tactus: touch, sense of touch, feeling
———
DRACO hissed as the wound on his forearm sealed itself, the blood finally seizing to flow out of it.
Picking up the small vial of Dittany, he let a few drops fall onto the cut sliced over his collarbone and tipped his head back, inhaling through his teeth, as it burned.
The air in the bathroom was cool against his bare skin as he tried to catch his breath, wincing as he saw spirals of Dark Magic flash under his skin for a quick second—remnants of the torture the Dark Lord had inflicted on him for failing to capture members of the Order in Albania a few weeks ago.
As one of Voldemort's most powerful and trusted Death Eaters, failure was never an option for Draco. He could have easily captured Shacklebolt and the Weasley girl when he'd finally found their safehouse in the lonely prairie—but had let them go knowing the Weasley girl was too important. If she was captured or killed, Potter would fall apart and the war would tip dangerously in the Dark Lord's favour.
And Draco was no saint—Merlin forbid—but Voldemort was the reason for what had happened to Elara down in that cell. Draco wanted revenge— revenge for the glimpses of torture he'd seen in her mind the day he got her out, revenge for the way she had looked, wounded and dying, bones jutting out through pallid skin, stained in blood and dirt and grime. With initials carved into her hip.
Like she was property.
His mind flashed to earlier that day when he'd had his hand around her throat. It had wrapped perfectly around her—just like all those years ago. He hadn't even meant to touch her but she'd been fighting back, turning to strike him, and his hand had moved on its own accord to stop her.
And she had looked up at him with wide brown eyes and he'd been able to feel her pulse thrum under his fingers, had seen something flicker in her eyes before it faded. He wondered if she remembered how many times he'd slid his hand around her throat before—just the way she liked it.
She was his and no one else's.
Draco clenched his teeth and slammed his Occlumency walls up, picking up his wand and murmuring a healing spell to seal the wound on his collarbone, not even flinching this time as tissues joined and stretched, leaving a scar.
She had cast Granger's Patronus—something that could only be possible if the Dark Magic she'd absorbed that fateful night was at work.
He didn't know what else she could be capable of—and if the magic was anything like the one that pulsed underneath his skin right now, after his own personal torture session, he didn't know if it was a good thing it was living in her.
He shook himself out of his thoughts, bending his head to rest between the tops of his spread knees, his arm draped over one of them, wand dangling.
This was a war. People were dying left and right on the daily—but somehow, nothing mattered but her.
|
"That's new."
Draco glanced up from where he was standing over maps in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, his hands braced on the table on either side of the parchment, supporting his weight.
Celeste Zabini strode into the room, followed by Pansy Parkinson, the first girl's face covered in a smirk as she nodded at the scar peeking out from under the collar of Draco's black shirt.
"I didn't know you spent enough time ogling at me to know which scars are old and which are new, Celeste," he drawled in response, reaching one hand up to adjust the collar of his shirt, hiding the scar again.
Blaise's cousin snorted and sent a glance over at Pansy who looked grim, her arms crossed over her chest. "Can you believe this guy? He still thinks I have a crush on him."
Pansy rolled her eyes, the dark Death Eater robes stark against her pale skin as she shifted closer to lean over the table, opposite to Draco. "Well, you did—as far as I remember."
Draco smirked at Celeste as she glared at Pansy. "It was like six years ago—"
"Yeah, and poor guy didn't give you the time of day," Pansy responded, casually, frowning down at the maps. "I heard the Weasley girl got away in Albania."
Draco's lip almost curled. He hated being reminded of his failures—especially since he knew he could've easily succeeded if he hadn't been a spy.
"You hurt his feelings, Pans," Celeste giggled, giving her girlfriend a nudge in the ribs. "Look, I think he's going to pout—"
Draco gave her a shove with his magic, watching as she skidded back, hitting her back against the wall. She struggled there but he held her down with his power, still leaning on the table.
"Draco," Pansy scolded, looking up at him. He rolled his eyes and released Celeste who glared at him as she trudged back to Pansy's side.
Where Celeste had seemed to thrive with the war, exercising her powers and heading missions, gaining the reputation of a trusted Death Eater, Pansy had seemed to retreat into her shell. The war seemed to take out of her, draining her like it drained Draco—and he wondered if it was because her best friend was on the other side of it.
