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drarrydrabble-blog · 7 years

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The Words I Didn’t Say

Pairing: Drarry

Warning: Suicide mention, Death

Word Count: 9k+

Dedication: To all of my lovely betas who made sure my story wasn’t a hot mess!

A/N: The trope I used is based on this idea here! I thought it was very interesting, but don’t look now if you don’t want any spoilers!

The grounds of Hogwarts stood bleak on that particular Saturday on a snowy December. The sky, a mirky, ugly grey peeked into the eighth year common room windows, not minding any of its business as the forty-something students lounged around, doing absolutely nothing. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan sat in one corner, swigging from a shared bottle of contraband firewhisky. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger coddled each other, hands entwined. While the bushy-haired nineteen-year-old aimlessly stared into the fire, her counterpart supported her weight, looking just as crestfallen. The few Slytherins that dare returned sat amongst themselves and those who were forced back under punishment, such as Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle, stood aside, separate from everyone else.

The eighth years were in a particularly sour mood, except for Draco Malfoy, who’d been that way for quite some time.

Since those who fought in the war returned to Hogwarts eighth year under official Ministry instruction, Draco stood aside as someone who no longer withheld his typical spunk and flare. He answered particularly tricky questions in class if he rose his hand before Hermione Granger and no longer had access to studying Defence Against Dark Arts. Draco was bricked up in a sturdy cell of his school, his sentence for making the idiotic decision to step into his father’s shoes. Though he walked free like the others who were instructed to return, there remained a heavy restraint that pinned him to the ground by his shoulders, and he didn’t enjoy it one bit.

No one associated themselves with him either. The mere mention of hanging out with a Death Eater would’ve sent rumours, quite literally, flying around the school. The victim would’ve been prosecuted at the hands of the patriotic students of Hogwarts, the teachers standing aside because they took a disliking to Malfoy and anyone who would lessen themselves to his liking.

Even Goyle, Draco’s once best friend, wouldn’t get too close to him. Given, the past few months had been entirely rocky, but Gregory wouldn’t even glance in his direction any further.

Because of this, because of the war he fought on the wrong side of, Draco remained completely friendless.

Sometimes, when the loneliness became all too overwhelming, he would visit Moaning Myrtle. For some odd reason or another, she still greeted him with a high-pitched giggle and a kiss to each of his gaunt cheeks.

Other times, he would venture off to the kitchen, where the house elves aimed to please. He would sit in there, hours at a time, doing his work, taste testing new sweets the house elves concocted. Remaining in the kitchen became a win-win situation. They fed him while he studied.

Despite the few instances of kindness, he received anything but in the common room. Angry sneers and glowers shot his way from time to time and nothing else. There wasn’t any intention to prove himself, either. Not that he didn’t want to, but he hadn’t any idea where to start. No matter what, he’d be painted as a villain and the good that he did do disappeared with Harry Potter.

Suddenly, a wail disrupted the bothersome silence collected in the common room. The first two to stand were Weasley and Granger, followed by all of the Gryffindors who returned. Draco stood as well, pulled from his stupor. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his left hand, he could more clearly see Ginevra Weasley clutching a Daily Prophet to her chest. Tears strew down her cheeks, relentless to fall. Stumbling towards Ronald, she shoved the paper into her older brother’s arms and collapsed at the feet of Granger. Obviously startled and sympathetic towards the seventh year, she crouched down, scooping the mess of a teenager into her arms.

“What does it say, Ron?” Granger asked, voice trembling.

Draco hadn’t realized it, but he was gripping onto the back of the chair he stumbled towards quite ferociously. Observing the freckle-faced man clutching the paper, Malfoy held his breath. Many thoughts shot through his mind, but they all fell on one person: Harry Potter.

Terror whiplashed itself across Weasley’s face. Dropping the Prophet, he sat down and buried his face in his hands, looking as if he would have to accept what the newspaper had told him.

Groping for the paper that fell out of Weasley’s hands, Granger fetched the Prophet and opened it, flashing the article that shot grief through both Ronald and Ginevra Weasley.

The Boy Who Lived, Found Dead?

A whir in Draco’s stomach surged a sense of nausea through him at the thought of Harry Potter found dead somewhere, and who knew where? Even his cronies hadn’t any idea where the boy had gone, and they had searched everywhere they could think of. He was to return to Hogwarts or start training as an Auror. When he hadn’t returned to do either, people grew worried.

Now, no one knew where he was and was presumed dead at this point.

But Harry Potter couldn’t be dead! He was the Boy Who Lived, after all. He wasn’t allowed to die, not yet.

Surprised and upset, Draco wiped the tears in his eyes away, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself.

“Oi, Malfoy, why are you crying?”

Too late.

Trying to withhold a sense of entitlement and dignity, he jutted his chin upward just slightly but allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks. “I’m merely sick of Potter playing hide and seek. We know he can’t be dead.”

“He’s dead, Malfoy!” Ginevra Weasley bawled but was hushed by Granger.

“According to the Prophet,” she said, folding the paper and setting it aside. For once, and without malice, Granger glanced his way. “Both you and I know that it is not entirely reliable.”

The inevitable wave of sorrow in the common room filtrated slightly.

“But we can’t listen to the wireless on school grounds!” Weasley unintentionally yelled, then shrunk when he caught himself. “Sorry, ‘Mione,” he said, voice cracking. “It’s just, you know…”

“Come on, now, you lot!” Seamus Finnigan said suddenly, standing from his chair. He thrust the bottle of firewhisky into Dean Thomas’ hand. “Think. We’re eighth years! We have full access to Hogsmeade before sunset!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Thomas cheered, standing up next to his fellow Gryffindor. “Potterwatch!”

Potterwatch? That term was new to Malfoy, but he knew already that it had to be invented during the war while the trio was in hiding.

The dampness collected in the room began to dry as the morale lifted slightly.

“Who wants to come?! We just need to let McGonagall know and we’ll be on our way!” Finnigan said, a little too happily as he sauntered towards the exit of the common room.

In side conversation, Draco heard the younger Weasley ask her brother if she could come along, only to be denied for obvious reasons.

A rally of voices echoed through the common room, which disoriented the intoxicated Seamus.

“Okay, who is not coming?”

Only one hand stood in the air, and it was that of Gregory Goyle. Obviously surprised that he was the only one to raise his hand, his eyes finally landed on Draco.

“You’re not staying behind, Draco?” Goyle said with a rich amount of indignance. “It’s Potter!”

“And?” Draco cocked a brow, stepping towards the crowd gathering at the exit. “I’m tired of being an enemy. War is over. There are no longer sides to pick.” And if there were, he would pick Potter’s side on any given day.

Draco Malfoy did not want to be his parents, not any longer.

“What would your father say of this?” Goyle laughed, which only provoked Draco.

Cheeks flushing, the room falling silent as he inched closer to Goyle, Malfoy could feel rage course through his veins. “He’s in Azkaban. Besides that, I really don’t give a hippogriff’s arse about what my father would think. He’s a criminal that deserves to rot in prison.”

This surprised Draco himself, but after all of those years of attempting to live up to his father’s expectations, he discovered just how much he loathed the man. Not only was he a coward, but he was also a cheat. Draco knew he had to be accountable for his actions, and he didn’t want to conform to some rogue agenda that would kill others off. Draco finally knew who he was. Nothing like his father.

“Like you didn’t do anything, Saint Malfoy,” Goyle spat, stepping up, their puffed chests nearly brushing.

“I know I did wrong, Goyle! I am not innocent! I know that! But you know what?” Draco said sharply, leaning in. “I am not going to let my past skew my future. I asked for forgiveness. I may not receive it, but I made my peace. I don’t want to be a monster like my father.”

Turning on his heel, Draco found himself staring back at the forty-something eyes of the other eighth years and Ginevra Weasley. Surprise, shock, and confusion reflected back at him, and if he were in any one of their shoes, he’d certainly peer at himself the same way.

But enough of that, they had “Potterwatching” to do.

“So? Shall we ask the Headmistress if we can commence?” Draco looked at his fellow classmates, disregarding their blank stares and gaping mouths shot in his direction.

Stepping up, he headed straight to the exit until a sturdy hand wrapped around his twig of a bicep. Attempting to pull it from the person’s grasp, he turned around to face Weasley.

“What’s it to you, Malfoy?” he asked, flustered, blue eyes blazing intensely back at him. “What’s Harry’s status got to do with anything that pleases you? Why do you care?”

“I prefer to keep my intentions between me, myself, and I, Weasley. Now, if we could, let’s see if the Prophet holds any truth.”

For all Potterwatch knew, it didn’t and after that, no one ever questioned Draco’s motives. The team of eighth years, at least those who were interested, asked on the next several Saturdays at precisely two o’three if they could run into Hogsmeade to listen to Potterwatch. The Prophet, like several had detected, was nothing but a phoney. That didn’t ensure anyone that he was safe either. Now, all Potter was a guessing game, a myth, a legend. Despite the fact that Harry Potter disappeared just as fast as the war ceased and had to be long gone from the Wizarding World, Draco continued to find himself attending the weekly ritual of sitting around an old, dusty wireless, hoping, and almost praying for some sort of news on his existence to ricochet off the walls of Hog’s Head Inn.

