Round 7 - Blackout - Team B - "Blackout"
Title: Blackout
LJ username: alhendra
Team: Draco
Prompt: Blackout
Length: 6,757 words
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All sexual activity portrayed in this fic is between two consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age. I do not own any of the characters.
Blackout
Draco leaned against the cold of the flagstones, looking out through the small window. The scent of the sea permeated the entire cell, but the spray didn’t normally reach as high as today. The huge waves crashed against the rocks below with almost deafening power, and the resulting spray reached as high as his cell, wetting his lips with the salty taste of freedom, beyond his reach now.
The cell was barely five feet across in either direction. A bed was the only furniture - prisoners like him got nothing else, nothing to occupy their time, not even a newspaper. Of course, merely a year previously the prisoners themselves wouldn’t even have noticed, locked inside their own memories, forced to relive the worst of them over and over again until madness inevitably took over, or merciful death released them from their torment.
But Dementors weren’t allowed to guard Azkaban anymore. That task was now left to witches and wizards. Although they couldn’t immobilize their prisoners as effectively as Dementors, they were better able to deal with contingencies, as Sirius Black’s escape had proven years previously.
Draco reached out through the metal bars sealing the window off as a possible escape route, feeling the cold air bite into his arms, and rested his head against the bars, closing his eyes. So this was the end to the great Draco, and the prestigious Malfoy line. He should have been surprised, but despite the acrid tang of bitterness that persisted, he wasn’t remotely so.
His life had taken a downward spiral a very long time ago, and this was the only fitting end to him.
And yet, it wasn’t even the fact that he was surrounded by wizards that hated him, prisoners and guardians alike, which rankled so. It was that - for a fleeting moment - he had finally found happiness…and then, brutally, it had been torn away.
--
The decision to turn traitor had been building inside him for months before he finally snapped and acted upon it. Yes, he truly believed that Pure-blood wizards were better than half bloods, Muggle-borns and Muggles - who, put quite simply, were inferior beings. But while he might not be happy about sharing a table with them, he didn’t think they were animals, to be tortured and killed at a wizard’s whim.
He’d joined Voldemort’s ranks eagerly as a blind youth, believing in his cause, only to find out that it wasn’t the cause he’d thought it was - and Voldemort not the leader he’d expected. But the Dark Mark wasn’t something to be washed off with soap, so Draco persisted, growing to hate himself and everyone around him. He didn’t want to torture Muggles. He didn’t want to see kids his own age - because that was what they were, kids - betray their family and friends, or die because their blood wasn’t pure enough.
Draco was ambitious, but that was not his dream.
Trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t escape, Draco survived by obeying his lord’s wishes, closing his eyes and covering his ears when he had to, to block out the sights and sounds, the decaying corpses, the blood, the screams, the accusing faces, the pleading eyes that haunted his days and nights.
It all ended with the death of his parents. He’d been numb at the news, and even months later, all that he could remember of that day was Voldemort, sitting in his chair, ugly and deformed. “Useless, the whole lot of them,” he’d hissed, angry, clenching his fists. “With all the power I give them, they still are unable to decimate all who stand before them! Lucius, my faithful but foolish Lucius, has failed me once again.”
Foolish Lucius has failed me once again.
As the words reverberated inside Draco’s head, something inside him died - the part of him that still clung to hope that his detestable actions would lead to a world which would profit him. The part of him that closed its eyes with every curse he unwillingly cast, that cried out with every scream he ripped out of his victims. The part of him that still saw Dumbledore fly backwards over the battlements, a puppet doll devoid of life, because of him.
That had been when he’d become a spy. Running hadn’t been an option. It had been time for Draco to take an active part in the war. Knowing not where the courage came from, he’d turned traitor and divulged all he knew to the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry.
His complacence had by now been wrung out of him, so he didn’t think that Voldemort’s downfall was due solely to his information - but he had certainly had a large part to play in it all. Trapped in a world of frozen fear, he’d done his utmost. It had made him wonder. How could Severus Snape have done it for so long without cracking?
Because it was terrifying, it was selfless, and if there was one guarantee in spying it was that whoever won, he would never be a victor. If the Death Eaters won, even if his treachery wasn’t discovered, then he’d live in a world of darkness, having to live with the guilt of helping the monster triumph over his enemies. If the Death Eaters lost, Draco had no illusions - he would never be a hero. He would always be the ‘enemy’, no matter how many times he risked his life, they would always wonder if his old allegiances still held true and he’d merely jumped off a sinking ship.
Just as Severus Snape would always be the slimy, slippery git to almost everyone who knew him, or thought they did.
The Dark Lord had finally fallen to Harry Potter’s wand, after a long bloody war. And new life had begun for the wizarding world.
But not for Draco. The whispers followed him everywhere, the stares and the glares, until he’d learned to avoid everyone - old friends and strangers alike.
And then, he started to feel it. The prickling feeling that someone was watching him, all the time. Not the looks and glares that were sent his way every time he stepped out. He was used to that. This was something different. His nerves had had enough to withstand already - he rushed to the Ministry, demanding the protection they’d promised him for betraying his old master.
But the war was over now, and he returned empty handed. There was no one he needed protection from anymore, they argued, barely sparing him a glance. The Death Eaters had fallen, their mighty leader gone, and they were too busy cleaning up the debris to spare anyone to babysit him.
The blond had argued, had cursed, had tried to bribe - but eventually, he left, dejected and defeated. He was on his own, and the people he’d helped save turned their backs on him.
He put up wards all around the Manor, but to no avail. The Death Eaters knew his mansion inside out, and the few of them that remained wanted revenge for his betrayal. They broke his wards and slipped inside while he slept fitfully, and he was in their hands before he could even lift his wand in defence.
Draco didn’t know how long his torment had lasted. He’d lost track of time, unconscious for most of it, being jolted into wakefulness only when it was time for more pain. The Death Eaters had learned from their mistakes. Torture someone with the Cruciatus curse, and for a few hours the agony would be exquisite, beyond ecstasy. But all too soon the victim would go insane, the mind unable to cope with the sustained suffering, and the fun would end far too soon.
But other curses, and simple, physical violence, could cause a hefty amount of pain, without giving the victim the release through insanity.
So Draco was tortured, beaten, cursed, until his throat was raw from screaming, wanting death as an escape. Years later, he could still feel Macnair’s wand slicing through his skin, as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, exploring his body lovingly to find the places which made Draco beg for mercy loudest. Avery’s steel shod boots connecting painfully with every part of him - kicking his face, smashing down on his back, grinding his groin. Nott using the Cruciatus curse on him for very, very brief periods, enough to satisfy his craving for agony, but not long enough to drive Draco insane. Rookwood pressing red hot iron implements to his skin, thinking it sublime to watch Draco shriek. Rowle’s liking for pretty boys, and his liking to have them screaming even more.
Every moment of lucidity, Draco prayed for death to claim and release him. But his savior, as it turned out, was someone wholly different.
--
In between the periods when the Death Eaters were having their fun with him, Draco was mostly blissfully unconscious, allowing him to briefly escape his situation. Strange fitful dreams and hallucinations haunted him, and when he saw the red head entering his cell, he thought it was merely another figment of his imagination - the urge to giggle rose in his throat, feeling like hysteria. What a strange thing to dream - why Ron Weasley? Potter would have been more appropriate, the savior of the wizarding world living up to his heroic role.
Still, as dreams went, it was better than most. Weasley was gentle, and warm, making up for the pain of being touched on raw welts and bruises that had not been allowed to heal. He was healed only to present a fresh canvas when the Death Eaters wanted to play some more with him, and their healing wasn’t exactly the best he’d seen, either.
Weasley’s yelling hurt his head, though, and the swinging sensation as the red head walked or ran - he wasn’t sure - didn’t make him feel any better. Nausea reared its head, but his stomach had long ago emptied its contents and nothing but dry sobs made it through his lips. Slowly Draco realised - this wasn’t a dream, or a hallucination. Weasley was really there - he was real and no matter how unlikely a rescuer he was, he was taking Draco away from the pain and misery.
