Undisclosed Desires 2/? (Sept 2.0)
Title: Undisclosed Desires (Prisoner of Azkaban)
Summary: Draco never thought he would regret someone killing Bellatrix Lestrange until the Dark Lord saddled him with punishing the murderer.
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Hermione
Genre: Voldemort-Wins dystopia
Rating/Warnings: hard PG-13 for language/violence
Medium: fic (previous: part one)
Word Count: 1020
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: sure
By the time he Disapparated to the foyer of the Manor the muscles in his left arm shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t bring himself to clamp a hand over it to still the vibrations. His Mark still throbbed, inflamed by the Dark Lord’s summons and the new layer of magic swelling beneath his skin. As her new master his Mark was now intertwined with Granger’s slave brand. He released the crook of her arm, dumping her limp form onto the marble floor.
“Esther,” he snapped. “Take care of this.”
His sole remaining house-elf appeared, his primary caretaker since the time he was a child. She was so old she was beginning to resemble something hunters beheaded and stuffed on walls. She was the lone living relic of a different time. “Yes, sir,” she squeaked, her ears wobbling on her sunken, wrinkled face.
Draco turned on his heel and took off at a run for his father’s study. Even a year after he’d inherited it, he still couldn’t think of it as his. No sooner than the door closed behind him he was already tearing off his Death Eater robes and mask. They skidded across the floor, bumping into charred wallpaper that no amount of magic could remove. He activated the safeguards, the strongest barricade his magic could devise. Slumping to the floor he fell onto his side, uncoiling as a spring wound to the breaking point. Make no mistake about it, he was a dead man walking. The moment the Dark Lord spoke to him, he knew this was no test of loyalty, merely a death trap by another name. He wanted a reason to kill Draco that wouldn’t unduly rile up his fellow purebloods.
He wasn’t satisfied with Father’s execution, no-the Dark Lord meant to exterminate every last branch of the Malfoy family tree. One day, one week, one month, it didn’t matter. He was dead. All his years of back-buckling, kneel-groveling service for nothing, laid to waste as he was flung aside like a discarded empty container.
Just like Father.
He crushed his eyes shut but the image of Lucius’s skintight, starved, dehydrated corpse was a scar written across his eyelids. The Dark Lord tossed him in Azkaban, where nothing breathed and the only movements were your shadow beneath a merciless sun and patrolling Dementors whose icy hunger clawed at your insides. Of course they’d tried to escape England, vanish in the everlasting stream of refugees. Only there were lies beneath lies, spies stacked atop spies. Draco, a child his aunt had gleefully pronounced, now orphaned, alone, crawled across craggy stone to kiss the Dark Lord’s ring. Forgiven, for now. And what had his subservience bought him? A parole of mere months.
It was all her fault.
He flung himself upright and surged back into the hall. He was going to strangle Granger with his bare hands until she told him why she’d done such a monumentally, unforgivably stupid thing as killing Bellatrix. If she wanted to commit suicide she should’ve bloody well done it. But she hadn’t and now Draco was collateral damage. What was sniggering and calling her names compared to the noose strung around their necks? She’d dragged him a palm-span from death for no fucking reason. That was what made it unforgivable. He’d spent all his formative years unloading his troubles through his fists and privilege, and he could still taste the remembrance of it on his tongue, the bleeding satisfaction of unleashing Crabbe and Goyle for a pummeling well-deserved. If it was the last thing he did he was going to make her viciously, irreparably sorry.
Draco was going to break and break and break her until the Dark Lord spared him. His parents hadn’t sacrificed their lives so his could be undone by a fucking Mudblood. Most of the Manor still lay in a smoldering heap. With no notion of where Esther took Granger, he ran upstairs to the one remaining habitable wing, anticipation ticking in his chest and crowding his ribcage until he felt sick. Stalking down hallway after hallway, he kicked every door open until he found one illuminated by candles. In the well-lit room, there was ripped and dirty clothing strewn across the floor. The faint noise of splashing water turned him to the loo. He gritted his teeth and tried to swallow the bile rising his throat. It didn’t work.
He wrenched the door open. Gasping, Esther dropped the plate containing a sandwich and tipped over a glass of water, splashing the teacloth she wore. She’d been standing by, holding them while waiting for Granger to finish bathing. Bathing.
Draco barely heard the shatter of glass on porcelain tiles because all he could see was Granger in the bathtub, hot soapy water lapping up to her chin. His prisoner, his slave, lay there enjoying a bubble bath while he was busy losing his mind. Glass crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he pushed his house-elf aside and yanked Granger out of the bath by her throat. A suddenly racing pulse collided with his palms and he nearly lost his grip, so slippery was her skin. The lids of her eyes flickered open and she gasped from the sudden chill. Tightening his grasp, he turned on his heel and flung her as far away from him as he could. The backs of her knees hit the bed frame and she fell, sprawling over the bed. Wincing from the bruises and scars that crisscrossed her skin she pushed up on her elbows to face him, every stitch of skin tensed. Her arm lifted, unconsciously mimicking a dueling stance.
Then recognition dawned and Granger’s shoulders sagged. She fell back onto her palms, her posture softening statuesque marble into liquid weariness. She swiped at her hair. Even soaked, the curls danced maddeningly over her forehead and cheeks. Her mouth formed a wordless “oh,” as though maybe she had words for him, words he wouldn’t mind ice skating in hell to hear. She looked relieved to see him.
