a disappointed glare which would have impressed Draco’s mother. 

Before they knew it, an onslaught of brightly coloured spells shot at them through the darkness of the cavern, pinning them behind pillars in favour of being killed. 

“We can’t just stand here,” Granger shouted. “Who’s got an idea?” 

“You’re the brilliant one!” Weasley insisted. 

“ Reducto !” A blast of white light and one chain which held the mound of white scales before them was broken.

“Brilliant, Malfoy,” Potter shouted, mimicking his movements. “ Reducto !”

“Jump!” Granger ordered. She was mad. Draco was mad. Potter had called him brilliant! Everyone had gone bloody bonkers. 

Granger ran at the spined back of the dragon and jumped, from the cavern ledge to the marred hide of the beast. She dodged shot after shot from below.

“Well, come on then!” She shouted at the troupe of idiots, which Draco supposed included himself. 

Potter, Weasley, and Draco — in that order — made the suicidal leap of faith onto the dragon’s back. It was surprisingly easy to hold onto. 

Draco felt the scales beneath his hands, warm from the fire, yet somehow ice cold to the touch. It felt familial, somehow. He shared a kinship with the animal below. 

“ Relashio !” Granger shot at the final chain which bound their beastly compatriot. It broke cleanly in two.

The dragon spewed fire forth onto the crowd of goblins below, then turned its majestic, tattered head to the sky. It sniffed the air, huffing louder than thunder, and began to climb.

Weasley looked scared shitless, as always. He wailed and clung to the spines of the beast. Potter looked afraid, but beneath it, more than anything, lay excitement. Granger, of course, held some mixture of both fear and excitement, but appeared more fascinated by the beast than anyone. Draco wondered if there was more to the ‘golden trio’ than he had accounted for. 

The mighty dragon clawed its way from the depths of the crypt that was Gringott's bank and ascended toward craggy cliffs, ever encroaching on the speck of light that shone high above the abyss.

Carts approached, rained fire upon them. The dragon simply tore the track from the cavern walls and continued. 

Finally, gloriously, the dragon burst through the floor of Gringott’s bank. It roared like thunder and left destruction in its wake. It was beautiful. Draco felt the beast’s vindication, its righteous vitriol. He could feel its hunger for satisfaction and its thirst for blood. It was voracious. 

It crashed through the grand entrance hall, burning goblins indiscriminately. 

Every goblin looked like the ones who’d lashed her to oblivion. The ones who’d stolen her from her home, from her mother, from her people. 

They had to pay.

Mere seconds later and there was no one left in her path to raze. The sky called to her. She longed to beat her wings and feel the sun stretch its lazy talons across her weary body. Yes. Up. 

She began to climb. Soon, she could spread her wings. Soon, she would meet her people. 

She broke through the glass dome atop Gringott’s bank and roared. Roared wild and free, for she was free , and the world would know it. 

She stopped. 

The world was much wider than she had expected. Her wings were atrophied, and she was tired. 

Rolling hills and fields stretched out into the distance — that was what she had been promised. This was different. 

This place smelled of humans, this place was choked with brick and smog. Where were the mountains? Where were the goats? She had been promised goats. 

“ Reducto !” Granger cried, burning the dragon’s tail.

She wailed in pain. 

“Hold on!” Potter shouted, as if it weren’t obvious. 

The dragon beat her wings against the sky, testing to see if they could hold her weight, though it barely mattered. Her only consideration was in fleeing. 

She crashed into buildings, her wings dragged from lack of use, and her body was uncoordinated as a newborn. She screamed with frustration. 

She beat the air harder. She would beat it into submission. She would win. 

With strong, steady gusts of wind, she managed to ascend. 

She was doing it! She had learned, like a hatchling, to fly. 

She soared through the air like an eagle, using the currents in the air to navigate. It was splendid. It felt right.

“That was bloody brilliant!” Shouted Weasley. “Absolutely brilliant!”

Draco couldn’t help but to agree.