He hadn't seen Blaise since the night of the final Quidditch match in Hogwarts—when Gryffindor had beat Slytherin.
But Pansy had told him Blaise had found out about his three best friends being Death Eaters. She hadn't told him what Zabini had said when he'd found out—but Draco knew whatever it was, it had broken her heart.
"How's Astoria?" Celeste asked, perching on the arm of one of the chairs around the table and resting her elbow on it, propping her chin onto her palm.
"Good," he replied, curtly, turning his head back down to look at the maps, locks of his hair falling forward.
"Any heirs on the way yet?"
Pansy shot her girlfriend a look but Celeste looked unbothered, moving her chin off her palm to clap her hand over mouth as she yawned, still looking at Draco.
"Don't you have anything better to do, Celeste?" he shot back, something heavy curling in his chest. To bring a child into this war was the last thing Draco wanted to do.
"Oh, he's touchy," Celeste countered, gleefully. "Now that I think about it, I bet you do—cause I did see Astoria here the other day and she was walking funny—"
"The fact that Pansy isn't says something about your skills, Celeste—"
"Sod off, the both of you," Pansy cut in. "We have a job to do and I'd like to be out of this blasted mansion as fast as humanely possible—so can we please get on with it?"
Celeste's grin softened and then slipped away as she straightened, getting to her feet again, and Draco caught her hand sliding into Pansy's before he looked away.
"So where do we hit next?"
Draco was used to giving orders. Ever since he'd started climbing higher and higher in rank four years ago, he'd become an essential leader of this army, had become someone Voldemort trusted with his deepest secrets.
"I'm positive they're hiding out somewhere in Sussex," he said, tipping his head towards the map. "I say we get Rowle's force—" As he spoke, a small black line traveled from where he knew Rowle was situated. "And send them to find them."
The line halted at the little dot of Sussex.
"They're not in Sussex," Pansy said, bluntly. "You think Potter will be hiding in plain sight? Sussex is crawling with Death Eaters."
"Pansy's right," Celeste agreed, dark eyes scanning the map. "Take Dolohov's men and send them to Marseille. When I was there, we caught both the Patil twins—"
"And proceeded to lose them," Draco added, remembering how he had arranged a diversion, allowing Dean Thomas and one of the Weasleys to get the twins out as they were being transported back to Wiltshire as prisoners of war. He hadn't wanted to, had been fine with letting them die but Thomas had informed him that the Patil twins were two of the best healers in the Order—and they'd been teaching a dozen others and were therefore imperative.
"Not the point—"
"The point is we know some of their force is in Marseille," Pansy interjected, the lines by her mouth tightening. "Focus our forces there—forget Sussex."
Draco shook his head. "What either of you have failed to consider," he drawled, tracing his finger over the magical lines on the map, "is that the last efflux of Dark Magic was detected in Sussex two weeks ago."
Celeste looked faintly annoyed. "So?"
"So..." Draco went on, "that kind of magic has only been traced to events like the one that occurred at the Astronomy Tower—the night the old man died."
Pansy's eyes widened. "The...The thing that killed all the Death Eaters."
He hummed low in his throat with a nod. "And who do we know who's smart enough to—replicate that spell?" He sounded smug.
"Granger," Celeste whispered, her eyes opening wider as well.
"And who is Granger always with?"
"Potter." They both spoke in unison.
"Mm," Draco let the corner of his lips turn up—he was leading them both away from the truth and was enjoying it—and straightened, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "So?"
"Sussex." Pansy nodded and Draco wondered if he'd ever feel guilt over lying and playing with his friends.
But he didn't. Didn't feel one shred of remorse since they actively supported the Dark wizard who had taken away Elara from him, who had ordered for her torture and—
"But there's one thing you're forgetting."
Draco met Celeste's eyes, daring her to question him.
"Granger wasn't the only bright witch in Hogwarts," she said, frowning at the map. "Wasn't it Jacobs who cast that spell anyway? On top of the Astronomy Tower?"
Draco's stomach curled. Even Pansy stiffened.
"So what if it's Jacobs there instead of Granger and Potter?" Celeste continued, thoughtfully, before shrugging. "I mean, I guess it wouldn't really be a problem—ever since Jacobs got out, they've been trying to hunt her down—but the Dark Lord will be beyond furious if you tell him you're going to bring Potter and come back without him."