As the weeks passed, no longer were only students attending Hog’s Head religiously, but the entire proffessor-body of Hogwarts and those who had permission into Hogsmeade. While Filch remained at the castle to watch those under third year, students streamed along, wanting to know where the Chosen One was and if he was, indeed, alive, but as those weeks came and went, the high morale settled into something of a limbo. Some, Draco included, maintained hope while others weren’t too sure if Potter could’ve done as much as move a finger without being noticed. Though true, Potter had that invisibility Cloak Draco had used against him in sixth year. Whilst those who doted on Potter lamented over him, he always remembered to bring it up.

“There’s no way he can still be alive,” little Weasley had moaned as they tuned out of a Potterwatch for the day the weekend the Hogwarts students were to return for their studies. It was a nippy, frozen afternoon with an overcast sky and loads of snow blanketing the ground. Whilst the most logical of the Hogwarts students remained in the castle, the Weasleys, Granger, Malfoy, and the oaf of a Gamekeeper meandered into Hogsmeade, finding themselves in the Inn. Aberforth Dumbledore, though busy, had tuned in with them, and said his peace already: “The Prophet’s calling it suicide, but he has a head on his shoulders. He’s smart. If he were dead, they would’ve found him already.”

At first, Draco agreed with this statement. If the world-famed Harry Potter was, indeed, dead, they would’ve found him somewhere, someplace, keeled off. But then again—and this was when Draco grew nervous—what if he was killed, only to be covered by his own protection: the Cloak?

Malfoy didn’t know he was displaying any sign of conflict until he was nudged by Ronald Weasley.

“What, Malfoy?”

The last few weeks proved themselves to be monumental, as the eighth years actually began to hold simple conversation with him. Though he wasn’t on a first name basis with anyone quite yet, he was acknowledged and accepted as an individual for once, and the compliments were enjoyable. Hogwarts felt less and less like a prison and more like a home, which was a new and enticing feeling evoked while thinking of his school. Never quite feeling accepted because of his parents, Draco finally had a taste of freedom and it was there, in the walls of his very confinement.

Some days, Draco would browse the libraries and study with Granger. Others, he would visit the pitch and play some Quidditch with little Weasley. She was a helluva Seeker, but nothing compared to Potter.

Ronald Weasley, however, was notorious for grudges. No one had any idea when he’d come around, and Draco didn’t expect him to. He didn’t need to be forgiven, though his hand was out if Weasley ever wanted to shake it.

However, in times of crisis, such as now, all grudges were set aside and anyone who attended the Potterwatches was treated as a friend.

“What if...What if Potter was covered with the Cloak? What if he did die and was covered by the Invisibility Cloak?” Draco said, voice deceiving him with a crack. “What if Potter’s dead?”

Little Weasley paled at the mere mention, despite always groaning over his possible demise. “W-what if…”

“That is always a possibility,” Aberforth said, looking downcast at Draco’s revelation, “but we don’t know. As far as we know, he’s simply blending in with muggles at this point.”

The lot left Hog’s Head Inn that day, feeling as gloomy as the wintery day before them.

The powdery poof of snow that accumulated over the winter began to melt away as buds began to blossom. Spring brought a plethora of hope, promising chances of crystal-clear skies and bright, sunny days.

A perfect evening presented itself to the quartet of the newly acclaimed “Potterheads”. A slight breeze rolled through the courtyard as they wandered towards the newly erected rose garden herbology students have been magically accumulating. Red roses were to bloom any time of year with special enchantments and were closed off to everyone but eighth years and the students creating the garden.

Although Ginny technically was not allowed in the garden, the four Potterheads ventured to the garden every day to discuss their shared favourite subject: The Boy Who Lived. Ever since the garden was put in place, the Weasleys, Granger, and Malfoy would recollect every night, discussing ways they could try and find Potter themselves. When Potterwatch failed them, when Aberforth said that Potter would’ve been found by now, when Hagrid stopped visiting Hog’s Head altogether, the four of them decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. At that moment, only the four of them still sought the truth, but that would change if any of them could help it.

“Remind me again, Malfoy, why you’re even here,” Weasley said when Draco sat in the circle they formed on that particular evening. Granger, attached to her red-headed git of a boyfriend, held a piece of aged parchment, practically inked from end to end. At first glance, Draco thought it to be homework, but upon further inspection, the writing was far too infrequent for it to be anything for her required classes. (From what he’d learned about her, she wanted to work for the ministry—of course she wanted to.) Little Weasley sat, dejected and on her own, knees hugged tightly to her chest. Malfoy ignored this and turned to her brother. He went to open his mouth, but before he could answer, Granger spoke for him.

“Can’t you tell that Draco loves him?” she said, everyone but her freezing at the statement. Straightening her posture slightly, she looked around, surprised, continuing, “What? Has no one noticed how he looks when anyone mentions Harry’s name?”

Draco’s brow furrowed. Was he really that bad at disguising his inner monologue?

“Please tell me she’s joking, Malfoy,” Weasley groaned, taking his girlfriend’s hand into his. “Please don’t like my best mate—”

“And my boyfriend!” Ginny whimpered, jealousy sharpening the blow of her words.

Draco shrunk slightly at the angry siblings as they berated his affections towards Potter. He never asked to be interested in blokes, or that one in particular. Everyone knew Harry Potter wouldn’t go after a former Death Eater, after all, or a boy for that matter. Draco called it wishful thinking.

After a moment of sitting there, staring around at the two gawking faces that peered back at him, he said, shifting slightly in his seat, “It’s not like anything would come from it. First off, he’s probably dead somewhere and who would love a Death Eater?” Tugging his robes around his slender body, his eyes diverted to the grass-clad dirt. He carded his fingers through the green blades, not wanting to speak any further of this...crush he developed on Potter. Like he said, nothing would ever come of it, and it was stupid for him to have a crush on that bloke anyway. Though their perspectives no longer opposed, necessarily, his parents’ did.

Then again, he stopped caring about what they thought months ago.

Still.

“Former Death Eater, Draco. That much is clear,” Granger said, breaking the moment of silence.

And for some reason, white heat coursed itself right through Draco’s body. Brow furrowed, bottom lip jutted out, his attention turned to her. “Why, out of all people, have you forgiven me?” Without much thought, he thrust himself from the ground. “I’ve hexed you, I’ve thrown several slurs in your direction...I...I almost killed Dumbledore and you forgive me first out of every one of the eighth years?!” At this, Draco began to pace, wringing his hands together anxiously, insecurely.

How could such deplorable sins be forgiven by a Muggle-born, his main victim? How could Hermione Granger ever forgive such terrible actions?

“Draco!” Granger screamed, snapping him out of his dread-ridden thoughts. From what was evident, Granger must’ve been beckoning him for quite some time. Standing, fists balled at his side, she stared at him with an intimidating amount of intensity.

Hoping he didn’t appear too ruffled, he smoothed at his robes and crossed his arms, jutting his chin up as he typically did. “Granger.”

With a disdainful look, she said, “That’s who you used to be. It’s clear that you’ve changed…” Sighing heftily, she took a seat. “Now, sit down. We have actual business to attend to.”

Draco sat without argument, smoothing his robes out against the grass so it fell in a graceful way. Then, he turned his eyes upward towards his counterparts. “Is that a list, Granger?” He nodded towards the parchment now on the ground with his chin.

“Yes, actually,” she replied, holding it out for the Slytherin to take. Snatching it, he gazed over the signatures as she said, “those are the people who want us to find out where in the world Harry is.”

Several slanted signatures glared back at him, including Longbottom’s, Lovegood’s, and everyone, as far as he knew, was once in Dumbledore’s army. No professors were listed; this militia was entirely student-made.

“Are you going to sign this, Malfoy?” Weasley asked, nudging an inked quill towards him.

“Of course, am I not a part of the Potterhead committee?” Draco said indignantly, grabbing the quill with haste. He signed with a large, scripted hand and handed the quill and parchment to Granger. “Now, is this all?”

Without a word, the parchment was passed to Little Weasley, who took out her wand and tapped it against the signature page. For just a second, the paper shimmered, golden flecks radiating off the ambient light of the garden’s torches.

“Just a jinx. Makes sure no one can betray the others without consequence,” the Weasley sister informed her, placing her wand back in its pocket.

Not that Draco didn’t expect it, but there always came disappointment with not being trustworthy. “Is it the same jinx Miss Granger used on Marietta Edgecombe? Bit juvenile if you ask me,” Draco noted.

“Far worse, trust me,” Little Weasley replied darkly, handing the parchment to Granger. “You wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of this jinx.”

Understood, Draco thought.

“One more thing before we dismiss,” Granger said suddenly, catching him mid-stand. Taking a seat, he propped his chin in the palm of his hand.

“And that is?”

The muggle-born pulled out a Galleon, handing it to Draco first. “Faux Galleons. Protean charm, as you know.”

Turning the coin in his hand, Malfoy let out a low whistle. He never thought he’d use something connected to that certain charm again. “Why don’t we just gather? No one would stop us.”

“Makes things easier,” Hermione said plainly, standing. “I’ll let you know now that our first meeting is on Saturday, two-thirty.”

The meetings were as frequent as the Potterwatches. Every Saturday at two-thirty, one hundred an forty-two Hogwarts students of all Houses—Slytherins, not including Malfoy, included—meandered to the Room of Requirement to find themselves in a type of Potterwatch Headquarters. While some students brainstormed places to search, others plotted places already explored. Many kept in touch with those who had thought to see Potter and they had their outside sources as well, including Lee Jordan and George Weasley of the radio programme. Potterwatch had become a very sturdy system, Granger, Malfoy, and Weasley all at the head.