The rest of the world suddenly exploded into a blur of light and colour as Ron stepped outside the dungeon where he’d found Draco, and the blond closed his eyes tight, terrified and dizzy. There was too much light, too much sound and too many voices. He clutched feebly at Ron with fingers that had no strength left, and whimpered, trying to tell Ron to take him somewhere else.
It was only much later that he was told how he’d been found. Having discovered that the remaining Death Eaters had returned to Malfoy Manor, Aurors had ambushed them and captured them all, save Avery, who had been killed during the subsequent fight. The Aurors had gone through the Manor to clean up behind them and ensure that no one was hiding within.
And then Ron had found him. At first, all that Ron had seen was a corpse hanging from the ceiling by his bloody wrists, crudely but effectively tied up with rope. The red head had almost left the dungeon immediately, sick with revulsion at the sight and stench in the room, but something had compelled him to investigate further. On realising that he wasn’t a corpse, Ron had immediately rushed him to the Healers waiting outside.
But the red head hadn’t recognised him, which was no surprise. Draco’s face was swollen and disfigured with bruises, squeezing his eyes to mere slits which he found hard to see through even when awake. Welts, bruises and open, infected wounds covered his now gaunt, skeletal frame from head to toe, so that even his dead mother would have had difficulty recognizing him had she been there to see him.
The Healer outside had cast a few quick spells, including a powerful painkilling one, and then had started to cast the more complex healing spells, cleaning his wounds and starting to close them. But as he was working, as the swelling on his face went down and Draco started to resemble a human being once again, he became recognisable.
“Oh, it’s Malfoy.” Even in his confused, uncomprehending state, the contempt in those three words spoken by the Healer filtered through to Draco’s mind. He thought he’d been beyond mere disgust after having gone through Death Eater hands, but they still sliced through him, making him ache.
He had nowhere left to turn to. He’d betrayed the Death Eaters, but the Ministry, as well as the wizarding population had abandoned him, using him and then leaving his carcass out for the vultures to devour.
Without the strength to even cry, Draco wished that he’d died, that the Death Eaters had finished their work and killed him before being rounded up by the Aurors.
But Ron wasn’t finished with him yet.
Ron Weasley wasn’t a boy any longer. He’d grown into a young man who’d seen more than he ought to, had fought in a war he believed in and had consequently earned the respect of his elders and peers. And along the way he’d learned that the world wasn’t divided into reds, greens, blues, or yellows, but into far too many shades of grey. Shades that a lot of people ignored, or simply refused to see.
Ron had seen too many people neglected - even in places like St. Mungo’s - because of their past to let Draco be taken there, so he took him home instead. He wasn’t a Healer, but as an Auror he had to brush up on healing charms and techniques, which Hermione had helped him with, so he knew something. Enough to justify not abandoning an unsung hero to healers that might not give him the care needed because they thought it was undeserved.
Of course, Draco didn’t know any of that. He simply felt a brief stab of pain as his stomach and the rest of him seemed to collapse in on itself before righting again, and the world was then blissfully quiet.
He’d whimpered when he’d felt the few rags still clinging to his body being stripped away, but then miraculously, he’d felt a cool breeze wash over him gently, and the pain had started to lessen. He’d floated in a world which suddenly seemed much brighter. Someone - it was still Ron, and the conscious part of him was still amazed - sponged him off with warm water. It made his wounds ache further, but he was being cleaned. And then his hair - oh, he’d washed his hair, running strong yet gentle fingers through blond locks which were stiff with blood, grime and sweat, carefully untangling them patiently.
It didn’t take the pain away, but he’d already started feeling more human, and Draco started to relax.
Then he force-fed him Skele-Gro. Draco didn’t want it - recognized the taste as leading to something even more foul, but he couldn’t even voice his complaint. So the horrible mixture slid down his throat and soon he could feel it start working, broken bones knitting together none too gently. He cried out then, unable to stop himself, as he’d been unable to prevent the crying and the screaming that the Death Eaters had elicited from him.
He thrashed around, the addition of new pain to an already throbbing body too much to bear. Then warm arms wrapped around him, holding him gently, but preventing him from violent motions. Soothing noises - unintelligible, but calming nonetheless - were whispered in his ears, and Draco relaxed again. Warm, human contact was a source of comfort that he’d been without for much too long.
Eventually, he slept.
For a long time he dozed, brief periods of hazy wakefulness alternating with deep sleep as his body regained energy and slowly healed itself, along with Ron’s help. He had very few memories of that time, mostly glimpses of the red head, and brief flashes where he’d realize that Ron was casting healing charms again, or bathing him, or giving him sips of water.
And then one day he woke up - really woke up, not in a half stupor - and found himself still at Ron’s place. He was inexplicably nervous at first, dumbstruck in Ron’s presence, unable to even mumble a ‘thank you’ to his savior. But Ron hadn’t pressed him, making enough conversation for two, albeit somewhat nervously - but it had served its purpose well, and Draco slowly relaxed around the red head, eventually even joining in with a monosyllable or two.
Ron also made him eat regularly again. After having not eaten for days, his stomach rebelled at the thought of food. However, while Ron was a lousy housekeeper, he was a fabulous chef, and managed to coax and cajole Draco into having a little bit of everything he cooked.
In fact, in an exceedingly short frame of time, Draco felt at home in Ron’s little flat. He hadn’t the faintest idea about cooking, and wasn’t too good at cleaning charms either, but he tidied up after the red head, so that clean robes were hung in the wardrobe instead of bunched in a heap on a chair, and the dirty laundry actually got done before Ron had only one clean set of robes left.
When Ron was working, Draco immersed himself in books. Content to be left in isolation, he found reading a good way to pass the time. Ron didn’t have too many books, but Draco read them all. Eventually the library increased in size, and it was only much later that Draco realized that Ron had bought the books for him.
Draco slowly gained back his weight, his body filling out until he looked less like a starving ghoul and more like the handsome young wizard he used to be, though some scars never completely healed. In time, he could look into a mirror without cringing.
For a little while, things went on uninterrupted. In the evening they would play a game of wizarding chess, or any other game that caught their fancy after dinner. When they retired to bed they always had the same bed versus sofa argument that Ron inevitably won, resulting in him sleeping on the couch and Draco more comfortably in the bed.
It was after a month, when Draco overheard an argument Ron was having with Harry over the Floo, that he realised what position he’d unwittingly put the red head in. To protect the blond from any sort of attention, even from Harry and Hermione, and to keep him company during all of his free time, Ron had been avoiding his friends, sometimes flat out lying to them.
Draco felt a gut wrenching feeling inside him, as if the stable ground he’d found was lurching dangerously again. He should have told Ron to go out, to not worry about leaving him alone and live his life properly - but he couldn’t. He clung to the stability and comfort of the routine he lived with Ron, and even knowing the discomfort Ron was going through, he couldn’t find it within himself to tell Ron even to simply go out and enjoy himself without him.
But the thought gnawed at him until he could bear it no longer. One morning, when Ron was at work, he left the flat, securely wrapped up in a cloak which hid his identity. He had to get used to being independent again - he couldn’t leech off Ron forever. It would only be a matter of time before Ron got impatient with him. Draco wandered timidly outside but only for a short time - even the few looks sent his way were enough to set his heart beating crazily and he jumped every time someone brushed past him.
Draco returned to Ron’s flat less than an hour after he’d left it, terrified. The next morning, however, he was able to pluck up the courage to venture outside again, and he forced himself to do it every day, although he couldn’t make himself to do anything beyond wander the streets, glancing apprehensively through shop windows.
The blond knew he needed to find his own living space, and not keep leeching off Ron’s kindheartedness. Returning to the Manor was out of the question. It had been there, in its unused dungeons, that the Death Eaters had…ruined him. He could never go there again.
