Drabbles

“Look what I found!” Fawley announced. 

Draco turned to the entrance of the parlor, watching as the Death Eater dragged a struggling form across the room to where he and Dolohov were standing beside the fireplace, a map of Order safehouses spread out on the table before them. 

“We’re busy,” Dolohov snapped. “Go show your rat to Wormtail.”

“You’ll want to see this one, Dolo,” Fawley jeered. “Caught this pet just for you.”

As the pair came closer, the light of the fire illuminated the scarred, smug face of Fawley and the terrified face of Hermione Granger. It was tricky to restrain his reaction, but Draco just barely managed it. 

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. 

“Found her crawling around in the bushes. Covered in the mud and muck like a fuckin’ animal.”

With a shove, she was sent sprawling over the stones, the momentum taking her almost to Draco’s boots.

No. Her soft skin, scraped over stone. He bit the inside of his lip, hard enough to keep from dropping to his knees to help her up. 

His heart was pounding, mind racing as he tried to figure out what to do. What was she doing here? She was reckless to a fault but if he knew her at all – and after a year of covert rendezvous, he thought he rather did – then lying in wait outside of a known Death Eater stronghold would have been too foolish even for her. What the fuck was she doing?

Dolohov tilted his head, inspecting her. “Is it? Looks nothing like the brat I know of.”

He was right. Hermione’s normally soft, bouncy curls were coarse and matted, her jaw swollen and disfigured. But it was the flatness in her eyes which sent a dizzying burst of relief through Draco. Even in the worst of moments, her eyes held unquenchable fire.

She blinked, taking in her surroundings like a wild animal, and when her eyes met his, he was sure. 

He scoffed. “It’s not her.”

“Of course it is,” insisted Fawley. “I know Potter’s Mudblood when I see her.”

Draco pointed down at her. “This is obviously not Hermione Granger, you fucking idiot.”

“Yes it fucking is,” Fawley insisted.

Be it on his head, then. Draco waved his hand dismissively, his relief making him flippant. “Fine. Take her to the Dark Lord, then. See what he thinks of being tricked.”

Fawley glared but reached down to get a fistful of the creatures hair, hauling her up to her knees. The flat brown eyes met Draco's icy grey, panic flaring in them.

“No, don’t take me there. Draco, please. It’s me. Don’t let him take me to him.”

It was her voice, though scratchy and hoarse, but they were not her words. She only ever breathed his given name into the crook of his neck, sweet and secretly, on those nights where their last names were left at the door. To use it here, so publicly — he knew it wasn’t her. She would never betray him like that.

But…

Anyone who’d dare impersonate her would know better than to assume they were on a first name basis. To the world, they were enemies. 

Which meant that someone had her. Had her, and had managed to claw their secret from her so that he might trust this shell; might try to protect it and bring it into the center of the Death Eater nest. His name wouldn’t have come easily from her lips – she’d have fought with every bit of herself to keep their relationship hidden, to keep him safe. 

Dolohov was here and not gloating, which meant it hadn’t been him to torture it out of her. Avery? McNair? 

The bead of relief that she wasn’t actually here was a drop in the ocean of his unfettered rage at knowing she was out there, being harmed.

In his head, Draco began making lists.

Out loud, he lifted his chin, curling his lip at the pathetic creature at his feet.

“Imposter,” he said coldly. 

Dolohov sighed. “A shame. I’d have liked to have another go at the Mudblood. Though I suppose I still could pretend…”

His hand rose but Draco caught his wrist in a tight grip, not looking away from the pitiful thing wearing her face. Daring to use her against him. Daring to expose the only part of himself he actually liked; the part she'd found within him.

Magic was coiling hotly in his wandhand, crackling with an urgent ferocity to be unleashed. With a slow inhale, he set it free, brutal energy cascading out him, channeled through blood and sinew and unicorn hair. 

A burst of green light, and then the whimpering mass was inert.

Fawley swore, stepping back and letting the corpse fall flat on its face, the sound like a vase slipping from a sideboard; a sodden, wet crunch. Draco swallowed reflexively against the bile brought up from using the killing curse, a familiar taste in the back of his throat. Chest heaving, he raised his wand again. Time to see who had dared impersonate her, and therefore discover a clue as to who might have known about them. 

“Finite incantatem.”

Apart from a burst of blue light from his wand, nothing happened.

Had the spell been miscast? He tried again – and then a third time. Nothing. For a moment, it didn’t register. 

And then Dolohov whooped.

“Fucking Salazar, it was the filthy Mudblood! Wait until the Dark Lord hears about this, Malfoy. You’ll be in deep shit for stealing his prize away.” 

Fear was as familiar to him as the taste of the killing curse. Thick at the back of his throat; saline and sour and suffocating. He wanted to gag – to choke on what he’d done – but even breathing felt impossible. His gloves creaked as his fist squeezed around traitorous hawthorne, jaw aching with how hard he was clenching his teeth. 

Hermione, face down at his feet. Never to get up.

He fell to his knees then, breath leaving him in a rush, gasping, his entire body trembling 

What had he done? What had he done whathadhedone–

Like falling into a cool lake, he bowed his head and dropped behind his Occlumency walls. 

It hadn’t been him to cast it.

It couldn’t have.

There wasn’t a single cell within him that wished death on her – it should have been impossible to cast it on her. But it was her – and the magic had completed its evil purpose, which meant it couldn’t have been him to cast it.

The concept was impossible.

As impossible as casting a killing curse on oneself.

That had to be impossible, hadn’t it? 

Which meant that there was no way he was himself. There was only one way to prove it.

Deep in the quiet of his mind, he turned his wand on himself.