The next big project coursing through the Headquarters consisted of hefty, well thought out plans and possibly dangerous ventures. The Hogwarts students wanted to do the unthinkable: set out to a location in a different part of the British Isles. London, England to be exact. Several thought it would be a good place to look around. But Draco, Draco highly doubted that Potter—though thick at times—would be idiotic enough to find himself in the same Muggle city that hosted both Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic.

“It hasn’t been pinned off,” Ginny argued, gesturing to the map they had hung up on an empty wall in the room. While standing, other students sat in chairs in quasi-rooms, searching through Prophet articles, sorting through dates and places Potter was “spotted” or searched for. The two had been at it for a while, deciding whether checking London would be wise.

“Yes, but Potter isn’t a buffoon. He would’ve been spotted if he’s been in London this whole time, Muggle or otherwise,” Draco said shortly, placing a pin—a muggle invention—over London. “Case Closed.”

In retaliation, Ginevra Weasley tore the pin from the map. “No!”

“Put. It. Back.” Draco went to grab the pin from her, but before a squabble erupted, the elder Weasley took it and glared from his sister to Malfoy.

“We cannot mark it, but I think you’re onto something, Malfoy.” Handing the pin to Granger, who came up behind her boyfriend, he found Hogsmeade and pointed to the mountainous terrain surrounding the quaint village. “What do you think, ‘Mione?”

For a moment, her face scrunched up, brow furrowed and unsure until her eyes scanned over its surroundings. Like an epiphany rolled through her entire body and shoved her into motion, she jolted towards the map and circled Hogsmeade and the terrain surrounding it several times with something she introduced as a red marker—another muggle invention.

“Brilliant! That has to be it, Ron! It’s where Sirius camped in fourth year!” Capping the marker, Granger turned to Weasley and pressed a sickly-sweet kiss to his cheek. “Good eye.”

“That’s rather close,” Longbottom said suddenly. Draco turned slightly to find him standing awfully close. The git in Draco attempted to coerce him into shoving Longbottom away, but he refrained, maintaining his poise. Turning back to the map, he scanned the area to be searched.

“So,” he said, eye falling on the thick of the jagged lines imposed as “mountains”, “you think he is in the mountains somewhere.”

“One place in particular,” Granger explained, marking a particular region inside her vast circle. “A cave. I remember exactly where it is, too…” Almost bemused, she heaved a sigh and ran her fingers over the mark. “We’ll find you, Harry. We’ll find you.”

A hush rolled over the students. Nothing but the sound of the grandfather clock the room oddly provided ticked for the first time since Potterwatch at Hogwarts banded, and as it did, its face began to mutate.

“What in the—”

“Ron,” Granger said, “it looks like the clock at the Burrow.”

Gawking, Weasley walked up to the clock and ran his finger along the only hand on the face. “Almost just like it,” he confirmed. “It’s on travelling.”

“I didn’t think about it,” Granger said, a smile remaining on her face as she turned to the Weaslette. “Ginny?”

“I did… I’m surprised,” she said, eyeing the clock in amazement.

“Why? The Room of Requirement provides you with what you need, does it not?” Draco asked, walking up behind Weasley with his arms firmly crossed over his chest. Standing beside him, he gazed at the face of the clock. Intricate, yet plain to see, the lightning bolt-shaped hand with Harry’s scripted name carved into it rested on travelling.

“Ooh, how peculiar,” a new, but familiar voice dreamily gasped from the other side of Weasley. Loony Lovegood stepped into view, running her finger over the hand. “Where is home for Harry, you suppose?”

“Just something else we need to figure out, I guess,” Weasley replied, clapping his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “As for now, I think we should check the cave. He’s still alive, I think. Fred’s hand fell off after a while...Dad found it a couple of weeks ago, so if it runs the same way ours does—”

“Harry’s alive,” Draco said more to himself, but out loud. Warmth filled him with the thoughts, as the vivid daydreams of Potter being found, safe and out of harm’s way. Of course, he’d be peaky, as he always was at the start of the year, but he would be there, with them, and alive, so, so alive.

“You really care about him, don’cha?” Seamus Finnigan said from across the room. Silence engulfed the entire room, every last ear ready to hear the answer, to hear the former Death Eater’s position, why he was actually there, if you will.

Turning towards the sound of the Scottish man’s voice, Draco, for once, let those cold, steely walls of his collapse at his feet. Everything in this room was in confidence, after all.

“Yes, I do care about him,” Draco replied, voice cracking just enough to make him sound pathetic, but what was new?

“But you were a—”

“I know what I was,” Draco roared, shaking slightly. His hands found his way to his wand and began to wring it, trying to keep his sudden flare up at bay. “No need of reminding me of my regrettable mistakes!”

A gentle hand caressed Draco’s shoulder, motherly in its warmth and grip. He turned to look right into the vibrant eyes of Ginny Weasley, and for the first time ever, he felt that they could see eye to eye.

“Sit down,” she said, still rubbing his shoulder, “and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

The table in the middle of the expansive room was occupied with those who searched for dates and places, and once the true six ringleaders of the operation approached the table, linked together in one way or another through touch, the students dispersed, allowing them to take a seat. Ginny sat next to Draco, holding a steaming cup of tea out for him to drink, and he gratefully took it, muttering a, “Thank you.”

“Now that we have a location,” Granger said, tapping the tips of her fingers together as she thought, “I say we go and search. We’re allowed out, the eighth years—sorry Luna, Ginny—and we can go searching—”

“I’m going to go and look for Harry,” Ginny spoke vivaciously, staring Granger down with her fists in a clutch. “Besides, Draco can’t even go! Parole, remember? He can’t go past Hogsmeade!”

“I’m going,” Draco said himself, an ample amount of stubbornness in his voice. “I can't just sit back again. That’s all I ever do.”

“You could go to Azkaban, Draco,” Granger said, brow furrowing in concern as their gaze met. “He might not even be there and if you get caught—”

“Disillusionment charm, Granger. It’s not quite Potter’s magic Cloak, but if we keep to the shadows, I can sneak right past,” Draco said, determined. “Please, let me do something good.”

The entire table-full of people sighed.

“Say, what all comes with your parole?” Dean Thomas asked, leaning against the back of Longbottom’s chair. Finnigan plopped next to him, behind Granger.

“No magic outside of Hogwarts, no Defence Against Dark Arts—figured I might ‘gather some ideas’—completion of eighth year, O’s and E’s on my NEWT’s—more of my parents’ bidding—always being accompanied by an adult—which I believe every single one of the people on this mission are—I could inform you of all of the ins and outs of my probation, but I would rather not waste my breath for a nosy few.”

“We needed to know whether your risks are worth it and I think, with reason, one would understand if you snuck out with us. Maybe lose a few house points, a rather severe scolding, and we’d be on our way,” Granger said reasonably, surprising him with a congenial smile.

“When are we going?” Ginny asked, still plainly terse from the way her shoulders drew upwards.

“Wouldn’t today be as good as any other day?” Longbottom suggested, eyeing around for feedback.

“Might as well,” Weasley replied looking at Granger.

For a moment, she thought. Brows knit, she tapped her fingers together, nodding. “We’d have to leave right now.”

“Fine by me! Let’s go!” Ginny said, and stood up, jerking Draco upwards as well.

“Hold on, Ginny! We can’t leave just yet,” Ron stated, but stood up as well.

“Why can’t we?” Finnigan asked, which earned him a nudge in the ribs from his friend hanging off the other chair.

“We’re not going, are you barmy? Someone has to keep an eye on the clock,” Thomas said, nodding towards the clock. “Ginny is going whether Ron likes it or not and Luna, well….” Gesturing towards her, it was obvious that she was in another world. Eyes scanning the ceiling, she looked around, somewhat bobble-headed.

However, she glanced in the boys’ direction and smiled. “What about me?”

“Nevermind,” Thomas said, turning his eyes towards the ground.

“The key is to not look suspicious, Draco,” Granger spoke, nudging one of the boys off of the back of her chair. Standing, she allowed Finnigan to take a seat before she began to pace, and suddenly, a whiteboard appeared. With that red marker still in hand, she wrote:

Agenda

“Planning never gets us anywhere, plus you just said we could leave now,” Weasley said, taking the marker from her clutch. “Might as well leave and return before nightfall.”

For a moment, an argumentative stance flared within the woman. Puffing her chest slightly, she seemed ready to fight, but as soon as Weasley cocked his head and rose a brow, she backed off. Everyone knew the two bickered; it was Draco’s first time to witness Granger back away from a squabble.

“Okay, fine. I just thought—”

“I know, you want to be thorough,” he simpered, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“On our way, then?” Draco asked, wrapping the newly thought of cloak around himself. “The sooner we search, the sooner we’ll confirm or deny his residence in that hell-hole the lot of you assume he’s located at.”

“It’s not a hell-hole,” Granger argued.

“Well, you’d think he’d have a little more dignity,” the Slytherin assumed out loud, sipping the tea Ginny produced for him.

“He’s in hiding.” Granger shot him a worn glare before pulling out her wand. “We better be on our way.”

With that, the elite team of five—Luna remained in the Room of Requirement—departed.