He spent hours, one day, huddled on the corner opposite Gringotts, trying to pluck up the courage to go inside and withdraw some of his funds. After hours of dithering, the guards outside started giving him dirty looks, and he returned to Ron’s flat, dejected and discouraged.
To find a red head that was simply going crazy with worry.
Ron had met him at the door with a look bordering on manic. Draco had simply stared at him, dumbfounded, as Ron went on a tirade, about how worried he’d been and how Draco hadn’t even had the sense to leave a simple message saying he was out, and Ron hadn’t had the faintest idea whether he’d been kidnapped or had left or had…
Draco had simply stared, wide eyed, as the red head ranted furiously. And then he’d smiled, a smile he couldn’t suppress, the first real smile for weeks…Ron had been worried about him. Ron had nearly been climbing up the walls from not knowing what had happened to him.
His body had healed long ago, but it was then that his soul started to heal as well.
Over the following days, Draco steadily improved. He smiled and laughed, and the change impressed even Ron, who had become used to a silent, morose Draco. The blond seemed to blossom, shedding the solemnity, his eyes regaining liveliness, and when he did go out (returning home in good time) he wasn’t as jumpy.
When Harry and Hermione came knocking, demanding to find out what had happened to their friend for him to change so much, he had even insisted that Ron let them in - it was time for him to take another step forward.
Harry and Hermione had been gobsmacked, to put it mildly - but they had valiantly recovered, and by the end of the evening were reproaching Ron for not having told them earlier. Draco, too, relaxed after a while, as he realized that the golden boy and the smartest witch of her year weren’t going to take it against him for his past crimes.
The pair of them made a point to visit often, understanding that leaving Draco alone at home or taking him out weren’t acceptable yet. Eventually, Hermione invited both him and Ron out for an evening. Ron had already started shaking his head, knowing Draco didn’t want to be seen in public - but Draco had stopped him halfway. He’d love to, he interjected, making the red head raise his eyebrows in shock.
He’d hidden long enough. It was time for him to take the necessary steps back into society. And there was no safer way to do it than in the company of the famous Boy Who Lived and his best friends.
So it was that he stepped out of the shadows and into the limelight, head held high, no trace of the nervousness roiling or the tension coiled tightly inside him. The glares aimed at him were plenty, but he was both a Malfoy and a Slytherin and was used to them. He ignored them coolly, outwardly composed, and felt as if he’d conquered a demon by the end of the night.
He wasn’t brave enough to face the crowd alone, but at least he could face it with Ron and his friends.
And then, his favourite memory of all.
It hadn’t been a special night. Ron had come back home with take away food, claiming to be too tired to go through the trouble of cooking. They’d eaten, and then Ron had sprawled on the couch, complaining about work. He’d closed his eyes, relaxing into the soft sofa, and Draco had listened, sympathising.
He watched him, as he always did. Somehow along the way, he’d realised that Ron had become more to him than just his savior, than his rock of refuge. He’d…fallen for him. Foreseeable, maybe, given the circumstances, and yet…Draco had never felt anything so strong before.
Fear of being touched had given way to longing to be touched by Ron.
But he’d known, somehow, that it wasn’t to be. He didn’t even want to contemplate the minefield that even telling him would reveal - whether Ron would be scared to refuse out of fear of breaking him again, or would stay with him out of pity - and he didn’t think he’d be brave enough to handle rejection. It would hurt too much - and he still couldn’t handle himself on his own. He didn’t want to have to leave.
So he contented himself with watching Ron, watching the way the sunlight lit his hair, the play of emotions across his face, the way he’d frown when concentrating on a particularly tough chess game, the workouts that left Draco feeling breathless when he wasn’t the one actually exercising.
That night, he’d watched him lying there on the couch, talking about his day, looking carelessly handsome, still clad in his pitch black Auror robes.
Then Ron opened his eyes and caught him staring with longing that he wasn’t quick enough to hide.
And he’d looked at him then, in a way that made Draco tingle, and he suddenly knew. Ron wouldn’t make a move, because he didn’t know how stable the blond was - but he wanted it too. The knowledge, communicated in a simple look, had floored him, so that for a dazed second they’d simply stared at each other.
Draco screwed up all the courage that he had left, and moved to sit next to Ron on the couch. The red head had made space for him and waited. Draco had done as much as he dared. but the intensity in his eyes left no room for doubt. Ron cupped his cheek, tenderly, and Draco nuzzled into it, and then…Ron had kissed him.
So simple, and yet so profound. For a few breathless seconds, the world had frozen, teetering in a moment of perfection, and Draco realised he had found happiness without even looking for it.
It had been their little secret, a love that blossomed in the shadows, where they held each other and whispered sweet nonsense, and made love, sometimes gentle, and sometimes rough, but always with overwhelming affection.
And then, the world ended.
--
During Draco’s recovery, Death Eater trials had been raging across the front page of the Daily Prophet, showing in large moving pictures the progress made. One by one, the Death Eaters caught were imprisoned in Azkaban for life, pictures of them screaming, or laughing, or simply looking contemptuous splashed across the front page.
And then the summons to trial arrived.
Draco had stared, disbelieving, at the paper for hours. And when Ron had arrived home, he’d gone simply ballistic. Hadn’t the blond gone through enough, Ron raged, risking his neck daily by spying on Voldemort and helping to end the war? Hadn’t he redeemed himself ten times over already? But the Ministry didn’t seem to think so, and that was how Draco had found himself sentenced to three years in prison ‘to atone for past misdeeds and misconduct’.
He’d simply stared, numb, as the verdict was given, and was unable to find voice to argue. After all, weren’t they right? Every murder he’d committed would never be completely atoned for by his spying, not for those who had lost family members and beloved ones to his wand.
So he’d bowed his head, and the case was closed.
But not for Ron.
The red head was furious. He fought tooth and nail trying to get the verdict reverses, using his Auror privileges to their full extent, but it was no use. The Ministry stayed firm. They knew that Draco had already paid a great deal of his debt, they argued, which was why he was getting a reduced sentence instead of life. But the victims - they didn’t think he had paid for his crimes. They deserved justice, too. The Ministry gave him two days to get his things in order, and then he would be escorted - willingly or not - to Azkaban.
And so Ron was unable to do anything. Anything at all.
The fairytale has ended, Draco thought dully. In those two days, he’d secretly transferred most of his money to some Muggle bank, on the red head’s advice, unable to muster the interest to ask why. And then he’d waited, spending his time with a still furious Ron, who couldn’t accept that he was powerless in the face of Ministry stubbornness to help the one he loved.
He’d been escorted quietly to Azkaban under the eye of the press, but he hadn’t given them the satisfaction of seeing him broken as he walked to his doom. Under the scrutiny of a gleeful public, his pride had reasserted himself and he’d held his head high, using the scornful, superior look that he’d learned at his father’s knee to protect him from the crowd, knowing the papers would be having a field day at next publishing.
And now, here he was, after being submitted to the humiliating, degrading experience of being strip searched as soon as the fortress doors had clanged shut behind him. He’d now been in Azkaban for what - a week? - and already his new prison mates were making his life hell.
That wasn’t surprising, considering that most of them happened to be the Death Eaters whose life he had ruined before they returned the favour. The guardians of Azkaban weren’t lifting a finger to help him, not that that was a surprise either - almost all had good reason to hate Malfoys.
So even if Ron did wait for him - and Draco knew he would try - there might not be anything left of him to love. Because he’d already been broken once and soon he might be shattered beyond repair, beyond even Ron’s exceptional ability to put him back together.
--
It was a week to the day that he’d entered Azkaban when he saw Ron again in the flesh. He was being escorted back into his cell after his ten minute break in the fresh air, and had almost reached the little hell hole he had to call home when he saw him. He’d stared, wondering if he was dreaming, or starting to hallucinate - but it was Ron.