He could sense something struggling to push against his Occlumency walls and maintained them.
"So maybe don't do that," Celeste finished. "You'd probably end up with more of those." She nodded at the scar peeking out from under his shirt again and he shifted the collar again, concealing it.
Pansy was looking at Draco with curious eyes. She'd known how close he and Elara had been, she'd even been Elara's friend and she was waiting—waiting for him to show his hand.
"Whether it's Potter or Jacobs," Draco said, keeping his voice smooth, "we'll have gained a high value prisoner."
It would never be Elara. Never again.
Pansy nodded, still eyeing him. "Dolohov's been aching to get Jacobs back—says he didn't get to have his way with her before she escaped."
Draco's hands burned to curl into fists and he struggled to keep the walls in his mind up.
"Oh, yeah," Celeste put in. "I remember him talking about how she was—pretty and how he wanted to—"
"Sick pig," Pansy muttered but something like a smile ghosted her lips as she noticed Draco standing rigid and tense on the opposite side of the table. "You alright there, Draco?"
He met her eyes, stoically, although images of the letters A.D carved into Elara's hip, crimson red, oozing blood and infected, flashed to the front of his brain. "Fine."
"Take a trip down memory lane, did you?"
Celeste's eyes furrowed, obviously not understanding what her girlfriend was prodding Draco about. "What—"
"No, actually." He picked his cloak up from where he'd draped it over the back of the chair and swung it around his shoulders, fastening it. "But I wonder if you did, Pansy."
Pansy's smile faded and he knew she was thinking of how close Elara and her had gotten in those last few months before everything went downhill. He knew she hated that both her and Blaise were their enemies now.
But he had no doubt that if she met them on a battlefield, Pansy would kill them without a second thought.
Not because she hated them—but because if she didn't, her whole family and Celeste stood to lose. To be tortured and punished for her mistake of hesitating to kill her former classmates.
Draco had watched it happen before with countless young Death Eaters.
Marcus Flint had hesitated in killing his younger brother who had escaped to the Light side of the war before he obtained his Dark Mark—and Voldemort had tortured his mother until she nearly went insane.
The next time, Marcus wasn't as hesitant.
"Tell the others the plan," Draco nodded one last time at the map, long fingers moving to grasp the edges of his hood and pull it up over his head. "Sussex."
Celeste nodded, still looking slightly flabbergasted, glancing between Pansy and Draco as he strode out of the room, coming face to face with Rookwood on the other side.
The other Death Eater grinned. "Malfoy."
Draco's lip curled. Rookwood had been one of the first Death Eaters who had wanted to hurt Elara that night under Malfoy Manor. "Rookwood."
He slammed his broad shoulder into the thinner man and kept on his way, seething underneath his skin. One day, they would pay.
All of them.
|
The sound of his boots echoed in the quiet air as he climbed the porch steps before shoving open the front door of the safehouse, stepping in.
"Oh, great, look who's back."
He ignored Wood's jab from the kitchen as he turned to face the arrangement of armchairs and the sofa in front of the fireplace.
He was prepared this time when he saw her, curled up on an armchair, a book in her lap, her hands wrapped around a mug.
She had pulled her hair back into a knot on top of her head, a few strands coming loose and curling around her cheeks, swaying when she raised her head to look at him.
Her eyes were lighter with the sunlight streaming in through the window next to her, the first sunny day they'd had in the week.
"Malfoy."
Granger was suddenly standing in the doorway that he'd just walked through and he turned to look at her.
"Sussex," was all he said and something flickered in her gaze and she nodded.
"You told Harry?" she inquired, stepping in and shutting the front door behind her. Her eyes slid to Elara who was listening intently from the armchair, although she pretended to be reading.
Draco shook his head. "No. I came here to tell you we have to let them have this one."
He saw Elara go tense on the armchair.
Granger pulled off the gloves she'd been wearing, dropping the small basket she'd collected magical herbs in. "Oliver, take this to my room, would you?"
Wood obeyed, obviously not wanting to stay in the same area as Draco and she waited till he disappeared before turning to Elara.
"Elara, can you—"
She didn't look up from her book. "I'm staying. If you don't want me to hear, go somewhere else."
"Elara." Granger sighed. "Please—"
"Talk here." Elara turned the page, taking a sip from her mug. "I'm not going to tell anyone."
