Secrets and Masks

09. Sweetheart

TW; scenes of torture and graphic depictions of violence and slaughter

24th December

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Draco whistled as he entered the cavern. He squinted into the darkness, searching for the figure he knew was there as he walked further inside. He held a lantern in his hand, the flame charmed to be unnaturally bright and vigorous, emitting much more light than it should. Salazar knew it needed to; this tomb was pitch black.

While he walked, he concentrated his magic on levitating the corpse of a large cow behind him. The animal's blood dripped sporadically from an incision on its throat, leaving a trail of scarlet on the scratched concrete.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Draco whistled again and brought the body closer to his side, hoping to draft the scent of the kill into the tomb and entice the beast within.

A deep rumble cut through the eerie silence, the vibrations of it rattling against Draco's chest. The temperature spiked suddenly, and then she was there.

It wasn't big enough for his dragon down here. The ceilings might've been high to him, but her colossal size made it difficult for her to move through them. Her chest and tail scraped across the floor as she struggled to crawl towards him.

As soon as he saw her, it felt easier to breathe. The uncomfortable tightness in his chest eased, and the sickening lurch in his stomach that he'd carried since their separation softened.

He hated that the Dark Lord had insisted she be kept under their base of operation while she healed. He said he wanted to keep an eye on her to ensure she received the best care. He wanted her to recover as quickly as possible, not because he cared for her like Draco did, but because he couldn't have his most lethal weapon out of commission for too long.

The Order was terrified of his dragon, as they fucking should be. For many, she was a nightmare come to life; a winged demon materialised on the battlefield and hungry for their screams. The mere sight of her often reduced even the bravest men to a puddle of desperation. Her roar alone brought the most valiant Order soldiers to their knees.

She was majestic and powerful. And she belonged to Draco.

Although his mother had given him her tiny egg before her passing, Draco had been convinced that his master was going to take the dragon for his own when he learned what species she was, that he'd snatch the egg right from Draco's pale fingers when he realised the destruction her flaming breath would one day cause. He had, in fact, countless times since she'd hatched, but it wasn't meant to be.

Scandinavian Firethorn Dragon's only chose one rider. They paired themselves with a single witch or wizard for life and never answered to anyone else. They wouldn't even allow another person the joy of flying on their backs unless their master had permitted it. Their decisions were final. No second chances. No exceptions.

But the Dark Lord had still tried to make her subservient to him. The crazy bastard had tried to bond with her from the moment she'd clawed her way out of her egg. He'd tried to feed her by hand, tried to soothe her, and he'd even tried to teach the tiny thing to breathe fire, but it all ended with little nips and the edges of robes set aflame. In the end, she wanted nothing to do with the dark wizard. She only ever wanted Draco and to this day, wherever he was, she followed.

His dragon was ruthlessly possessive, territorial of what she thought was hers. He belonged to her as much as she belonged to him.

Draco knew she needed to be here, and that she was being treated by Voldemort's best healers. But she wasn't at the Manor, she wasn't home, and the separation was stifling.