The Shattered Dragon

Chapter 5: Atlas The Guardian

"Oi! Take it easy, friend. Next week then."

Draco shook his head.

"Then when is she available?" Theo asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on the club owner.

Draco stood up and pushed away from the bar, taking his glass of whiskey.

"I'll let you know, friend. Until then, pick someone else."

Hermione stood in the nightly line up while four of the other girls were given their assignments. Draco was wavering on his feet, already half drunk, his eyes bloodshot, hair a mess. The girls looked at each other from the corners of their eyes, not used to seeing their boss so...undone. There was no pep talk, no cheeky speech, no jokes...just names and room numbers accompanied by times.

"The rest of you are free to go, enjoy your evening," he said, his eyes locked on Hermione with every word.

He found her in the garden sitting on one of the stone benches, looking up at the black sky scattered with stars.

"Moonstone says you're feeling better, able to eat," he said, standing in front of her, hands deep in his pockets.

There was a shock of his platinum hair hanging in front of his eye, his bow tie hanging undone around his unbuttoned collar. For the first time she could see a hint of the brand on his chest that mimicked her own.

"Yes, thanks. I just needed to get used to living so well I guess," Hermione said, only adding a dash of sarcasm. In fact she couldn't remember when she'd last lived so comfortably, which would be wonderful were she allowed to leave at will.

He sat down next to her then and joined her in looking up into the darkness. When he closed his eyes, even to blink the images of her writhing under Theo came unbidden, the slack jaw, damp hair, her arms stretched over her head.

"I have a secret," he said. "I loved Divination class. I know we all thought it was a load of shit when we were there and we all made fun of Trelawney and her dramatics...but I loved the stories, the mythology, the symbols. I love astrology and palmistry and tea leaves and all of that." He took her hand and held her arm out, tracing his fingertips over the marks on her skin. "Do you know the story of the Pleiades?"

"They're seven sisters," she said. "Their father threw them into the sky, turning them to stars."

"To protect them. The eighth star, Atlas," he said, drawing his finger over the darkest, largest star on her arm. "He is their father, their guardian, watching over them to keep them safe from evil men."

The story was over but his fingers still played over her skin, tracing the blue lines of her veins up to the inside of her elbow and back down to her wrist. She was mesmerized by his gentle touch, how unafraid he was to be close to her, to be kind to her, not at all the bully and bigot she remembered from school.

"Atlas also carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, doesn't he?" She added.

He smiled and pulled away from her standing up to leave.

"You were right when you said that it isn't my fault that your side lost the war. But I certainly did my part to get the ball rolling, didn't I? And for a long time I fought on the front lines of darkness, standing up for what my father told me was right. Now I live with that guilt every day, every minute. I don't ever escape it unless I'm drunk or high or unconscious. The only thing that assuages it is taking care of these girls, keeping them safe. It's like a drop of water in the ocean but I consider the Dragon my reparations in some twisted way."