The Auror was dressed in his work robes, black from top to bottom, unalleviated by any sort of colour except his striking red hair. He looked stern and unapproachable - gone was his smile, as was the twinkle in his eyes. He looked grim, his wand in hand. In front of him floated a parchment, which he tapped every time he passed by a prisoner’s cell.
“Theodorus Nott,” Ron said, tapping the parchment again. The guardian leading him nodded.
“Yes. And the next one belongs to Thorfinn Rowle.” Tap on the parchment. “But I still don’t understand why you want to know.”
“It is not your job to understand,” Ron said coldly, and Draco flinched. He’d never heard him sound so remote and detached. So harsh. “It is your job to show me what I ask. But if you really must know, we are concerned with the prisoner layout inside the prison. Now that the Death Eaters are all in here, we want to ensure that no mass breakout occurs, and it’s simply asking for trouble to place some of them in adjacent cells.”
Draco had stopped walking, as had the guardian with him, interested in the happenings. Ron glanced his way, and a flood of disappointment washed through Draco - Ron turned away without even acknowledging his presence. Had he forgotten him already?
“I assure you, Mr. Weasley, that every care is taken to keep an eye on the prisoners at all times, and that…” the guardian showing Ron around blustered.
“Really.” Ron’s voice was flat and disbelieving. “You take every care?” In two quick strides he was in front of Draco. The blond froze, holding his breath, but Ron simply tilted his chin upwards, gesturing at Draco’s face. “Then pray explain how this prisoner got these bruises, guardian,” he said, voice icy. “Maybe you weren’t paying enough attention when other prisoners were around. Or maybe one of you decided to get rough with an unarmed prisoner?”
“I don’t know…maybe he tried escaping and…”
“Maybe? Guardian, I expect that Aurors are informed of every attempt at breakout, no matter how minor or insignificant it may seem…and since I haven’t seen any report, I assume there have been none, which indicates that you’re being sloppy - either with your paperwork, or with your guarding.”
The guardian wrung his hands, anxiety all over his face. “I assure you, sir, this won’t happen again.”
Ron glared at the man for a few seconds before nodding curtly. “See that it doesn’t. Let us move on.”
“Yes,” the guardian nodded, eager to continue. “This cell holds Draco Malfoy,” he gestured towards the blond, who was pushed inside by the other guardian and locked inside.
Immediately Draco peered out between the bars, aching for a last look at Ron. Their voices floated back to him as they walked away.
“Guardian, I do not need to remind you to not move any of the prisoners yet until we get back to you on this. We need to plan to ensure the best layout possible, and if you start moving them at your discretion, there will be repercussions.”
“Yes, sir, I assure you…”
Draco closed his eyes, heart beating painfully. He didn’t know what Ron was doing there, but the mere touch of his finger under his chin had made his heart skip a beat…and the red head had made sure the guardians would take better care of him from now on.
Even in the cold depths of despair, Ron had found a way to comfort him.
--
Even that night, simply seeing Ron had buoyed him so much that he couldn’t sleep. He stood near the window, wrapped in his blanket, looking at the wild waves crashing down on the rocks below. Outside, the area was always lit with torches, near the rocks and on the walls. The torches on the rocks were doused regularly with sea water, yet never went out. No one wanted to run the risk of enemies approaching without being seen, so guards were always on the watch, by the bright light of day or the ever-burning torches at night.
Suddenly, to his astonished eyes, the flames of the torches flickered wildly - and then detached themselves from their locations, swirling like moths in the air, shooting away from the fortress, all headed towards the same unknown location. On their passage, they lit up for a brief moment a figure mounted on a broom, holding up something in his hand - and then the lights vanished, plunging the entire fortress and the surrounding areas into darkness.
Silence dissolved into uproar. Draco heard the eager, expectant yells of the prisoners mingling with the alert cries of the guardians. He froze with bated breath, peering out from the window - but the darkness outside, without the guarding flames, was complete. He could not even see the line of the horizon - sea and sky blended seamlessly into a patch of unrelieved black.
An explosion shook the fortress, making it tremble. Draco fell down onto the cot, and struggled back to his feet, his heart sinking. Who could want to free the Death Eaters cooped up inside? Hadn’t they lived through enough bloodshed? He rushed to the door and blinked as light suddenly assaulted his eyes. Something shot past his door, fizzing brightly in the darkness, and Draco gaped, even as the sudden light hurt him.
Fireworks?
Before he had time to process the thought, another explosion knocked him off his feet - directly behind him. He turned to see that the wall far had been torn almost completely open, and a figure stood there - tall and handsome, holding his wand aloft to light up the small chamber, eyes blazing.
“Come, Draco, we don’t have much time,” Ron said, but the blond could do nothing but stare in shock, open mouthed and wide eyed.
“Ron?” he gasped, unable to believe that it was really Ron, the Auror, whose job it was to hunt dark wizards and keep order - Ron who had single handedly attacked Azkaban, to get him out.
“Were you expecting anyone else?” When Draco didn’t move, the red head strode forward, grabbed Draco and pulled him in front of him on the broom. “Hold tight now!” Before Draco could protest, Ron had taken off, and Draco felt the cold night air surround them, bringing with it the taste of freedom.
Of course, escaping was not going to be so simple. Mounted figures flew after them, only visible because of the spells they cast. Ron avoided them, swerving left and right, and then laughed. “Hold on,” he said, removing something from his robe. Draco watched as Ron pressed his lips to the small cigarette case, murmuring something unintelligible, and then flipped it open, pointing it at the pursuing figures.
The captured everburning torchlight exploded from the Deluminator, zipping towards the guards at lightning speed. Draco heard the yells and saw the guards, briefly illuminated as the bobbing lights sped swiftly by them, and the cries of those who were hit, crashing downwards as they lost control of their brooms. That got rid of most of them, as a few stopped by to help those who’d fallen and fish them out of the wild sea.
The few that were left persisted, but Ron flew higher and headed straight into the clouds, and the cries of the guardians behind them grew progressively fainter, until they vanished altogether.
The night was cold, but Draco barely registered the fact, even though his inmate garb wasn’t suited to flying on such a night. His arms were wrapped securely around Ron, who cast a minor warming spell on them both to keep them from shivering. But Draco’s mind wasn’t focusing on that.
There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to say - but the words weren’t forthcoming. All he could manage was a small “How?” But Ron knew him, because he didn’t think it was an ungrateful response.
He told Draco everything, even laughing at how absurdly simple it had been. Ron had become a very respected character in the wizarding community, having been one of the key figures leading to Voldemort’s downfall. Although they had sent him away with a pat on the head when he’d been outraged at Draco’s trial, he still had the influence and knowledge that came with being an Auror. No one had raised an eyebrow when he’d started researching Azkaban or when he’d shown up at the fortress itself without authority from his superiors. It had been easy as strolling in and noting down the information he wanted - Draco’s cell location - at his leisure.
Draco was silent, his mind whirling. “And…the Death Eaters…” he ventured.
“Don’t worry, I made sure none of them could escape,” Ron replied, his voice hard. The first explosion had occurred away from the cells, and had been merely a diversion. It had been his life’s work to put them under lock and key, he wasn’t about to ruin it. But Draco had become his whole life…he shot a tender look at the blond, elated at having him close again.
Draco returned a dazzling smile, but it vanished quickly. “What happens next?”
But Ron already had an answer. “We run,” he said simply. “Until they give you the full pardon they owe you.”
“Run,” Draco said flatly. “And your friends, your family…”
Ron’s jaw tightened, but he shook his head. “I chose you,” he said simply, and that was enough. Draco hugged him tighter, and rested his head on Ron’s shoulder, closing his eyes.
He was first in Ron’s world. That was happiness.
Draco smiled to himself, knowing that Ron had liberated more than just his body - he had liberated his heart. He had only one question left. “Where do we go now?”