“How far up the mountain did you say this was again?” Draco asked, growing tired from walking so much, especially since he couldn’t properly see himself. At least thrice he ran into Granger, merely because he could just barely see the outline of his body that camouflaged against the greenery of the mountainside.

“You asked two minutes ago, Draco, and the answer is still ‘I don’t know’. Be patient,” Granger groaned, tromping on the first path they found, used by what seemed like animals.

Just before Draco could throw an arrogant retort in her direction, the lot stopped in front of an indent in the side of the mountain. A lopsided smile embraced Weasley, whilst Granger bounced on her toes. They were obviously in front of the place they needed to be, but weren’t doing much other than ogling the site. Growing tired of standing behind an overexcitable crowd, Malfoy walked around the lot and straight into the cavern….

Where he found nothing.

Just a dim light found its way into the cave which could support a few larger animals, and absolutely nothing was there. The floor barren, Draco found nothing of importance. But as the others spilt in, they began to investigate the walls.

Granger was the first to find something.

“Look here!” she said, waving the others over. Draco moved among them, peering at a few drawings, obviously Potter’s. They were fresh on the stone, and markings of things no one else would draw: an owl and a lightning bolt. Both appeared to be ingrained with wandwork, which hadn’t been weathered down. Though he wasn’t an expert at this sort of thing, he couldn’t deny that it was less than a month old.

“The prat’s been in Hogsmeade, probably laughing at our misery!” Draco gasped, rushing up to run his hands over the stone. “He’s been here!”

A hushed sound of whispering emerged from the other four as Draco desperately groped at the stone, feeling its indent, feeling for any sort of warmth or life. Harry Potter had been there, a month or less ago. Where could he be now?

“Let’s go to Hog’s Head,” Ginny said after a moment, gripping Draco’s bicep. “We can discuss it with Aberforth, maybe he’d gather an idea of where he’d be.”

So the five of them ambled down the mountain and towards Hog’s Head Inn. By the time they approached the heart of Hogsmeade, Draco was no longer invisible. Not that anyone took much notice: he was allowed to remain within the boundaries of the village.

With the tinkling of bells, the front door of Hog’s Head burst open and the young adults filled with a newfound amount of vigour rushed in. Longbottom smiled sloppily, arm around Weasley, who held Hermione close. To them, it was a minuscule victory, something that could let them keep a close eye on the cave. Every day, Granger would check for any sign of life. They believed they were on to something.

But Draco, on the other hand, couldn’t quite believe that he would stay when he’d so easily be sought out.

“Mr Dumbledore!” Ginny gasped, rushing towards the Innkeeper behind the bar who was washing his butterbeer mugs.

“Aren’t you supposed to remain at Hogwarts, Miss Ginevra?” he asked, giving her a patronizing look. Then, his surly cornflower eyes shot in Draco’s direction. “What about your parole, boy?”

“We found where Harry was hiding out, Aberforth. They were only helping!” Longbottom added, which seemed to resonate with the old man. He softened, setting the glass mug aside.

“Let me guess: the same cave Sirius used as a hideout?” Aberforth said.

Weasley looked alarmed. “How did you—”

“I just do,” he answered, continuing with cleaning the mugs.

“Why?” Granger asked in a polite tone, leaning against the wood of the bar. “Did you know he was hiding out there?”

“I would think him a fool if he actually did. Maybe he did stay there. Maybe he knew you were wanting to find him. It happens that people who try to hide never want to be found. Now—”

A sudden thump from upstairs startled everyone, all nearly jumping out of their skin. Dumbledore, however, looked the most startled.

“What was that?” Ginny asked, clearly uneasy by the way she hugged herself in a sense of security.

“I hadn’t checked a room out to anyone—”

“Harry!” Granger cheered, then threw herself towards the stairwell, bolting up each step with increasing speed.

Weasley followed in tow, then Ginny, then Longbottom. Draco was last in line, other than Aberforth, who simply stumbled slowly behind them.

Granger flung open every door, finding nothing until she reached the last. She took a minute to compose herself, an inane smile on her face, but the minute she pushed the door open, the delighted visage slipped into a look of absolute terror. Before she realized it, she let out a scream so loud, the Inn practically shook with her sound waves.

Shocked, Weasley peered in, only to yell, “No!” just as loud if not louder than Granger. He ran in immediately, while Granger remained behind, slipping slowly down the painted room door. Ginny couldn’t look in. She hid in Longbottom.

And Draco…he stood frozen, too shocked to take anything in.

This much was obvious: Harry was in that room, dead. He had to be.

Walking towards the open door very slowly, Draco looked in to see a bloodied figure splayed across the floor. Dead, clearly, and with that mess of curled, raven-black hair. Glasses broken and on the other side of the room, the entire area was a mess, but a beautiful snow-white bird perched itself on Harry’s back, hooting quietly, sadly.

Finally, Draco took in what had really happened.

Harry Potter, the boy he loved so much, was dead, forever lost.

They said it was a suicide. He was cremated only a few minutes after he was pronounced dead, which took the Healers only a few minutes to confirm. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived was, indeed, found dead and lost in his mind. All the glory that came with the title had a cost.

And Draco thought he had it hard.

All through the year, he thought that having the world against him was so terrible, but really, when he thought about it, several people were on his side.

Granger, Weasley, Ginny, his parents. They were all alive, all well, all wanting him to prosper.

Not that Harry Potter didn’t have those people in his life, but several more died in his name.

Guilt, Draco guessed, lead him to a permanent state of dread that could only be cured with Death’s sweet kiss.

Draco didn’t want to romanticize anything so painful; no one could take the severity of the Boy Who Lived’s death lightly. The entire school was a wreck. Several little wizards and witches lost a hero. The Weasleys practically lost another son. And Draco, though it would always be unrequited, lost his first and only love.

A memorial for Harry Potter was approaching, and everyone was holding onto each other much tighter than ever. Just the other day, Ginny spent a good hour clinging to Draco, crying those dull but beautiful eyes out. She wasn’t the only one, he cried with her, and without her.

He no longer recognized what it was like not to cry. Tears were always in his eyes, spattered on his cheeks, drenching his uniform collar. He didn’t care what others thought.

Yes, he was crying about Potter.

No, he didn’t hate him.

Yes, if he could bring him back, he would.

And it was driving Draco mental, knowing that there wasn’t any way to bring him back. He was long gone by now, cremated and buried along with his parents.

If only he could’ve begun to experiment, to create some sort of potion that brought back the dead. Though Death was unbeatable, he would’ve done anything to best it, to spit in the face of such a cruel being. But there wasn’t any need, there wouldn’t be any need. Not any longer.

It was a cool, rainy day at Hogwarts, wind rolling through the lush courtyards and gardens of the grounds. A single paper flew through the air, spinning, falling, landing at the feet of Draco Malfoy, who was watching a statue of Harry being erected in the rose garden. He was just behind the bushes, seeing that silver boy sparkling in the sun that just barely peeked out from the dense thunderclouds, but the paper caught his attention. Reaching down, he took claim of the sodden newspaper and found that it was a Prophet. The head article said:

The Scandalous Life of Harry Potter: What He Didn’t Want You to Know

Rage struck him through like lightning, his heart pounding angrily against his ribcage. Who could sully Harry Potter’s name like that, especially after finding him in such a way?! How dare they?!

Too angry to look at the words written on the front page, Draco wadded it up and threw it as far as he could, a choked out sob emitting from him with the throw. Knees buckling, suddenly weakening, Draco collapsed, helpless in any attempt to get up.

So, he lay there, sobbing until someone noticed his drenched, robe-clad figure lumped in the grass.

Gently, the person tugged on his arm and upon rolling onto his back, he looked into the eyes of Ginny.

Though red and puffy, those bright umber eyes of hers stared into his. Slowly, she crouched by his side, sniffing. “The article?”

“How dare they do that to him?!” Draco seethed, tears returning to his steely eyes. “The audacity!”

“If it makes you feel any better, Skeeter got sacked for writing it and the editor is apologizing profusely…”

“That’s not enough!” Draco boomed, standing up suddenly. “They can’t do that...t-they can’t—”

“Shh,” Ginny said, standing, pulling the taller boy into her arms. Propping her chin on his shoulder, she heaved an exhausted sigh. “Those who know realize that Harry was one of the best Wizards who ever lived.”

Shaking, crying, Draco nodded, burying his tearstained face into the mess of ginger hair.

For a while, they stood, embracing each other with the utmost intimacy a friendship could provide. She forgave him, all the Potterheads had, but a question burning a hole in Draco’s mind demanded to be asked.

“Ginny?” Draco said, breaking the silence.

She looked up, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “Yes?”

“D-do you think Harry would ever forgive me if he hadn’t died?” The question set Draco in another set of hysterics; he nearly crumbled in Ginny’s grip. “I was such a terrible person, Ginny! How could anyone forgive a filthy Death Eater like me? How could anyone ever risk being seen around me? I should’ve died! Not him! Not Harry!”

Grief pulsed from Draco, drawing attention to himself unintentionally. Those in the outdoor corridors began to pool around the pillars, looking into the garden.

“Oh, Merlin! I should’ve died! I should’ve been the one!”

“Mr Malfoy?” A concerned voice from far off called, but he was too far away, too caught up in his dread to focus on anyone or thing.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Ginny said in a strained voice. “He’s grieving, but he’s speaking nonsense.”