The corner of Draco's lips quirked up. She had only grown more headstrong and stubborn—it made him want to grab her and kiss her senseless.
The thought grounded him and he forced his thoughts away, reminding himself that he couldn't. All he was here to do was keep her safe.
Granger had given in and was now seating herself on the sofa. Draco moved to stand by the fireplace, resting his arm on the mantelpiece.
"You know how hard it is," she said, quietly. "Are you sure there's no other way?"
Draco shrugged. "This is a war, Granger. People have to die. There are going to be casualties."
"I understand that," she said back. "But that's because I have the long term goal in mind. Harry—Harry takes every death like he personally murdered them and everytime I have to hide the fact that we're letting people die, to help us in the long term—"
"If we don't," Draco cut her off, his fingers finding a trinket on the mantelpiece—a golden eagle—and toying with it, "the Dark Lord will know there's a spy among his ranks. It won't be long till he connects it to me. Just in the last month, I was present when the Patil twins escaped and I let the Weasley girl and Shacklebolt get away in Albania."
Elara seemed to perk up. "Ginny? The Patil twins? They're alright?
He could feel her gaze but didn't look at her. "I would assume so, seeing as I saved their—"
"Where is Harry now?" Granger asked, leaning her head back against the sofa. "Still near Sussex?"
Draco nodded. "There was another efflux of Dark Magic from there two weeks ago—more than we've seen in the past few months. I assume he was overwhelmed and took out all the Death Eaters with the Dark spell."
Elara jerked upright, her book falling from her lap, a small scream escaping her lips. Draco was moving in record time, moving to steady her by gripping her elbow, the other grabbing onto her mug to prevent the steaming liquid from sloshing onto her.
Granger was on her other side as Elara hissed through her teeth, her eyes shut, expression pained and she pressed the mug harder into Draco's hand. He understood the message and took it, letting her raise her now free hand to her forehead, the other gripped in his.
"Sorry—" she gasped out, still looking pained. "It happens."
Granger's eyes met Draco's over Elara's head.
Memories, she mouthed and Draco nodded, leaning over to place Elara's mug on the coffee table in front of her.
Elara mumbled something about pain, her eyes still squeezed shut, and Draco's chest contracted, violently.
"Take her to her room."
Granger shook her head. "It passes. Just give her a minute—"
"Granger. Take her to her room. Now."
Elara's eyes opened. "No. I'm—It's fine. I'm okay." She seemed to gather herself together, her hand slowly releasing its tight grip on Draco's and he resisted the urge to grab it again and lace their fingers together.
Instead, he straightened and took three steps back—back to the fireplace.
Granger still hovered as Elara bent down to get her book off the floor, wincing, slightly.
"What was it this time?"
Elara glanced up at her friend. "You—He mentioned the Dark spell."
Draco's hand spasmed by his side and he curled it into a fist and shoved it into his pocket.
"I remember—I was—I drank something." Elara's eyebrows furrowed. "Helena Ravenclaw was next to me."
Granger nodded, casting an uncertain look in Draco's direction. "You...You saved Hogwarts that night. With the Dark spell."
Elara let out a shaky exhale, settling back into the armchair and Granger finally stopped hovering, dropping back onto the sofa.
"The night I was captured?" Elara asked and her voice was so quiet and so hoarse Draco wanted to cross the distance and gather her up in his arms. He nearly did.
"Yes."
"But—isn't that spell—dangerous? How is Harry using it? Does he—" She pressed her hand firmer against her forehead. "Does he sacrifice someone everytime—"
"No!" Granger exclaimed, mortified. "No, of course not!"
"He should be." Draco's voice was smooth and bored. "It would be a hell of a lot more effective."
Granger sent him a withering look and he returned it, coolly. "He's not sacrificing anyone. We figured out a way to tweak it." She took a breath. "We can only use it once every few months—it doesn't work as well if someone doesn't give up their life for it—but it takes out about a dozen Death Eaters at once."
"And no one dies?" Elara looked slightly affronted and Draco couldn't help the smile that he tried to hide. "So you're telling me I went through all that shit and almost died and then got captured for it—and now you've figured out a way to cast it without killing anyone?"
He had to physically curl his fingers around the edge of the mantelpiece and take a step back to prevent himself from kissing her right there and then—even if Granger was in the same room.