Finis
LJ username: alhendra
Team: Draco
Prompt: Blackout
Length: 6,757 words
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All sexual activity portrayed in this fic is between two consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age. I do not own any of the characters.
Blackout
Draco leaned against the cold of the flagstones, looking out through the small window. The scent of the sea permeated the entire cell, but the spray didn’t normally reach as high as today. The huge waves crashed against the rocks below with almost deafening power, and the resulting spray reached as high as his cell, wetting his lips with the salty taste of freedom, beyond his reach now.
The cell was barely five feet across in either direction. A bed was the only furniture - prisoners like him got nothing else, nothing to occupy their time, not even a newspaper. Of course, merely a year previously the prisoners themselves wouldn’t even have noticed, locked inside their own memories, forced to relive the worst of them over and over again until madness inevitably took over, or merciful death released them from their torment.
But Dementors weren’t allowed to guard Azkaban anymore. That task was now left to witches and wizards. Although they couldn’t immobilize their prisoners as effectively as Dementors, they were better able to deal with contingencies, as Sirius Black’s escape had proven years previously.
Draco reached out through the metal bars sealing the window off as a possible escape route, feeling the cold air bite into his arms, and rested his head against the bars, closing his eyes. So this was the end to the great Draco, and the prestigious Malfoy line. He should have been surprised, but despite the acrid tang of bitterness that persisted, he wasn’t remotely so.
His life had taken a downward spiral a very long time ago, and this was the only fitting end to him.
And yet, it wasn’t even the fact that he was surrounded by wizards that hated him, prisoners and guardians alike, which rankled so. It was that - for a fleeting moment - he had finally found happiness…and then, brutally, it had been torn away.
--
The decision to turn traitor had been building inside him for months before he finally snapped and acted upon it. Yes, he truly believed that Pure-blood wizards were better than half bloods, Muggle-borns and Muggles - who, put quite simply, were inferior beings. But while he might not be happy about sharing a table with them, he didn’t think they were animals, to be tortured and killed at a wizard’s whim.
He’d joined Voldemort’s ranks eagerly as a blind youth, believing in his cause, only to find out that it wasn’t the cause he’d thought it was - and Voldemort not the leader he’d expected. But the Dark Mark wasn’t something to be washed off with soap, so Draco persisted, growing to hate himself and everyone around him. He didn’t want to torture Muggles. He didn’t want to see kids his own age - because that was what they were, kids - betray their family and friends, or die because their blood wasn’t pure enough.
Draco was ambitious, but that was not his dream.
Trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t escape, Draco survived by obeying his lord’s wishes, closing his eyes and covering his ears when he had to, to block out the sights and sounds, the decaying corpses, the blood, the screams, the accusing faces, the pleading eyes that haunted his days and nights.
It all ended with the death of his parents. He’d been numb at the news, and even months later, all that he could remember of that day was Voldemort, sitting in his chair, ugly and deformed. “Useless, the whole lot of them,” he’d hissed, angry, clenching his fists. “With all the power I give them, they still are unable to decimate all who stand before them! Lucius, my faithful but foolish Lucius, has failed me once again.”
Foolish Lucius has failed me once again.
As the words reverberated inside Draco’s head, something inside him died - the part of him that still clung to hope that his detestable actions would lead to a world which would profit him. The part of him that closed its eyes with every curse he unwillingly cast, that cried out with every scream he ripped out of his victims. The part of him that still saw Dumbledore fly backwards over the battlements, a puppet doll devoid of life, because of him.
That had been when he’d become a spy. Running hadn’t been an option. It had been time for Draco to take an active part in the war. Knowing not where the courage came from, he’d turned traitor and divulged all he knew to the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry.
His complacence had by now been wrung out of him, so he didn’t think that Voldemort’s downfall was due solely to his information - but he had certainly had a large part to play in it all. Trapped in a world of frozen fear, he’d done his utmost. It had made him wonder. How could Severus Snape have done it for so long without cracking?
Because it was terrifying, it was selfless, and if there was one guarantee in spying it was that whoever won, he would never be a victor. If the Death Eaters won, even if his treachery wasn’t discovered, then he’d live in a world of darkness, having to live with the guilt of helping the monster triumph over his enemies. If the Death Eaters lost, Draco had no illusions - he would never be a hero. He would always be the ‘enemy’, no matter how many times he risked his life, they would always wonder if his old allegiances still held true and he’d merely jumped off a sinking ship.
Just as Severus Snape would always be the slimy, slippery git to almost everyone who knew him, or thought they did.
The Dark Lord had finally fallen to Harry Potter’s wand, after a long bloody war. And new life had begun for the wizarding world.
But not for Draco. The whispers followed him everywhere, the stares and the glares, until he’d learned to avoid everyone - old friends and strangers alike.
And then, he started to feel it. The prickling feeling that someone was watching him, all the time. Not the looks and glares that were sent his way every time he stepped out. He was used to that. This was something different. His nerves had had enough to withstand already - he rushed to the Ministry, demanding the protection they’d promised him for betraying his old master.
But the war was over now, and he returned empty handed. There was no one he needed protection from anymore, they argued, barely sparing him a glance. The Death Eaters had fallen, their mighty leader gone, and they were too busy cleaning up the debris to spare anyone to babysit him.
The blond had argued, had cursed, had tried to bribe - but eventually, he left, dejected and defeated. He was on his own, and the people he’d helped save turned their backs on him.
He put up wards all around the Manor, but to no avail. The Death Eaters knew his mansion inside out, and the few of them that remained wanted revenge for his betrayal. They broke his wards and slipped inside while he slept fitfully, and he was in their hands before he could even lift his wand in defence.
Draco didn’t know how long his torment had lasted. He’d lost track of time, unconscious for most of it, being jolted into wakefulness only when it was time for more pain. The Death Eaters had learned from their mistakes. Torture someone with the Cruciatus curse, and for a few hours the agony would be exquisite, beyond ecstasy. But all too soon the victim would go insane, the mind unable to cope with the sustained suffering, and the fun would end far too soon.
But other curses, and simple, physical violence, could cause a hefty amount of pain, without giving the victim the release through insanity.
So Draco was tortured, beaten, cursed, until his throat was raw from screaming, wanting death as an escape. Years later, he could still feel Macnair’s wand slicing through his skin, as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, exploring his body lovingly to find the places which made Draco beg for mercy loudest. Avery’s steel shod boots connecting painfully with every part of him - kicking his face, smashing down on his back, grinding his groin. Nott using the Cruciatus curse on him for very, very brief periods, enough to satisfy his craving for agony, but not long enough to drive Draco insane. Rookwood pressing red hot iron implements to his skin, thinking it sublime to watch Draco shriek. Rowle’s liking for pretty boys, and his liking to have them screaming even more.
Every moment of lucidity, Draco prayed for death to claim and release him. But his savior, as it turned out, was someone wholly different.
--
In between the periods when the Death Eaters were having their fun with him, Draco was mostly blissfully unconscious, allowing him to briefly escape his situation. Strange fitful dreams and hallucinations haunted him, and when he saw the red head entering his cell, he thought it was merely another figment of his imagination - the urge to giggle rose in his throat, feeling like hysteria. What a strange thing to dream - why Ron Weasley? Potter would have been more appropriate, the savior of the wizarding world living up to his heroic role.
Still, as dreams went, it was better than most. Weasley was gentle, and warm, making up for the pain of being touched on raw welts and bruises that had not been allowed to heal. He was healed only to present a fresh canvas when the Death Eaters wanted to play some more with him, and their healing wasn’t exactly the best he’d seen, either.
Weasley’s yelling hurt his head, though, and the swinging sensation as the red head walked or ran - he wasn’t sure - didn’t make him feel any better. Nausea reared its head, but his stomach had long ago emptied its contents and nothing but dry sobs made it through his lips. Slowly Draco realised - this wasn’t a dream, or a hallucination. Weasley was really there - he was real and no matter how unlikely a rescuer he was, he was taking Draco away from the pain and misery.