“We’ll take him to the hospital wing, get his head on straight,” the voice said.

Pale blue was not supposed to be dull, but as thousands crowded the Great Hall, Draco wanted to do nothing but stare at the enchanted ceiling. It was a week after the mishap in the garden, and though the potions kept his hysterics at bay, it didn’t stop the brutal attack from making an impact on him. What was once a boy with a hope to find the emerald-eyed saviour of the Wizarding World, became one with a deteriorating heart and a bleak mind. Everything was dull, boring, useless. He thought sixth year was a dark time. Nothing compared to how his beating heart felt like it broke with each pulse. Nothing compared to waking up with nothing to look forward to. Draco was forlorn, heartbroken, and sick.

The room was moist with the tears of Potter’s thousands of followers. The grounds of Hogwarts were jam-packed with people who didn’t even know him, but admired what he’d done.

Everyone acted like a personal friend, like they had known him all his life. They hadn’t, and not that Draco did either, but he knew far more than they did.

It was all too much, hearing everyone chatter about Harry’s life, spewing factoids, discussing his legacy cut short. Draco needed an out, so he shoved himself out of his chair and attempted to search for a way to depart, but before he could step even a centimetre away from his chair, Luna’s hand found its way around his left wrist.

“It’s about to begin, Draco. Don’t you want to be here?” she asked lightly but clearly worried.

“I can’t,” he said, bloodshot eyes turning to the podium prepared for the memorial. “I can’t.”

Luna nodded, withdrawing her grasp from his wrist. “Be safe, Draco.”

People parted as he walked right through, but with all the congestion, it took Draco a fair amount of time to escape the castle. The halls and courtyards were stuffed to the brim as well, but one place that remained vacant was the gardens. Draco supposed that McGonagall didn’t want Harry’s memorial to be trampled and placed a shield charm on the location. However, he stepped in with the slightest of ease and found himself at the feet of the life-sized statue of Harry Potter.

Everything about it was surprisingly accurate. From the arrogant but lovable stance to the glint of mischief in his eyes, the sculpture simply looked like a silver-covered version of the man.

If only.

Draco ran a hand along the bottom of the trousers of the sculpture, murmuring, “I know you would never believe me, but I miss seeing you in class. I used to look over and notice you, being the repulsive git you were, chewing on the top of your bloody quills.”

Laughing at the memory, he sat down and continued, “Also, I think you always struggled with holding a quill. You were used to your muggle devices, weren’t you?”

Fingers tracing over the gold plaque on the platform of the statue, he smiled, looking up at the face of silver. “You were an amazing person. I’m sorry the horrors of war were too much for you…” A few tears slipped down his cheeks. “They’re beginning to become too much for me, too…”

As he cried, a familiar Snowy Owl soared into view. No note was attached to it, as it hovered towards Draco. He stuck his arm out as a landing and it perched there, very gently.

Eyes turning back to the statue, he commenced with his soliloquy. “You know, the minute I knew I loved you was when you collapsed over my bleeding body. You regretted it, I could tell, and you panicked, groping desperately for a way to keep me from dying. I knew then. I knew then that if I died, it would be enough to die in your arms but I didn’t. And when the snatchers brought you to my house…”

Draco gasped, trying to keep himself from breaking into sobs. “I couldn’t let them touch you. I could never let them kill you. I’m sorry you’re not here. These are the words I didn’t say when you were alive, but I should’ve. I bloody should’ve.”

Finally, he allowed himself to openly sob, and as he did, the owl departed from his arm.

Draco didn’t notice, but someone was watching.

Gently, they grasped his shoulder and Draco froze, kicking himself for being caught. He should’ve never admitted something so private in such a public area, but he had.

So, he braced himself, turning around to face a presumably dead man.

Harry James Potter stood right in front of him, a sheepish smile on his face. His eyes turned to the statue, gazing over his silver imposter. “They did a really good job on that.”

Dumbfounded, Draco gawked at the man in front of him. He was barely recognizable, hidden behind long hair and a thick beard, but the blazing eyes and lightning scar were enough to chart him as Harry Potter.

“Y-You’re dead. I…” Was Draco going mad?

“Oh, no. I’m not,” Harry said, grasping Draco’s wrists. “That...was a friend of mine. I’d been following him around…terminally ill, coughing up blood. He was going to die, so he agreed to let me use Polyjuice on him. My secret would die with him, as would my identity. You’re the only one who knows I’m alive.”

“You’re absolutely mental,” Draco whispered, reaching out to touch Harry. He ran a hand across Harry’s face, fingers analyzing the scar on his forehead. “Why in Merlin’s beard would you do that?”

Was Draco dreaming?

With this, Harry became a bit uncomfortable. Eyes turning to the brilliant green grass in the garden, he said, “It would be better if the world thought I was dead.”

How could he think that? So many people depended on him, worshipped him, looked to be just like him. How could he just say that?

“No, it wouldn’t!” Draco snapped, anger flaring in his silver eyes. “Why would you say that?!”

“I…” Harry took a deep breath, as if he was counting to ten. “I found out… The Boy Who Lived… I can’t die.”

Draco cocked a brow. “Wait, you mean—”

“I’m immortal.”

“And you don’t want that?” Draco whispered, stepping closer.

“Of course I don’t!” Harry retorted. “If I stay, I watch everyone I love die. If I live apart, if I’m not ‘alive’, I’m not actively sought out and found and showered with affection.”

“You want to be miserable,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

“I mean, you’re not wrong. I have to live as a bloody owl for the rest of my life,” he replied.

Draco thought about it, about the situation in front of him. Harry Potter was alive and immortal.

Immortality.

“How...how did this happen?” Draco asked, hugging Harry all of a sudden, filled with utter relief. Potter was hesitant at first, twitching in the boy’s arms, but caved and hugged Draco.

“I killed Voldemort and sacrificed my own death.” Harry sighed. “I did what I had to do...and I do forgive you, Draco.”

Draco froze. “You heard..?”

“I’ve been acting as a second year’s owl for a while now.”

“But how?” Draco asked. “How could you forgive someone like me? I’m a bad person, Harry. I—”

“What do you think about your role in the war?” Harry asked, which hardly seemed to correlate with the subject. Through squinted eyes, Draco looked at Harry, saying, “I regretted everything I did to hurt—”

“Bad people don’t know how to regret, but good people who made terrible decisions do,” Harry said, cupping Draco’s pale, gaunt cheek.

“I almost killed Dumbledore, I’ve tortured countless people, I allowed people to get hurt, killed! I—”

“Draco,” Harry said, which silenced the boy. “You notice you’ve done something wrong. It torments you. You’re going to have to forgive yourself too. That’s the second step to redemption...if you could call it that, I guess.”

“And what’s the first?” Draco hadn’t realized, but he was entirely flushed. Cheeks red, eyes trained on Harry, who had those stubby hands on his face, he stared at the Boy Who Lived in amazement.

He felt so solid, so real, so alive and tangible.

“Knowing your faults,” he said. And then, he lessened the space between them, inching closer. “Draco?”

“Harry?” Draco whispered.

“I’ve been watching you—not just you, everyone that’s been looking for me—and I can just say that seeing you develop as your own person, well, has shown me who you really are and what intentions you have.” Gently, his free hand carded the silvery-blond strands of Draco’s hair out of his face.

“I’m not my parents,” he replied, voice rasping.

“Exactly. And, may I say, I think I’m attracted to the man you really are.” Harry smiled, genuinely, and rested his forehead on Draco’s. “I like you, and you love me. I think, if we can try, we can make something of this.”

“But Harry,” Draco whispered, dizzy and hypnotized by Potter’s mere touch, “I’ll die. I’ll have to be a vampire or something. I—”

Harry’s laughter dismissed him. “We’ll make it work. Vampire or not, we’ll make it work.” And then, Harry’s lips found Draco’s. For a split second, the world spun under his feet, the moment too surreal for it to be possible. But he opened his eyes and he stared right back at himself in the reflection of Harry’s glasses. This was happening, he was actually kissing Harry sodding Potter.

He dipped into the kiss, but before anything further could commence, Harry withdrew, looking around madly. “I heard something…I have to go.”

But before Harry could scamper off, Draco clutched his wrist. “So spontaneous...will you ever come back?”

“I’m here every day, you’ll just have to find me in the Owlery.” Smiling, he stepped back and transfigured into his animagus, that beautiful Snowy Owl, and took off, heading straight to his tower.

Draco noted a peculiarity in Potter’s animagus that mirrored his human self. A familiar lighting scar struck through his forehead, stark against his white feathering.

Draco watched Harry disappear, and as soon as he did, a bittersweet smile graced his lips. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He would live forever.

Too bad the confrontation didn’t last longer, too bad he couldn’t ask any questions, but they kissed, they kissed! Absentmindedly, Draco ran his fingers along his chapped lips. Was this a chase? Did Draco have to find him?

He was right in the tower, he wasn’t too far.

Harry Potter was under their noses the whole time….

Satisfied, he turned towards the exit and found Ginny standing there, confused and tear stained. She didn’t know.

“Draco?” she said, wiping the large tears from her cheeks. He hadn’t any idea how far along the memorial was, but she was clearly shaken.

The man simply walked over, hugging his younger friend, saying, “Everything will be okay.”

“How do you know?” she whimpered.

Draco’s eyes fluttered to the Owlery tower, seeing a white speck perched on the edge of the arch owls flew from. Harry’d always be watching.

