FIC: Through the Fire [Draco - PG]
Author: Anonymous
Title: Through the Fire
Characters/Pairings: Draco
Rating: PG
Warnings: Talk of Death and Murder and Torture
Word Count: 812
Prompt: 13. Gen. Draco in the midst of the Fiendfyre. (by tarklovishki)
Notes: /
It had started with Crabbe trying to kill Potter, even though he denied it. It hadn’t taken Draco long to realize that he didn’t stand for killing and even though he detested Potter he couldn’t stand to see him killed before him, especially not in the service of the monster that was keeping him so thoroughly captive without the use of any spells.
Draco’s plan had been to go out of his way to not find Potter. What business had Potter at the Room of Requirement during a battle? But no, there had to be something there, something important. Perhaps it was good. Perhaps it was something he could use to free himself and more importantly his parents from this Nightmare.
Then Crabbe had gotten out of hand. Running wildly with this lust for murder, a new hunger woken in his old friend, one of many that came with the war. He didn’t know Crabbe anymore. This was terrifying sludge, an echo of what The Dark Lord wanted of him; only in Draco, he’d have a true Slytherin, not just ambitious but truly cunning.
Draco repressed a scream at the thought. He barely registered that he was hiding, cowering from the Mudblood. He was focused on something else: on Loyal Draco, Bloodthirsty Loyal Draco. He couldn’t be that, no matter what price The Dark Lord would take out in his parents flesh.
He learned long ago that The Dark Lord wouldn’t kill them and risk his hold over Draco, just as he wouldn’t kill Draco and risk his hold over Draco’s parents. Draco had felt the dagger slice his skin and the grinding crush of his bones while under the power of the Cruciatus Curse, every fiber of him hot with pain like The Dark Lord was trying to burn him away.
He could still feel it. The fire. It was hot, hotter than the pyres they used to burn muggle bodies and the stench of it was greater, too, but he couldn’t help but feeling that it would burn like ice. Then the Mudblood screamed and he realized that damn Crabbe had summoned cursed fire and that they were all going to die.
He could feel himself melting, wondered if they would find the body. He knew if they did The Dark Lord would gloat over it and his mother’s tears. He grabbed Goyle’s hand, poor sweet Goyle, who wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but he wasn’t cruel with it either. He just had a better sense of self preservation than Draco.
“Just do as he says, Draco.” He’d told him. “You’re being too smart for your own good. Don’t think.”
And so he didn’t. He tried in vain to keep up with the three Gryffindor heroes, but he’d been inside all year, with numerous pairs of close sinister eyes watching his every move, as well as two pairs of stiflingly loving ones. His indoor legs couldn’t beat the fire closing in front of him.
Oh, Merlin, he could feel himself melting in this heat and the ice hot flames were encroaching and his sweat stung boiling off his skin. And Goyle was there gasping in the choke of smoke, eyes already looking hazy through grey grit of air around them, or maybe that was Draco’s eyes looking hazily through the grey grit of air in between them.
Fire on all sides, but he couldn’t give in. He dragged Goyle up a pile of old lost things. Hoping, wishing, praying, all desperately for a rescue, and Goyle wouldn’t open his eyes anymore and wasn’t moving, and they were going to die. He could feel himself melting.
Then Potter was there, and there was some hope as they flew out of the flames, and of course, Potter, always so good on a broom, would risk everything for a shiny trinket, and Potter always so good on a broom managed it, in a way Draco knew would have gotten them both killed if it were the other way around.
The fresh air stung his skin and eyes and made his lungs reject everything he had breathed in, every bit of smoke darkened spit he swallowed. His eyes stung and he wept and wretched and wept for an old friend who had died long before his body.
He tried to explain, but they didn’t understand. The would never understand. They hadn’t been there. They didn’t know what it was like to realize that someone you cared about had so much darkness inside, was so willing to harm. You’d never known fear until someone you knew your whole life was giddy with murder and you could see that light in their eyes, so like his Aunty Bella.
They saved him, but he could see they didn’t understand. He hadn’t either until this moment. If the fire had claimed him, he would have been free.
