Unbound

chapter ten.

Trudging through a week of meetings and missions wore Draco very thin. When it came Monday morning, he realized he hadn't been able to gather enough valuable intel for his meeting with Granger the next day. He set out to find any vital information that was available to him so he didn't come empty-handed once again.

He had ended up at the Savoy again, but this time for longer than usual. It had become his custom to switch hotels every day or two, ensuring his wards were always up and active before he left. Draco never liked to be in the same place long, lest his magical signature or any lingering dark magic be used to trace him. The last thing he wanted was to involve innocent muggle hotel staff in an overly large and complicated Wizarding World War. He knew the muggles have had their fair share of destructive world wars already and did not need to be involved in one they were not equipped to win.

This time, though, Draco had stayed in this room for about a week, apparating here the night after his last meeting with the Golden Girl. The Savoy was one of the nicer suites he had, although every hotel offered him something different and always included some level of luxury. His new quarters here had soft brown floors in the bedroom and the living area. The kitchen and bathroom both had cold white tile that he found refreshing when he needed it but bothersome in the mornings of exceptionally long days. The staff left him to himself as much as they could, knowing he was there yet rarely calling the room. Sometimes, on random or incredibly stressful days, he'd resort to ordering the dinner services from the hotel restaurant as it had been a popular muggle activity, he found. His favorite was the sirloin and pasta plate; they always made it just to his taste.

Yet this week, Draco felt an odd longing for isolation. He had meetings every day, however, every moment he was not at Dolohov Manor or fulfilling his duties to the Dark Lord on various missions, he found himself within the confines of his room.

On Thursday, he had his usual meeting with the Dark Lord, but this time it was only the higher officials and members. It consisted of six: the Dark Lord, Dolohov, Umbridge, Bobbin, Severus, and Draco. He took his usual place to the right of the Dark Lord's seat and awaited the silence that fell upon the group as Voldemort lifted his right hand ever so slightly so his wrist bent rather than his elbow. His followers ceased their conversations, and Draco looked up to see Severus across from him, breathing slowly, his face as still and bored as a statue as if he were in the presence of a misbehaving class rather than the wizard taking over the whole of the UK. Next to him, he could feel Dolores shift as he saw her lips folded in as her gaze traced lines on the table in front of her. 

A few seats down, the other men remained quiet as their leader placed his hand back on the wooden table. Draco looked up from the table, straightened his shoulders, and turned his head to his left, immediately catching the eye of the Dark Lord and maintaining it unlike few others could. He watched as the creature, parading himself about as a man, let the side of his lips quirk up at Draco's continuous stare. Trying not to grimace, Draco instead let his head drop by only a millimeter and lift again, giving his Lord a nod. At that, Voldemort addressed the room.

"I asked you here to give you updates on my plans and ask your advice," he began.

"As I'm sure Severus here could tell you, our curse development is going most swimmingly, I might say. We have developed some gloriously horrific curses, ones the Order's pitiful members could not dream of combating."

Draco watched Nagini curl around Lord Voldemort's chair and slither her way up his arm to hiss carelessly. She watched the people who sat at the table, seemingly daring them to talk back or challenge her master and reap the rewards of being in striking distance.

Voldemort continued his lecture, letting Severus add in different points when invited and necessary. Draco only paid half attention, allowing himself to finally take time to relax in the midst of a literal war. He hardly had the time to sit and breathe, always on a mission or trying to make it up to his mother - reversing his sins in the eyes of death and daring that constantly found its way into the depths of his life. Frankly, he was sick and tired of the way his life was controlled by every person who had any semblance of authority over him. His father got them into this mess - killed his mother by association - and he didn't intend on leaving anytime soon. Yet, he refused to remain a prisoner, enslaved to the whims of a madman.

The Dark Lord himself disregarded Narcissa's death, throwing it to the side and killing Draco slowly from the inside out with the fading memory of his mother within Death Eater ranks. He controlled him now, used the Malfoy name as the puppet strings that held Draco only slightly above death at any given moment. If Draco were to step a toe out of line, he'd meet his mother far sooner than his earthly body would like - Voldemort was looking for a reason to promote him just as equally as he was looking for an excuse to kill him.

Draco only began to pay attention when the specific curses and their counters were being described in detail. His mind scrambled out of its self-pity and latched onto Severus' words. This would be his scroll for later, he thought to himself as he committed everything to memory.

He was adamant on keeping his promise of continual help to the Order. Even though he couldn't stand the hierarchy of those in charge, the last thing he wanted to happen was he lose this partnership he had with the order, and Granger by extension, leaving her to shoulder the consequences of returning with no new intel to aid them in their losing battle for peace.

Draco knew that they treated her poorly, worse than unfairly, and he didn't quite understand it in any way it was looked at.

He knew her in Hogwarts to be highly intelligent, even he would admit it. She was gifted and often won out against everyone, even himself, when it came to grades and O.W.L. scores. He always found himself enraptured with the way everything came so easy to her compared to the purebloods he knew. It was true she was a muggleborn, and he was taught that their kind were less than, worse off, and frankly a sin simply by having the audacity to live, but Draco couldn't find any reason as to why she was so much better at things than him and his friends. And he had hated her for it.

And although she was sorted into Gryffindor, Draco could acknowledge that Granger could have done well in Slytherin with the unwavering loyalty she had. She had backed Potter and Weasley on every idiotic thing they hyper-fixated on and despite any of their apparent shortcomings or lack of solid planning or reasoning, she stuck by them. Even in their school years, he wondered how she had been the brains of the entire group, making sure they didn't die while the boys made their best efforts in opposition. Draco wondered then what the Order had done to her to break that resilient woman he knew into the shell of a healer she was today.

As the thoughts entered his mind, the burning feeling of rage deep in his stomach soon followed. He didn't understand the proper thickness of the Order if they had resolved to use one of their greatest assets, besides Saint Potter, as only a minuscule healer. Granted, her job was important and she was a damned good healer, but having her out on the fields, or even in their tiny kitchen planning attacks, as Kreatcher had described to Draco, would do more for the Resistance than what they have now. With every increasingly anger-fueled thought that ran rampant in his mind, only one epiphany truly remained.

Draco realized with no doubt in his mind that if Granger had gotten caught up in the wrong side of the war, pledged her loyalties to the Dark Side, there would be no battles. No, there would only be blood and pride and dominance. The Dark Side would win the war, and Hermione Granger would come out on top - she always would.