The Dark Lord could go hang because Draco was going to kill her.
39 points
Summary: Draco never thought he would regret someone killing Bellatrix Lestrange until the Dark Lord saddled him with punishing the murderer.
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Hermione
Genre: Voldemort-Wins dystopia
Rating/Warnings: hard PG-13 for language/violence
Medium: fic (previous: part one)
Word Count: 1020
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: sure
By the time he Disapparated to the foyer of the Manor the muscles in his left arm shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t bring himself to clamp a hand over it to still the vibrations. His Mark still throbbed, inflamed by the Dark Lord’s summons and the new layer of magic swelling beneath his skin. As her new master his Mark was now intertwined with Granger’s slave brand. He released the crook of her arm, dumping her limp form onto the marble floor.
“Esther,” he snapped. “Take care of this.”
His sole remaining house-elf appeared, his primary caretaker since the time he was a child. She was so old she was beginning to resemble something hunters beheaded and stuffed on walls. She was the lone living relic of a different time. “Yes, sir,” she squeaked, her ears wobbling on her sunken, wrinkled face.
Draco turned on his heel and took off at a run for his father’s study. Even a year after he’d inherited it, he still couldn’t think of it as his. No sooner than the door closed behind him he was already tearing off his Death Eater robes and mask. They skidded across the floor, bumping into charred wallpaper that no amount of magic could remove. He activated the safeguards, the strongest barricade his magic could devise. Slumping to the floor he fell onto his side, uncoiling as a spring wound to the breaking point. Make no mistake about it, he was a dead man walking. The moment the Dark Lord spoke to him, he knew this was no test of loyalty, merely a death trap by another name. He wanted a reason to kill Draco that wouldn’t unduly rile up his fellow purebloods.
He wasn’t satisfied with Father’s execution, no-the Dark Lord meant to exterminate every last branch of the Malfoy family tree. One day, one week, one month, it didn’t matter. He was dead. All his years of back-buckling, kneel-groveling service for nothing, laid to waste as he was flung aside like a discarded empty container.
Just like Father.
He crushed his eyes shut but the image of Lucius’s skintight, starved, dehydrated corpse was a scar written across his eyelids. The Dark Lord tossed him in Azkaban, where nothing breathed and the only movements were your shadow beneath a merciless sun and patrolling Dementors whose icy hunger clawed at your insides. Of course they’d tried to escape England, vanish in the everlasting stream of refugees. Only there were lies beneath lies, spies stacked atop spies. Draco, a child his aunt had gleefully pronounced, now orphaned, alone, crawled across craggy stone to kiss the Dark Lord’s ring. Forgiven, for now. And what had his subservience bought him? A parole of mere months.
It was all her fault.
He flung himself upright and surged back into the hall. He was going to strangle Granger with his bare hands until she told him why she’d done such a monumentally, unforgivably stupid thing as killing Bellatrix. If she wanted to commit suicide she should’ve bloody well done it. But she hadn’t and now Draco was collateral damage. What was sniggering and calling her names compared to the noose strung around their necks? She’d dragged him a palm-span from death for no fucking reason. That was what made it unforgivable. He’d spent all his formative years unloading his troubles through his fists and privilege, and he could still taste the remembrance of it on his tongue, the bleeding satisfaction of unleashing Crabbe and Goyle for a pummeling well-deserved. If it was the last thing he did he was going to make her viciously, irreparably sorry.
Draco was going to break and break and break her until the Dark Lord spared him. His parents hadn’t sacrificed their lives so his could be undone by a fucking Mudblood. Most of the Manor still lay in a smoldering heap. With no notion of where Esther took Granger, he ran upstairs to the one remaining habitable wing, anticipation ticking in his chest and crowding his ribcage until he felt sick. Stalking down hallway after hallway, he kicked every door open until he found one illuminated by candles. In the well-lit room, there was ripped and dirty clothing strewn across the floor. The faint noise of splashing water turned him to the loo. He gritted his teeth and tried to swallow the bile rising his throat. It didn’t work.
He wrenched the door open. Gasping, Esther dropped the plate containing a sandwich and tipped over a glass of water, splashing the teacloth she wore. She’d been standing by, holding them while waiting for Granger to finish bathing. Bathing.
Draco barely heard the shatter of glass on porcelain tiles because all he could see was Granger in the bathtub, hot soapy water lapping up to her chin. His prisoner, his slave, lay there enjoying a bubble bath while he was busy losing his mind. Glass crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he pushed his house-elf aside and yanked Granger out of the bath by her throat. A suddenly racing pulse collided with his palms and he nearly lost his grip, so slippery was her skin. The lids of her eyes flickered open and she gasped from the sudden chill. Tightening his grasp, he turned on his heel and flung her as far away from him as he could. The backs of her knees hit the bed frame and she fell, sprawling over the bed. Wincing from the bruises and scars that crisscrossed her skin she pushed up on her elbows to face him, every stitch of skin tensed. Her arm lifted, unconsciously mimicking a dueling stance.
Then recognition dawned and Granger’s shoulders sagged. She fell back onto her palms, her posture softening statuesque marble into liquid weariness. She swiped at her hair. Even soaked, the curls danced maddeningly over her forehead and cheeks. Her mouth formed a wordless “oh,” as though maybe she had words for him, words he wouldn’t mind ice skating in hell to hear. She looked relieved to see him.
The Dark Lord could go hang because Draco was going to kill her.
39 points