Title: Through the Fire
Characters/Pairings: Draco
Rating: PG
Warnings: Talk of Death and Murder and Torture
Word Count: 812
Prompt: 13. Gen. Draco in the midst of the Fiendfyre. (by tarklovishki)
Notes: /
It had started with Crabbe trying to kill Potter, even though he denied it. It hadn’t taken Draco long to realize that he didn’t stand for killing and even though he detested Potter he couldn’t stand to see him killed before him, especially not in the service of the monster that was keeping him so thoroughly captive without the use of any spells.
Draco’s plan had been to go out of his way to not find Potter. What business had Potter at the Room of Requirement during a battle? But no, there had to be something there, something important. Perhaps it was good. Perhaps it was something he could use to free himself and more importantly his parents from this Nightmare.
Then Crabbe had gotten out of hand. Running wildly with this lust for murder, a new hunger woken in his old friend, one of many that came with the war. He didn’t know Crabbe anymore. This was terrifying sludge, an echo of what The Dark Lord wanted of him; only in Draco, he’d have a true Slytherin, not just ambitious but truly cunning.
Draco repressed a scream at the thought. He barely registered that he was hiding, cowering from the Mudblood. He was focused on something else: on Loyal Draco, Bloodthirsty Loyal Draco. He couldn’t be that, no matter what price The Dark Lord would take out in his parents flesh.
He learned long ago that The Dark Lord wouldn’t kill them and risk his hold over Draco, just as he wouldn’t kill Draco and risk his hold over Draco’s parents. Draco had felt the dagger slice his skin and the grinding crush of his bones while under the power of the Cruciatus Curse, every fiber of him hot with pain like The Dark Lord was trying to burn him away.
He could still feel it. The fire. It was hot, hotter than the pyres they used to burn muggle bodies and the stench of it was greater, too, but he couldn’t help but feeling that it would burn like ice. Then the Mudblood screamed and he realized that damn Crabbe had summoned cursed fire and that they were all going to die.
He could feel himself melting, wondered if they would find the body. He knew if they did The Dark Lord would gloat over it and his mother’s tears. He grabbed Goyle’s hand, poor sweet Goyle, who wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but he wasn’t cruel with it either. He just had a better sense of self preservation than Draco.
“Just do as he says, Draco.” He’d told him. “You’re being too smart for your own good. Don’t think.”
And so he didn’t. He tried in vain to keep up with the three Gryffindor heroes, but he’d been inside all year, with numerous pairs of close sinister eyes watching his every move, as well as two pairs of stiflingly loving ones. His indoor legs couldn’t beat the fire closing in front of him.
Oh, Merlin, he could feel himself melting in this heat and the ice hot flames were encroaching and his sweat stung boiling off his skin. And Goyle was there gasping in the choke of smoke, eyes already looking hazy through grey grit of air around them, or maybe that was Draco’s eyes looking hazily through the grey grit of air in between them.
Fire on all sides, but he couldn’t give in. He dragged Goyle up a pile of old lost things. Hoping, wishing, praying, all desperately for a rescue, and Goyle wouldn’t open his eyes anymore and wasn’t moving, and they were going to die. He could feel himself melting.
Then Potter was there, and there was some hope as they flew out of the flames, and of course, Potter, always so good on a broom, would risk everything for a shiny trinket, and Potter always so good on a broom managed it, in a way Draco knew would have gotten them both killed if it were the other way around.
The fresh air stung his skin and eyes and made his lungs reject everything he had breathed in, every bit of smoke darkened spit he swallowed. His eyes stung and he wept and wretched and wept for an old friend who had died long before his body.
He tried to explain, but they didn’t understand. The would never understand. They hadn’t been there. They didn’t know what it was like to realize that someone you cared about had so much darkness inside, was so willing to harm. You’d never known fear until someone you knew your whole life was giddy with murder and you could see that light in their eyes, so like his Aunty Bella.
They saved him, but he could see they didn’t understand. He hadn’t either until this moment. If the fire had claimed him, he would have been free.