Genre: Romance/Tragedy
Summary: Draco learns the hard way that romance amidst war is quite literally a deadly combination. One shot.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any images/music used for this fic.
________________________________________
Draco waited outside the cellar, his breathing echoing down the narrow hallway. He had been waiting for little over an hour now, her bloodcurdling screams still ringing through his ears.
The iron gate creaked open and Lucius stepped out of the shadows, his lips pressed into a thin line. Not a good sign.
"It appears that you were indeed right. The girl has proven to be more, perhaps, resilient than expected."
"I did warn you," he replied curtly.
His father adjusted his robes slightly, and that was when Draco saw the blood, covering the whole right side of his cape. Lucius caught where his son was looking and smiled nastily. "Ah, yes," he said softly, lifting the cape higher for a better view. "Not quite as filthy as expected, is it?"
Draco glanced up at the gate instead, eyes searching through the shadows in the unlikely occurrence that he would be able to spot her from here. "So she refused to talk, did she? I'm guessing you sent me down here because of no other alternative?"
Lucius's smile dropped, his steely eyes hardened. "Just do what needs to be done," he hissed. "Is that clear?"
Draco returned his gaze with a determined glint of his own. "Perfectly." Pulling the gate open, he stepped carefully past Lucius and into the dark holding cell. When the gate shut again, he turned to look at his father through the bars.
"Don't fail, Draco," Lucius said, and then he was gone.
Draco waited for several seconds, just to make sure his father would not be returning, and then rested his forehead against the cool iron. He breathed in. Then out. In. Out. Then he straightened up, turned, jaw set, and walked to the very back of the cellar.
It did not take long to spot her.
She was slumped against the wall, head turned away from him and facing the far wall. Both hands were bound tightly, the rope having cut into her skin, breaking the flesh, and creating two identical angry rings of scarlet around her wrists. Her clothes were dirty and ripped and in some places drenched with blood. Her lip was busted and a deep cut ran down the length of her cheek right down to her jaw, that side of her face looking like somebody had painted it in red. He knew that it would scar, and wondered who did it. All day, he had watched Death Eater after Death Eater enter her cell, would hear her scream until her voice was hoarse.
And it was all because of him. She would not be here if he hadn't betrayed them all.
When he'd first shown up in Grimmauld Place, claiming to have switched sides, almost everybody had wanted to either use him as bait or kill him on the spot. Only she was the voice of reason, and it was she who persuaded the lot, saying that having someone who knew the inner workings of a Death Eater was an advantage.
Only it would not be. He had almost shouted at her, wanting to know why she had to be so goddamn caring, why she had to always believe the best in everybody. Because it was a war. He'd went to the Order that night thinking none of them would be stupid enough to emit him in. He'd thought he was walking to his death. But no. She had to go and fuck it all up with her goodness.
At first he'd been so mad at her, doing everything he could to make her hate him. She'd ignored him at first. For months, to be exact. Then one day in the kitchen, he was in the middle of insulting house-elves and comparing their looks to hers, when she'd rounded on him and aimed a plate at his head.