The Gryffindor witch looked ashamed. "I told you. It doesn't work as well if no one dies for it—or almost dies in your case. Your spell took out about a hundred of them—Harry's only takes out twelve."
Elara snorted, shutting her book and tossing it onto the table next to her now cold mug. "If you guys wanted to get rid of me, you could've just asked—"
Granger conjured a bucket of water above Elara's head and dunked it on her.
Draco watched, amused, as Elara was soaked to the bone, dripping water all over the armchair, and spluttering. "Hermione, you bitch, I'm going to—"
"Just dry it off," he said, lazily. "Honestly, do you forget you have magic or—?"
Elara glared at him, her curls wet and plastered to her face, and it was the most endearing thing he'd ever seen. "I can't, you albino—"
"Albino?" he seethed, pushing off the mantelpiece and standing up straighter.
"Yes!" she responded, furiously. "Honestly, do you ever see the sun?"
Draco took a step closer. "Considering that I'm not the one on house arrest—"
"I am not on house arrest—"
"—maybe you should be if you can't even cast a simple Drying charm—"
"—maybe you should try a Tanning charm—"
"Enough!" Granger was on her feet, waving her wand and drying Elara, easily. "Merlin, you two are insufferable."
"You couldn't have picked someone more delightful to be your spy?" Elara huffed, fastening her hair into a knot again, and he only smirked, leaning against the mantelpiece and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Why can't you cast a Drying charm?" he asked, making his tone as condescending as possible.
She bristled but didn't snap at him. "I don't know. Sometimes, it works and sometimes, it doesn't."
"I think it has to do with the—you know—" Granger waved her hands about. "Dark Magic business. Sometimes she can't cast the simplest spells—and other times, she can cast some so advanced..."
She trailed off as a loud, bursting cry came from within the house, down the hallway. A baby's cry.
"Oh, shit, Alfie!" She was on her feet in a split second, hurrying out of the room. "I forgot to put him down for his nap!"
Draco could feel Elara's eyes on him as he stared at the doorway Granger had just disappeared into. "Alfie?"
Elara nodded, standing, and Draco instinctively took a step back as she passed him, heading for the kitchen adjoined to the sitting room. "He's almost a year old now."
He watched as she placed her mug in the sink and reached forward to turn on the tap. He started at the scene—he was so used to things being magically taken care of that he'd forgotten dishes could actually be washed by hand.
"What happened to his mother?" he asked, his eyes following her hands as she grabbed a sponge.
Her shoulders tensed just the slightest bit but it was easy for him to detect. "She—She died."
He nodded, although he knew she couldn't see him. "How?"
Elara lifted a shoulder. "I don't know. No one tells me anything in this blasted house." She huffed and muttered under her breath, "Always walking on fucking eggshells."
Her hands were covered in soap suds as she scrubbed at her mug, vigorously, like she had a personal vendetta against it. Draco could see her eyebrows furrowed, still murmuring something so quiet he couldn't make out the words.
He took a few steps towards her, slowly.
"Why don't you just wait for someone else to do it?" he said, even as he reached for his wand to clean it magically and help her.
"It calms me."
His hand froze and dropped back to his side. "Washing dishes the Muggle way...calms you?"
She nodded, glancing over her shoulder at him with an amused expression, blowing a strand of her hair out of her face. It fell right back. "Scandalised, are you? 'Mione did tell me you were a bit of a pureblood supremacist."
He raised an eyebrow, taking another step despite the fact that he knew he shouldn't. "A bit? I'm a Malfoy—I'm as pureblood supremacist as they get."
She hummed in response, turning the water on again and rinsing away the soap from her mug. "Sometimes—I remember."
The words made him step back from where he'd been approaching her, his body moving on its own accord. On instinct, he reached for his wand, forced his hand to stop because she wasn't a threat.
The knot in his throat made it hard to swallow and then he was reaching for the hood of his cloak, turning to leave.
He was halfway to the door when she spoke again, calm and collected, not a tremble in her voice.
"I remember what it felt like to have you touch me."
———
idk draco healing himself gets me hot
go read core by thirstymalfoy if you don't know who celeste zabini is jdjsns
i am once again saying i hate this chapter :) but yall still better vote or ill send cal to eat you >:(
stan calyx for clear skin
kisses,
nyx