The rest of the world suddenly exploded into a blur of light and colour as Ron stepped outside the dungeon where he’d found Draco, and the blond closed his eyes tight, terrified and dizzy. There was too much light, too much sound and too many voices. He clutched feebly at Ron with fingers that had no strength left, and whimpered, trying to tell Ron to take him somewhere else.
It was only much later that he was told how he’d been found. Having discovered that the remaining Death Eaters had returned to Malfoy Manor, Aurors had ambushed them and captured them all, save Avery, who had been killed during the subsequent fight. The Aurors had gone through the Manor to clean up behind them and ensure that no one was hiding within.
And then Ron had found him. At first, all that Ron had seen was a corpse hanging from the ceiling by his bloody wrists, crudely but effectively tied up with rope. The red head had almost left the dungeon immediately, sick with revulsion at the sight and stench in the room, but something had compelled him to investigate further. On realising that he wasn’t a corpse, Ron had immediately rushed him to the Healers waiting outside.
But the red head hadn’t recognised him, which was no surprise. Draco’s face was swollen and disfigured with bruises, squeezing his eyes to mere slits which he found hard to see through even when awake. Welts, bruises and open, infected wounds covered his now gaunt, skeletal frame from head to toe, so that even his dead mother would have had difficulty recognizing him had she been there to see him.
The Healer outside had cast a few quick spells, including a powerful painkilling one, and then had started to cast the more complex healing spells, cleaning his wounds and starting to close them. But as he was working, as the swelling on his face went down and Draco started to resemble a human being once again, he became recognisable.
“Oh, it’s Malfoy.” Even in his confused, uncomprehending state, the contempt in those three words spoken by the Healer filtered through to Draco’s mind. He thought he’d been beyond mere disgust after having gone through Death Eater hands, but they still sliced through him, making him ache.
He had nowhere left to turn to. He’d betrayed the Death Eaters, but the Ministry, as well as the wizarding population had abandoned him, using him and then leaving his carcass out for the vultures to devour.
Without the strength to even cry, Draco wished that he’d died, that the Death Eaters had finished their work and killed him before being rounded up by the Aurors.
But Ron wasn’t finished with him yet.
Ron Weasley wasn’t a boy any longer. He’d grown into a young man who’d seen more than he ought to, had fought in a war he believed in and had consequently earned the respect of his elders and peers. And along the way he’d learned that the world wasn’t divided into reds, greens, blues, or yellows, but into far too many shades of grey. Shades that a lot of people ignored, or simply refused to see.
Ron had seen too many people neglected - even in places like St. Mungo’s - because of their past to let Draco be taken there, so he took him home instead. He wasn’t a Healer, but as an Auror he had to brush up on healing charms and techniques, which Hermione had helped him with, so he knew something. Enough to justify not abandoning an unsung hero to healers that might not give him the care needed because they thought it was undeserved.
Of course, Draco didn’t know any of that. He simply felt a brief stab of pain as his stomach and the rest of him seemed to collapse in on itself before righting again, and the world was then blissfully quiet.
He’d whimpered when he’d felt the few rags still clinging to his body being stripped away, but then miraculously, he’d felt a cool breeze wash over him gently, and the pain had started to lessen. He’d floated in a world which suddenly seemed much brighter. Someone - it was still Ron, and the conscious part of him was still amazed - sponged him off with warm water. It made his wounds ache further, but he was being cleaned. And then his hair - oh, he’d washed his hair, running strong yet gentle fingers through blond locks which were stiff with blood, grime and sweat, carefully untangling them patiently.
It didn’t take the pain away, but he’d already started feeling more human, and Draco started to relax.
Then he force-fed him Skele-Gro. Draco didn’t want it - recognized the taste as leading to something even more foul, but he couldn’t even voice his complaint. So the horrible mixture slid down his throat and soon he could feel it start working, broken bones knitting together none too gently. He cried out then, unable to stop himself, as he’d been unable to prevent the crying and the screaming that the Death Eaters had elicited from him.
He thrashed around, the addition of new pain to an already throbbing body too much to bear. Then warm arms wrapped around him, holding him gently, but preventing him from violent motions. Soothing noises - unintelligible, but calming nonetheless - were whispered in his ears, and Draco relaxed again. Warm, human contact was a source of comfort that he’d been without for much too long.
Eventually, he slept.
For a long time he dozed, brief periods of hazy wakefulness alternating with deep sleep as his body regained energy and slowly healed itself, along with Ron’s help. He had very few memories of that time, mostly glimpses of the red head, and brief flashes where he’d realize that Ron was casting healing charms again, or bathing him, or giving him sips of water.
And then one day he woke up - really woke up, not in a half stupor - and found himself still at Ron’s place. He was inexplicably nervous at first, dumbstruck in Ron’s presence, unable to even mumble a ‘thank you’ to his savior. But Ron hadn’t pressed him, making enough conversation for two, albeit somewhat nervously - but it had served its purpose well, and Draco slowly relaxed around the red head, eventually even joining in with a monosyllable or two.
Ron also made him eat regularly again. After having not eaten for days, his stomach rebelled at the thought of food. However, while Ron was a lousy housekeeper, he was a fabulous chef, and managed to coax and cajole Draco into having a little bit of everything he cooked.
In fact, in an exceedingly short frame of time, Draco felt at home in Ron’s little flat. He hadn’t the faintest idea about cooking, and wasn’t too good at cleaning charms either, but he tidied up after the red head, so that clean robes were hung in the wardrobe instead of bunched in a heap on a chair, and the dirty laundry actually got done before Ron had only one clean set of robes left.
When Ron was working, Draco immersed himself in books. Content to be left in isolation, he found reading a good way to pass the time. Ron didn’t have too many books, but Draco read them all. Eventually the library increased in size, and it was only much later that Draco realized that Ron had bought the books for him.
Draco slowly gained back his weight, his body filling out until he looked less like a starving ghoul and more like the handsome young wizard he used to be, though some scars never completely healed. In time, he could look into a mirror without cringing.
For a little while, things went on uninterrupted. In the evening they would play a game of wizarding chess, or any other game that caught their fancy after dinner. When they retired to bed they always had the same bed versus sofa argument that Ron inevitably won, resulting in him sleeping on the couch and Draco more comfortably in the bed.
It was after a month, when Draco overheard an argument Ron was having with Harry over the Floo, that he realised what position he’d unwittingly put the red head in. To protect the blond from any sort of attention, even from Harry and Hermione, and to keep him company during all of his free time, Ron had been avoiding his friends, sometimes flat out lying to them.
Draco felt a gut wrenching feeling inside him, as if the stable ground he’d found was lurching dangerously again. He should have told Ron to go out, to not worry about leaving him alone and live his life properly - but he couldn’t. He clung to the stability and comfort of the routine he lived with Ron, and even knowing the discomfort Ron was going through, he couldn’t find it within himself to tell Ron even to simply go out and enjoy himself without him.
But the thought gnawed at him until he could bear it no longer. One morning, when Ron was at work, he left the flat, securely wrapped up in a cloak which hid his identity. He had to get used to being independent again - he couldn’t leech off Ron forever. It would only be a matter of time before Ron got impatient with him. Draco wandered timidly outside but only for a short time - even the few looks sent his way were enough to set his heart beating crazily and he jumped every time someone brushed past him.
Draco returned to Ron’s flat less than an hour after he’d left it, terrified. The next morning, however, he was able to pluck up the courage to venture outside again, and he forced himself to do it every day, although he couldn’t make himself to do anything beyond wander the streets, glancing apprehensively through shop windows.
The blond knew he needed to find his own living space, and not keep leeching off Ron’s kindheartedness. Returning to the Manor was out of the question. It had been there, in its unused dungeons, that the Death Eaters had…ruined him. He could never go there again.