“I just do.”

154 notes · View notes

canvas-of-dreams · 3 years

Text

The Hallowed Ground: Chapter Five

Theo, two months before the winter festival

We lay there silent as effigies as I embraced her. If the hickeys on my neck weren't proof that I was hers, then the way we laid beside one another that night was. This sort of thing wasn't allowed. I wasn't even supposed to be in her room. Still, a side effect of being a trained spy is that you learn to get into places you aren't meant to be. The route across the roof tops was risky, given the tiles were unreliably rickety on the older buildings, however, if I was to spend the nights with Wena, that was the price. Currently, the only part of my life that gave me some feeling was this time with her.

Her hands ran down my chest, stomach, reaching my waistband. She never went further than that at my request, and I was grateful to her. Even though Wena was forceful in every other aspect of her life, she never was with me. I pulled her closer to me and looked at the moon over the roof tops. The streets below were asleep, like dried streams waiting for daylight and the return of spring to bring them to life again. If I weren't here with her, I wouldn't have a chance of sleep, I would stare out on those streets all night or walk them, my thoughts and numbness making respite impossible.

Wena looked up a me, her slight frame in my arms bringing me back to reality.

'Theo?'

In her eyes was a different look to the one she normally gave me at a time like this. Their deep blue gaze had a serious hint to them. 'What is it?'

She sat up and stroked my hair. 'It's the war.'

'It's over now. You don't need to fret,' I said, and kissed her forehead. Still, her expression didn't change, if anything it embedded more.

'Lovely... what is it? You can tell me,' I said, and propped myself on my elbow. She breathed deep through her nose. There was a long pause before she spoke.

'You have to promise me that you would never tell a soul the information I am about to tell you. This information... only the most trusted get to know, do you understand?'

'I promise? Love, I- are you alright-'

'Promise on the Ground, the Hallowed Ground?'

I frowned hard. This was something grave. No one ever swore on the Hallowed Ground without knowledge of what they were swearing their life on.

'No, I'm not stupid, I love you but... tell me.' It took her a while to get it out. Perhaps she didn't trust me. Perhaps I was misjudging how important what she wanted to tell me was.

'The society is going to change, soon. My father and several other leaders have big plans.' She brushed some hair behind her ear, and folded her hands, thinking of how to word it. 'A few years ago... My father went on a trip to the Argyros territories, privately. He knew Adala was losing the war. He knew that it would fall. He wanted to secure the society's future, but the rest of the leaders... your guardians', Cassius's aunt, the rest of the Circle of Elders, didn't want to work with the empire out of loyalty to our nation. But they... they don't see what my father sees, what we' – she put her hand on my shoulder and gave me a meaningful look – ' see.'

The way she was talking was impassioned, like she was standing on a stage reciting poetry. Despite the controversy of what she was saying, I couldn't help but agree. She'd never charm me into taking her side, I knew that. So, I believed her, and listened on.

'Adala was always going to fall... optimism is a fool's friend. So, my father thought ahead. He got a secret audience with the emperor.' I knew Eleon had the power to sway the will of the dead, and usually he was wise enough to know when not to, however, getting an audience with the enemy's ruler was something beyond impressive. It was intimidating.

'My father explained how the Society has been involved in every major event of Adala's history. He convinced the emperor to let the Society keep its security and control, in exchange for loyalty and service. So... that will happen.'

The weight of what she was saying sat me bolt upright. 'Your father... your father is the traitor?' The Dardune's had been lying to everyone this whole time. 'He is one that Cassius has been looking for, for the whole of the last year. Are you fucking kidding me?' She stood up and looked away.

'You know what my dad did was the right thing to do. He is securing our future. Our future, Theo. Cassius is a blind pawn, he's a puppet general, he has no idea how corrupt this society is and how many people must change or be punished for the wrong they've done to Adala. Fuck, it was the corruption that sent your little sibling running, because they sensed what everyone else didn't.'

My fist balled up but my anger at the Dardune's ebbed away as I thought of my little sibling. What happened to Tayn was something that weighed on my conscience every day. Wena was right, the Society wasn't the saviour it believed itself to be, not for anyone different.

'We are going to take over the society and make a new future. Theo, you need to see that this is the right thing.' She turned her face to me. Her expression was desperate. She had told me something that only magic could remove from my mind, at the risk of her family, at the risk of ending our relationship. I stood up and held her tight.

'I hate to say this... but your father is right.' What I believed all along was that change was coming. If someone had a realistic plan, then why would I object? The society had been a home yes, but the kind of home that makes you grow up with a sickness that never leaves.

'I swear on the Hallowed Ground that I will not tell a soul.'

For the first time in a while, I had purpose. Other than being here for my girlfriend, I had a duty. It was peculiar to me, swearing on our sacred birthplace, the Hallowed Ground, for the fruition of a plan that would bring its people to destruction. I was considered a traitor now, a liar within the ranks of friends and family who would die for the society and its values. However, Eleon was right, this society didn't deserve to live on, not like this. It was corrupt at its core and its values were no more meaningful than etchings in stone. If being a traitor was the cost, I would risk my head for the chance at bringing about a better era. For Wena. For Tayn. If I wasn't going to live for myself, then I would live to avenge those I loved most. I looked up at the moon as we stood there and smiled. She would tell no secrets and so nor would I.

Wena

As Theo slept that night after I'd told him my father's ambitions, I left the room and headed to the living quarters. No one was about, the only eyes watching me were those of gold and bronze figurines on our family god's shrine, and the glances of the characters in the wall tapestries. The nerves had gone now, and I was relieved to bring good news to my family, who had agreed they would meet before dawn in dad's study. I didn't want to think of what I was told to do if Theo had reacted badly. We needed him on our side, but he was also disposable enough to my father that I'd be tasked with something heart-breaking should he have tried to tell anyone.

I knocked the agreed pattern on the door, and my uncle, Welan, let me in. He smelt like rust, or perhaps blood, and I tried not to think about what he had been tasked with tonight before this meeting. My mother was sat in the guest chair, my brother leaned on the window-frame, and my cousins, Toska and Ferio sat on the large bear skin rug. My father sat at his desk with his fingers interlaced on top of it, his expression unreadable. They were waiting for my news.

'Well, dear?' my mother said finally.

'He still has his freewill, if that's what 'well' means.'

'Well done, my child,' said my father, and he gave a rare smile. 'The plan is in motion.'

'Woohoo, Wena fucked lover-boy to her whim, impressive,' muttered Astor, and I gave him a black look.

'Astor don't be so crass,' chided my mother, and looked at me. 'Charm is our skill, and there are many forms.' My father had refined my gifts of manipulation in the mystical form, and my mother had taught me how to use the art of seduction. If only they knew I hadn't used either on Theo at all.

'All that matters is that we have him on our side. Cassius is loyal to him, and his family oppose us in every way. We need to have Cassius fooled in order to make this plan work. We are nowhere near the finish line, but it will succeed,' stated my dad, ignoring the previous comments about his daughter and the boyfriend he didn't like.

'That's confident,' said Welan, surprising everyone. My uncle didn't talk much and didn't care much about intervening in these discussions. He was a soldier, an assassin, he carried out his missions and didn't question anything, just did his job.

'Go on,' said my father, curious.

'You think you can just give people a choice. That you'll reveal your conspiring with the empire and people will be smart enough to go with you or disappear forever. No, there are more who disagree than agree with you, and they will do their best to fight back. The Society has never been one to give up easily.'

'So, what are you suggesting?' pressed my mother.

'You know what I'm saying, Ruelo. That we must force them to choose.'

My brother and I shared a troubled glance, and I looked at the rest of the room. The atmosphere had shifted from a regular meeting to something more sinister.

'Toska, Ferio and I have listened to the way that the rest of the Dardune's feel about the empire. You have them on your side. But the other families will not follow unless shown who's in charge. Either they choose reason...'

'Enough. Are you suggesting we just remove anyone who doesn't conform?' said my father. 'I don't want to be known as a tyrant.'

'They will view you as tyrant, traitor, whatever they want, but we cannot risk dissent. The emperor will have your head if you don't keep the Society under control. Is that what you want, brother?'

The room fell silent, and my father the most still of all. His younger brother had a point, but that much violence... What part would I play in it? Eventually dad spoke.

'We will wait until the winter festivities. The performance. Only the generals and the Dardune's will carry weapons, meaning the generals and priesthood will get a choice. Our family will, under my command... weed out those who would cause trouble.'

I shook my head in disbelief. 'Are we really going to murder people? Innocents too?'

'They are not innocent if they are complicit, my love,' said my mother and put her hand on my shoulder. 'You know that there will be many sacrifices to be made for our cause. For the better of the world and this Society. We have the power to change things, and so we cannot be weak when strength is necessary.'

It didn't sit right with me, but I knew that I'd have to listen to my family. We were doing this for our future. Join the empire and prosper or perish in the dust. Root out the corruption and rise into a better era.

'Wena?' said my father and implored me to his side.

'Yes?' I said, walking over.

'You mustn't tell Theo that we are planning this. Only tell him that we will give the people a choice, but nothing about the real plan. If he buckles, it falls on you to make sure that he won't manage to reveal us.' My father gave me that look. The one he gave me from childhood, used when he'd warn me of a consequence, to pay attention lest I make a mistake.

'I understand.' Why I was the one who would have to take away my boyfriend's freedom was beyond me. Perhaps it was because the alternative was someone else doing it, or 'dealing' with him, and I'd never forgive them for that.

******************************************************

By the time I went back to my room, a white dawn was upon us. Theo looked so tranquil, like a sketch that I could never redraw for how lovely it was. I kissed his forehead to wake him.

'You don't have to leave. My parents want to see you,' I said, after he gave me a clumsy hug.

'What do you mean? They know I'm here.' He woke up properly then, and I laughed softly at the panic in his face.

'Apparently they always knew.' I never believed my parents would tell me to sneak a boy through my window every night, but they did. 'Quickly though, get dressed. We are expected in the dining room in an hour.'

'Why so?'

I smiled to disguise my thoughts. My mind latched onto one specifically: how I'd have to lie to him like this over and over, for his own safety. My family welcoming him was more like putting a child in a lion's den. 'Because you are home.'

#Fantasy FantasyFiction WIP NonBinary Betrayal Battle SecretSociety Mystery Villain Queer Secrets

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scripttraumasurvivors · 7 years

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Hi! This character's life is messy, but I figure it's important to elaborate so as to double-check if her reactions make sense. My tritagonist was sold to a cartel at age 6 by her abusive rural family, where she was used as a slave (menial labor/sex), tortured to the point that she's disfigured and in chronic pain, before finally being dumped in a slum, having given birth to her first kid at age 11. She abuses her daughter, partly from resentment and constantly being reminded of her captors 1/?

(2/?) And partly because she’s modeling parenting from the cruel people she’s known and is currently living with. Specifically, she is callous to her daughter’s emotional needs, verbally & physically abuses her if she isn’t submissive, forces her to dress inappropriately. She wants her daughter to conform, believing she’ll avoid the same abuse the mom suffered. She’s stuck in a job at a slaughterhouse where she kills terrified animals whilst the manager abuses and robs her. (more)

(3/?) She bears a 2nd kid from the manager, but when the kid’s deformed and he denies being the dad, she decides to keep the kid anyway to raise her more kindly - although she still struggles with feeling affection for her first daughter. Eventually, the manager sells her out to the police, leaving her in jail for a week, but another middle-aged man - the father of her first daughter’s girlfriend - bails her out and looks after her while she’s delirious. (One more ask after this!)

4/4 Got a few questions for this set-up - wanna show how, once removed from her abusive situation at the slaughterhouse, this abusive mother struggles to mend broken bonds and form new relationships. How could she try to reach out and apologize to the daughter she used to mistreat? How to trust the older man who looked after her while she was weak? How to deal with constant flashbacks of death, pain and abuse - of herself and others - without lashing out violently? Thanks for reading all this!

(5/5) Sorry, forgot to specify - by this point, the mother would be 21. Perhaps that can give a better idea of how she can process all that trauma and guilt? While under stress she’s impulsive and sadistic, once removed from her job she’d be far quieter and sensitive; although her emotional state would still be heavily warped. I figure she might try to hug her older daughter or speak intimately with the older man, only to either clam up immediately because of her remaining insecurities.

—-

(For clarification, I have touched base with the asker re: the ages that everything happened.

To summarize: Daughter#2 was born 7 years after the first. So kid number one at 11 and kid number two at 18.

The majority of this ask takes place a few years later when she’s left the slaughterhouse)

So your oldest kid is going to be 10ish when her mother decides to well… be a mother.

Which is good for you in terms of ‘likelyhood daughter wants to make amends’ bad for her in terms of ‘very likely already had severe trust issues.’

I am going to say- I think it’s in our other correspondence that you mention one of the… things that makes mom wake up us a single incident where someone else mentions how nice her daughter is to his kid…..

That’s not very likely. Outsiders complimenting abused kids doesn’t usually make abusers realize they’re being irrational or cruel- it just makes them think that their kid has the wool pulled over someone’s eyes. The kid may even get punished for that or pulled away from that person because clearly, they’re too lenient/a bad influence. Or even the abuser taking it as the fact that the abuse is working.

Which isn’t to say that it should cause that reaction in your story- just to keep in mind that it will take a lot more than a single person’s good word to convince them.

Back to the present question

How can mom try and mend things?

Honestly, just think of Awkward Mom things, and add in ‘child wildly distrustful that this isn’t a trick to get them hurt.’

Mom might try and mimic behavior she sees the man doing or even the other girl doing. Oh? They pat her back when she’s upset- mom’s going to try and do that now.

Mom trying to compliment the daughter, but the daughter flinching back after years of being told she’s horrible.

Mom maybe giving the girl something? Poverty limits what it might be, but even picking a flower or trying to make a homemade toy.

Mom might try and apologize for some of the behavior, though keep in mind that while some abusers are willing to do this- if pushed on what they’re apologizing for or pushed to apologize for more than what they’re offering- they often become defensive and aggressive again.

Mom might overly apologize. Which is also.. not a good because the kid will most likely feel required to try and soothe mom. And now you’re building a cycle of ‘I have to help people not feel bad about hurting me’ in the kid. It is, however, a realistic cycle.

A lot of this also depends on what sort of… abused kid you want your eldest to be.

Fun fact, I used to volunteer heavily at an elementary school. I was well known and for the most part, I worked with one type of child. Children teachers suspected something was wrong with. some of them just needed extra attention, some had a bad case of ‘I fell behind and now I’m acting out’, we had kids whose families were in bad financial situations…

General profile of abused kids I’ve known/kids I suspected were being abused but could never get enough evidence to report:

- Soft, sad little boy who literally brightens up the moment anyone says a kind word to him ever. Often accused of being violent and aggressive when the worst he was was… well.. hyper and maybe a little unaware of his body. (….. racism also played a big role there.)

- My overly friendly thief.

- Angry little girl who was well… Angry. At school. Didn’t want to work with anyone, didn’t want to have friends. Very angry. Very defensive. Very dead eyed and personalityless at the end of the day when she knew she’d have to go home.

- Big Guy trying to make himself small. Hunched shoulders, tucked in knees, didn’t want to play with the other kids.

- Mr. Sleep All Day.

- ‘What do you mean I can’t come home with you? I’ll wash your floor. I’ll do the dishes. I’ll do whatever you want I just want to come home with you so bad. You’re so nice, TS.’

- Class clown that cried when the other kids were told not to pay attention to his antics.

- Kids who cut off stories in the middle and suddenly jump somewhere else because they realized that the story they were telling involves a Bad Event. Pulling them back to the story they were telling is damn near impossible.

- Mr. ‘I’m going to climb the book shelves and try to escape out of the window’

I’ll break down possible responses to Mom trying to make things better by general…. profile.

Your ‘I do my best to try and please my abuser’ types are still most likely going to be distrustful. This may be in the direction of ‘I know you could flip on me at any second’ or ‘I can’t figure out what’s different now so I may fuck up at any second and then you’re going to hurt me again’. There’s going to be some confliction in these types too. They want their abuser’s approval and kindness, they’ve been fighting for it- but it usually doesn’t feel as good in real life as it does in our heads. In our heads- now that they approve of us, we’re safe. and when that feeling of safety doesn’t follow…. This may cause the child to avoid the abuser more often. It may cause them to double down on trying to win approval.

Your acting out types is where… you have a lot of potential issues. The mother doesn’t currently have coping skills to deal with normal child behavior. If the child lashes out? Abusers will often revert back to abuse and take it as a clear ‘see, they behave better when I hurt them.’ Or, if they do feel guilt- ‘they made me do it’

Depressed sad kids .. might not even realize that an attempt is being made. A lot of them have just… checked out.

As for the mother trusting the man… Do you want her to trust him? Because you could have her go the route of ‘I would not be surprised if you touched me inappropriately, but at least you’re kinder than the rest, let me try and make you happy’

Do you want her not to trust him and him have to win her over? Small acts over a long period of time. Her trying to sleep with him (because that’s why she thinks he has her) and him turning her down, small pieces of kindness. There won’t be a quick fix.

Either way, in general, if he gets extremely upset (say… he witnesses her being Not Great to the oldest), expect a fear response. Or argument and then recant of the ‘you can’t tell me what to fucking do with my kid- oh god I’m so sorry I’m a horrible person you’d be right to kick me out’ variety.

As for flashbacks, you have two general… routes here.

One: She learns coping skills or at least to pull back. Possibly because there are other people there that can take care of the kids, possibly he’s told her to go to another room if she feels like that, or he does get upset with her over something she lashed out over- and she’s trying to avoid that.

These don’t have to be good coping skills. Nails biting into her own arms, smoking/drugs/drinking. They also don’t have to be ‘therapy’ coping skills- deep breaths/imagine a _____ place. They can also just be ‘now that I’m in a safer place… throwing myself into cleaning/cooking at least makes some of the flashback recede.’

Two: In a different environment, her response to flashbacks change. She doesn’t lash out. She gets quiet or she gets scared or she just freezes.

Maybe the man encourages her to talk about what happens. Maybe he validates where she’s been and tries to soften the blow re: how she treated her daughter. She was doing the best she could at the time with the information she had- but now? Now she has to do better because she knows better. Now if she wants to stay, she needs to try.

Hopefully that helps,

#ts answers #rape tw #abuse tw #ptsd #thehungryvortigaunt #long post #i think i hit all the questions here

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sherrybaby14 · 7 years

Text

Iron Or Part Two

I got a decent amount of requests for more Iron Or, so here is the second part!