He spent hours, one day, huddled on the corner opposite Gringotts, trying to pluck up the courage to go inside and withdraw some of his funds. After hours of dithering, the guards outside started giving him dirty looks, and he returned to Ron’s flat, dejected and discouraged.
To find a red head that was simply going crazy with worry.
Ron had met him at the door with a look bordering on manic. Draco had simply stared at him, dumbfounded, as Ron went on a tirade, about how worried he’d been and how Draco hadn’t even had the sense to leave a simple message saying he was out, and Ron hadn’t had the faintest idea whether he’d been kidnapped or had left or had…
Draco had simply stared, wide eyed, as the red head ranted furiously. And then he’d smiled, a smile he couldn’t suppress, the first real smile for weeks…Ron had been worried about him. Ron had nearly been climbing up the walls from not knowing what had happened to him.
His body had healed long ago, but it was then that his soul started to heal as well.
Over the following days, Draco steadily improved. He smiled and laughed, and the change impressed even Ron, who had become used to a silent, morose Draco. The blond seemed to blossom, shedding the solemnity, his eyes regaining liveliness, and when he did go out (returning home in good time) he wasn’t as jumpy.
When Harry and Hermione came knocking, demanding to find out what had happened to their friend for him to change so much, he had even insisted that Ron let them in - it was time for him to take another step forward.
Harry and Hermione had been gobsmacked, to put it mildly - but they had valiantly recovered, and by the end of the evening were reproaching Ron for not having told them earlier. Draco, too, relaxed after a while, as he realized that the golden boy and the smartest witch of her year weren’t going to take it against him for his past crimes.
The pair of them made a point to visit often, understanding that leaving Draco alone at home or taking him out weren’t acceptable yet. Eventually, Hermione invited both him and Ron out for an evening. Ron had already started shaking his head, knowing Draco didn’t want to be seen in public - but Draco had stopped him halfway. He’d love to, he interjected, making the red head raise his eyebrows in shock.
He’d hidden long enough. It was time for him to take the necessary steps back into society. And there was no safer way to do it than in the company of the famous Boy Who Lived and his best friends.
So it was that he stepped out of the shadows and into the limelight, head held high, no trace of the nervousness roiling or the tension coiled tightly inside him. The glares aimed at him were plenty, but he was both a Malfoy and a Slytherin and was used to them. He ignored them coolly, outwardly composed, and felt as if he’d conquered a demon by the end of the night.
He wasn’t brave enough to face the crowd alone, but at least he could face it with Ron and his friends.
And then, his favourite memory of all.
It hadn’t been a special night. Ron had come back home with take away food, claiming to be too tired to go through the trouble of cooking. They’d eaten, and then Ron had sprawled on the couch, complaining about work. He’d closed his eyes, relaxing into the soft sofa, and Draco had listened, sympathising.
He watched him, as he always did. Somehow along the way, he’d realised that Ron had become more to him than just his savior, than his rock of refuge. He’d…fallen for him. Foreseeable, maybe, given the circumstances, and yet…Draco had never felt anything so strong before.
Fear of being touched had given way to longing to be touched by Ron.
But he’d known, somehow, that it wasn’t to be. He didn’t even want to contemplate the minefield that even telling him would reveal - whether Ron would be scared to refuse out of fear of breaking him again, or would stay with him out of pity - and he didn’t think he’d be brave enough to handle rejection. It would hurt too much - and he still couldn’t handle himself on his own. He didn’t want to have to leave.
So he contented himself with watching Ron, watching the way the sunlight lit his hair, the play of emotions across his face, the way he’d frown when concentrating on a particularly tough chess game, the workouts that left Draco feeling breathless when he wasn’t the one actually exercising.
That night, he’d watched him lying there on the couch, talking about his day, looking carelessly handsome, still clad in his pitch black Auror robes.
Then Ron opened his eyes and caught him staring with longing that he wasn’t quick enough to hide.
And he’d looked at him then, in a way that made Draco tingle, and he suddenly knew. Ron wouldn’t make a move, because he didn’t know how stable the blond was - but he wanted it too. The knowledge, communicated in a simple look, had floored him, so that for a dazed second they’d simply stared at each other.
Draco screwed up all the courage that he had left, and moved to sit next to Ron on the couch. The red head had made space for him and waited. Draco had done as much as he dared. but the intensity in his eyes left no room for doubt. Ron cupped his cheek, tenderly, and Draco nuzzled into it, and then…Ron had kissed him.
So simple, and yet so profound. For a few breathless seconds, the world had frozen, teetering in a moment of perfection, and Draco realised he had found happiness without even looking for it.
It had been their little secret, a love that blossomed in the shadows, where they held each other and whispered sweet nonsense, and made love, sometimes gentle, and sometimes rough, but always with overwhelming affection.
And then, the world ended.
--
During Draco’s recovery, Death Eater trials had been raging across the front page of the Daily Prophet, showing in large moving pictures the progress made. One by one, the Death Eaters caught were imprisoned in Azkaban for life, pictures of them screaming, or laughing, or simply looking contemptuous splashed across the front page.
And then the summons to trial arrived.
Draco had stared, disbelieving, at the paper for hours. And when Ron had arrived home, he’d gone simply ballistic. Hadn’t the blond gone through enough, Ron raged, risking his neck daily by spying on Voldemort and helping to end the war? Hadn’t he redeemed himself ten times over already? But the Ministry didn’t seem to think so, and that was how Draco had found himself sentenced to three years in prison ‘to atone for past misdeeds and misconduct’.
He’d simply stared, numb, as the verdict was given, and was unable to find voice to argue. After all, weren’t they right? Every murder he’d committed would never be completely atoned for by his spying, not for those who had lost family members and beloved ones to his wand.
So he’d bowed his head, and the case was closed.
But not for Ron.
The red head was furious. He fought tooth and nail trying to get the verdict reverses, using his Auror privileges to their full extent, but it was no use. The Ministry stayed firm. They knew that Draco had already paid a great deal of his debt, they argued, which was why he was getting a reduced sentence instead of life. But the victims - they didn’t think he had paid for his crimes. They deserved justice, too. The Ministry gave him two days to get his things in order, and then he would be escorted - willingly or not - to Azkaban.
And so Ron was unable to do anything. Anything at all.
The fairytale has ended, Draco thought dully. In those two days, he’d secretly transferred most of his money to some Muggle bank, on the red head’s advice, unable to muster the interest to ask why. And then he’d waited, spending his time with a still furious Ron, who couldn’t accept that he was powerless in the face of Ministry stubbornness to help the one he loved.
He’d been escorted quietly to Azkaban under the eye of the press, but he hadn’t given them the satisfaction of seeing him broken as he walked to his doom. Under the scrutiny of a gleeful public, his pride had reasserted himself and he’d held his head high, using the scornful, superior look that he’d learned at his father’s knee to protect him from the crowd, knowing the papers would be having a field day at next publishing.
And now, here he was, after being submitted to the humiliating, degrading experience of being strip searched as soon as the fortress doors had clanged shut behind him. He’d now been in Azkaban for what - a week? - and already his new prison mates were making his life hell.
That wasn’t surprising, considering that most of them happened to be the Death Eaters whose life he had ruined before they returned the favour. The guardians of Azkaban weren’t lifting a finger to help him, not that that was a surprise either - almost all had good reason to hate Malfoys.
So even if Ron did wait for him - and Draco knew he would try - there might not be anything left of him to love. Because he’d already been broken once and soon he might be shattered beyond repair, beyond even Ron’s exceptional ability to put him back together.
--
It was a week to the day that he’d entered Azkaban when he saw Ron again in the flesh. He was being escorted back into his cell after his ten minute break in the fresh air, and had almost reached the little hell hole he had to call home when he saw him. He’d stared, wondering if he was dreaming, or starting to hallucinate - but it was Ron.