Negan X Reader

No smut in this installment, but sets up the story for later on

Tags: @theonethatgotaway213, @marauderice @negans-network @kellyn1604 @megandrawsspace @idonthavehusbandsihavelovers @miiraal @shanaatjelove11 @unicorn-blood-splatter

A soreness spread through your muscles as your body woke up. You let out a groan and felt like you couldn’t open your eyelids. Everything hurt. You wondered if you ran a marathon. The image of Negan flashed before your eyes and you immediately jumped up on your elbows, no longer concerned about your aches. The bed was empty. You felt a bit of relief, but with the sheet pressed to your naked body you knew it wasn’t a dream.

Negan’s face between your legs, then the way you tried to crawl away, then him on top of you, fucking you harder than you thought possible. You had fallen asleep multiple times, only to be awaken by him kissing your shoulder, back, sliding into your wet pussy that was so over used it was ready for him all night. The insane amount of orgasms he had given you made your body feel fuzzy, almost like an alternate hangover. You blush and bring your legs to your chest, cringing over how wanton you became last night. There was no way you could face the man again.

You glance to the digital clock on your desk and see a bottle of water clocking your view of the time. Eager for the liquid you slide over and grab it, unscrewing the cap and taking a giant gulp. There is no doubt as to who left it for you. When you lower the bottle you almost spit out all the water. It’s almost nine am. You’re over an hour late to work.

Adrenaline rushes over you and the aches in your body immediately vanish as you jump out of bed. You cannot get in trouble again. You run to the closet and quickly dress in the only other outfit you own. A pair of ratty jeans and a red t-shirt. You were hoping to save up enough points to buy some newer clothing, but at this rate you were negative.

You grab your toothbrush, with no time to hit the communal bathroom you decide to brush with no water as you sprint to your job. You fling open the door and your heart jumps again as you see the man himself reaching for the handle.

“You’re up.” He looks surprised and his eyes linger down your body. “And dressed.”

“I’m sorry, I’m late for work. I have to go.” You duck to the side of him and start down the hallway.

Before you make it a foot a hand is on your arm pulling you back. You turn to face him and see his eyebrows raised. He pulls you closer towards him and can’t mistake the hint of anger in his eyes.

“I told you to stay in bed until I came for you.” Negan walked into your room, pulling you with him. “You’re not very good at rules are you Y/N?”

“What?” You stumble behind him. “You never told me that.”

Negan gives you a light push and you end up sitting on the bed. He walks over to your alarm clock and picks up a small note. Before he drops it in your lap you’ve already read it. Stay in bed until I come for you. You bite your lip, not knowing how to respond.

“I didn’t see it.” You’re unsure what is going to get you into more trouble, missing work or ignoring his directive.

“I do love it that you didn’t bother to shower. Want to smell like your man all day?” Negan breaks into a smile. “How are you feeling?”

You blush and wrap your arms around yourself, the image of your bodies tangled together, the way you were screaming his name. It makes you want to bite your fist to keep from dying of embarrassment.

“I asked a question.” Negan sighed. “You do know rules exist for a reason?”

“I try and follow the rules. Really I do.” You choke out and look up at him with watery eyes. “There’s just a lot of them.”

You had been on your own since the walkers appeared. The Sanctuary was your first group situation in a year at least. Conforming back to a society was harder than you anticipated. Negan’s hand reached out and grabbed your knee. He took a seat on your desk chair across from you. You looked up at him and realized your breathing was heavy.

“Calm down.” Negan squeezed your leg reassuringly. “Focus on one thing. How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” You stare at him and your breathing starts to regulate. The adrenaline has worn off and the ache in your muscles has returned. You feel particularly raw between your legs.

“I thought as much.” Negan gives you a half smile. He pulls his hand away, reaches in his pocket and pulls out some pills. He drops them in your hand then gives you the rest of the bottle of water.

You glance at the white tablets and then look up at him. His face it blank. You want to ask what they are, but know he wants you to take them regardless. Deciding it doesn’t matter you pop them in your mouth and take a huge swig of the water.

“Trust Y/N.” Negan grins at you. “That was a good first step.”

He is beaming down at you, looking almost proud. You look away and move your hands to either side of you and start to stand.

“Thank you for the medicine, but I really have to get to work. I’m so late they’re going to kill me even if you don’t punish me.”

Before you can stand all the way up a hand is on your shoulder, pushing you back down.

“Work?” Negan raised a corner of his mouth and started to shake his head. “Not anymore Treasure. My wives don’t work.”

“Wives?” You don’t understand, but then you got sucked back into last night.

“I’m going to fuck you. And I only fuck my wives.” Negan lined up with your entrance and buried himself inside of you.

His cock felt so good, creating a fullness in you that you didn’t know you needed. You wanted your husband buried inside of you the rest of the night.

The awareness must have shown on your face, because when you looked at Negan he was grinning ear to ear.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to take really good care of you.” Negan stood up from the chair. “Do you have any sentimental crap you want to take? I guarantee you won’t need to bring any of your clothes.”

“Bring where?” You don’t stand up from the bed.

You’re almost in shock, unable to believe that you would agree to such a thing. People talked about the wives like they were the laziest pieces of shit on the planet. You got the idea they were more like prostitutes, so they still worked, just from their backs and knees.

“I’m moving you in with the other girls.” Negan walked to your closet and started to look through your items.

“No.” You said the word without looking at him.

“Excuse me?” Negan walked back towards you. “I thought we covered this last night Y/N. I don’t like that word.”

“I can’t be your wife.” You look up at Negan with a fake strength you’re certain he sees right through. “I won’t. No.”

“I don’t force women. All of them are with me by choice.” Negan takes a seat again. “Although I admit my disappointment I accept your decision.”

Relief fills you, mixed with a bit of regret. Last night was the best sexual experience of your life. You know it won’t happen again since you’re not married, but it wouldn’t be worth giving up the little independence you have.

“Thank you for understanding.” You stand up and he doesn’t stop you this time. “I really need to get to work.”

“Have a good day.” Negan stands up and smiles down at you. He almost looks smug, happy with what just happened.

You start to worry that last night you weren’t up to par for him. That’s the only explanation you can think of regarding his calm state. He walks in front of you to the door. You’re right behind him when his hand is on the knob. Before pulling it open he pauses.

“What time should I come back tonight?” Negan’s voice went cold.

“Ummm.” You didn’t know how to respond. “I thought you only slept with wives.”

“I’m not coming back to fuck you again, thought trust me I would love to Treasure.” Negan spun on his heels and looked down at you. “Like I said last night, I can’t give you special treatment if you’re not my wife. I already gave you one alternate punishment. The people will expect a public one.”

“What?” Your eyes went wide. “You told me last night if I participated I would avoid the iron? I did my part. That’s not fair.”

You could feel the tears coming. Instead of anger you were filled with confusion and betrayal.

“Last night was for yesterday’s transgression.” Negan curled his lip. “Today you’re an hour and half late for work. That is unacceptable and unfair to your co-workers.”

“But it’s your fault I’m late.” You can’t help but let the memories of last night come to mind, the way he pulled your hair as he plowed into from behind.

“Is it?” Negan folded his arms. “Did I forget to set your alarm for you? I got up on time. You admitted you ignored my note telling you to sleep in. Hell, you admitted you were late on your own accord. How would I explain that to the people who live here? A straight up confession and no punishment.”

Your voice caught in your throat. You scanned him looking for any sense that he was joking, but it was obvious the man was serious.

“Don’t cry.” Negan reached down and wiped a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “We’ll do the shoulder, you don’t have to worry about the face.”

“Please no.” You reach up and grab his arm.

The idea of a hot iron being pressed against your skin is too much.

“You act like I’m the one being difficult.” Negan did not react to your touch. “I’ve given you several opportunities to get out of this mess that you’ve created. The Sanctuary needs rules to survive.”

“I’ll marry you.” You blurt out without thinking.

Negan pauses. There is a flash of anger in his brown eyes.

“I mean it.” You try and force a smile on your face. “I want to marry you. I’ve just been scared it all. That I’m not enough for you. Please, let me marry you.”

“I don’t want a wife who doesn’t want to be there.” Negan starts to pull away from you.

“I want it. I want you.” You grip on to his arms tighter and try and push yourself against his chest. “More than anything in the world. Please. Let me marry you. Let me make you happy.”

A hand reaches up and cups the back of your head. Negan presses his lips against yours and pulls you closer to him. You go up on your tippy toes and part your lips lightly as his tongue softly probes your mouth. It’s a light kiss, and it’s over before you know it. Negan places his forehead against yours.

“Alright. If it will make you happy Treasure.” He pulls away and places a light kiss on your forehead. “We have to slow down or else I’ll end up taking you before you’ve had time to rest.”

His arms come up around your waist and you let yours slide behind him, holding him in as tight a grip as you can imagine. You know he can’t see your face so you use the opportunity to let the tears fall.

“I’m going to make you as happy as you just made me.” Negan rubs your back. “Wait and see.”

You focus on your breathing, knowing he won’t like seeing you cry like this. The man isn’t stupid though, he knows exactly what he is doing, but what choice do you have. The iron or be his wife? You hope you made the right decision.

#negan x reader #the walking dead negan #negan's thirst squad #the walking dead #fanfic

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