The Auror was dressed in his work robes, black from top to bottom, unalleviated by any sort of colour except his striking red hair. He looked stern and unapproachable - gone was his smile, as was the twinkle in his eyes. He looked grim, his wand in hand. In front of him floated a parchment, which he tapped every time he passed by a prisoner’s cell.
“Theodorus Nott,” Ron said, tapping the parchment again. The guardian leading him nodded.
“Yes. And the next one belongs to Thorfinn Rowle.” Tap on the parchment. “But I still don’t understand why you want to know.”
“It is not your job to understand,” Ron said coldly, and Draco flinched. He’d never heard him sound so remote and detached. So harsh. “It is your job to show me what I ask. But if you really must know, we are concerned with the prisoner layout inside the prison. Now that the Death Eaters are all in here, we want to ensure that no mass breakout occurs, and it’s simply asking for trouble to place some of them in adjacent cells.”
Draco had stopped walking, as had the guardian with him, interested in the happenings. Ron glanced his way, and a flood of disappointment washed through Draco - Ron turned away without even acknowledging his presence. Had he forgotten him already?
“I assure you, Mr. Weasley, that every care is taken to keep an eye on the prisoners at all times, and that…” the guardian showing Ron around blustered.
“Really.” Ron’s voice was flat and disbelieving. “You take every care?” In two quick strides he was in front of Draco. The blond froze, holding his breath, but Ron simply tilted his chin upwards, gesturing at Draco’s face. “Then pray explain how this prisoner got these bruises, guardian,” he said, voice icy. “Maybe you weren’t paying enough attention when other prisoners were around. Or maybe one of you decided to get rough with an unarmed prisoner?”
“I don’t know…maybe he tried escaping and…”
“Maybe? Guardian, I expect that Aurors are informed of every attempt at breakout, no matter how minor or insignificant it may seem…and since I haven’t seen any report, I assume there have been none, which indicates that you’re being sloppy - either with your paperwork, or with your guarding.”
The guardian wrung his hands, anxiety all over his face. “I assure you, sir, this won’t happen again.”
Ron glared at the man for a few seconds before nodding curtly. “See that it doesn’t. Let us move on.”
“Yes,” the guardian nodded, eager to continue. “This cell holds Draco Malfoy,” he gestured towards the blond, who was pushed inside by the other guardian and locked inside.
Immediately Draco peered out between the bars, aching for a last look at Ron. Their voices floated back to him as they walked away.
“Guardian, I do not need to remind you to not move any of the prisoners yet until we get back to you on this. We need to plan to ensure the best layout possible, and if you start moving them at your discretion, there will be repercussions.”
“Yes, sir, I assure you…”
Draco closed his eyes, heart beating painfully. He didn’t know what Ron was doing there, but the mere touch of his finger under his chin had made his heart skip a beat…and the red head had made sure the guardians would take better care of him from now on.
Even in the cold depths of despair, Ron had found a way to comfort him.
--
Even that night, simply seeing Ron had buoyed him so much that he couldn’t sleep. He stood near the window, wrapped in his blanket, looking at the wild waves crashing down on the rocks below. Outside, the area was always lit with torches, near the rocks and on the walls. The torches on the rocks were doused regularly with sea water, yet never went out. No one wanted to run the risk of enemies approaching without being seen, so guards were always on the watch, by the bright light of day or the ever-burning torches at night.
Suddenly, to his astonished eyes, the flames of the torches flickered wildly - and then detached themselves from their locations, swirling like moths in the air, shooting away from the fortress, all headed towards the same unknown location. On their passage, they lit up for a brief moment a figure mounted on a broom, holding up something in his hand - and then the lights vanished, plunging the entire fortress and the surrounding areas into darkness.
Silence dissolved into uproar. Draco heard the eager, expectant yells of the prisoners mingling with the alert cries of the guardians. He froze with bated breath, peering out from the window - but the darkness outside, without the guarding flames, was complete. He could not even see the line of the horizon - sea and sky blended seamlessly into a patch of unrelieved black.
An explosion shook the fortress, making it tremble. Draco fell down onto the cot, and struggled back to his feet, his heart sinking. Who could want to free the Death Eaters cooped up inside? Hadn’t they lived through enough bloodshed? He rushed to the door and blinked as light suddenly assaulted his eyes. Something shot past his door, fizzing brightly in the darkness, and Draco gaped, even as the sudden light hurt him.
Fireworks?
Before he had time to process the thought, another explosion knocked him off his feet - directly behind him. He turned to see that the wall far had been torn almost completely open, and a figure stood there - tall and handsome, holding his wand aloft to light up the small chamber, eyes blazing.
“Come, Draco, we don’t have much time,” Ron said, but the blond could do nothing but stare in shock, open mouthed and wide eyed.
“Ron?” he gasped, unable to believe that it was really Ron, the Auror, whose job it was to hunt dark wizards and keep order - Ron who had single handedly attacked Azkaban, to get him out.
“Were you expecting anyone else?” When Draco didn’t move, the red head strode forward, grabbed Draco and pulled him in front of him on the broom. “Hold tight now!” Before Draco could protest, Ron had taken off, and Draco felt the cold night air surround them, bringing with it the taste of freedom.
Of course, escaping was not going to be so simple. Mounted figures flew after them, only visible because of the spells they cast. Ron avoided them, swerving left and right, and then laughed. “Hold on,” he said, removing something from his robe. Draco watched as Ron pressed his lips to the small cigarette case, murmuring something unintelligible, and then flipped it open, pointing it at the pursuing figures.
The captured everburning torchlight exploded from the Deluminator, zipping towards the guards at lightning speed. Draco heard the yells and saw the guards, briefly illuminated as the bobbing lights sped swiftly by them, and the cries of those who were hit, crashing downwards as they lost control of their brooms. That got rid of most of them, as a few stopped by to help those who’d fallen and fish them out of the wild sea.
The few that were left persisted, but Ron flew higher and headed straight into the clouds, and the cries of the guardians behind them grew progressively fainter, until they vanished altogether.
The night was cold, but Draco barely registered the fact, even though his inmate garb wasn’t suited to flying on such a night. His arms were wrapped securely around Ron, who cast a minor warming spell on them both to keep them from shivering. But Draco’s mind wasn’t focusing on that.
There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to say - but the words weren’t forthcoming. All he could manage was a small “How?” But Ron knew him, because he didn’t think it was an ungrateful response.
He told Draco everything, even laughing at how absurdly simple it had been. Ron had become a very respected character in the wizarding community, having been one of the key figures leading to Voldemort’s downfall. Although they had sent him away with a pat on the head when he’d been outraged at Draco’s trial, he still had the influence and knowledge that came with being an Auror. No one had raised an eyebrow when he’d started researching Azkaban or when he’d shown up at the fortress itself without authority from his superiors. It had been easy as strolling in and noting down the information he wanted - Draco’s cell location - at his leisure.
Draco was silent, his mind whirling. “And…the Death Eaters…” he ventured.
“Don’t worry, I made sure none of them could escape,” Ron replied, his voice hard. The first explosion had occurred away from the cells, and had been merely a diversion. It had been his life’s work to put them under lock and key, he wasn’t about to ruin it. But Draco had become his whole life…he shot a tender look at the blond, elated at having him close again.
Draco returned a dazzling smile, but it vanished quickly. “What happens next?”
But Ron already had an answer. “We run,” he said simply. “Until they give you the full pardon they owe you.”
“Run,” Draco said flatly. “And your friends, your family…”
Ron’s jaw tightened, but he shook his head. “I chose you,” he said simply, and that was enough. Draco hugged him tighter, and rested his head on Ron’s shoulder, closing his eyes.
He was first in Ron’s world. That was happiness.
Draco smiled to himself, knowing that Ron had liberated more than just his body - he had liberated his heart. He had only one question left. “Where do we go now?”
Finis