A Dragon's Love
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,739
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,739
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Five
Chapter Five- Plans
The next morning, Draco awoke early. He felt utterly at peace for the first few moments. Then, he took in the contours of his chamber, and remembered the night before. For the first time, Draco noticed the drab, somewhat impersonal feel to his bedroom. The walls were painted a cool shade of gray, the floors unpolished and left bare. His bed was draped with clean but very plain blankets of dingy white. The only form of life in the room was a framed picture of Flora and himself in their last year at Hogwarts.
Slowly, Draco got up, holding the picture up. The familiar clenching in his heart appeared again as his eyes took in the picture of the two teenagers, wide smiles lighting up their faces. That had been him, Draco thought bemusedly, taking in the slightly arrogant set of his chin, the white blond hair framing a face that childhood still held onto.
Draco’s life had been unpleasant for the most part. His father had been a cruel man, driven by his ambitions. No love resided in the icy fortress of Lucius’ heart, if indeed he even had one. All his life, Draco had longed for the approval of his father, his love and understanding. But nothing he’d done had been good enough for Lucius Malfoy. It wasn’t until later that Draco knew that there was no satisfying the man.
Briefly, he thought of his mother, guilt filling him at the thought. The last time Draco had seen her, he’d been unable to say but a few words. He found he didn’t know what to say to his own mother.
He felt like he had lived a thousand years sometimes. Memories of the final battle filled his thoughts. Closing his eyes, Draco remembered that day. Blood everywhere, the pungent smell heavy on the battlefield, death at every turn… The horrible sense of being hunted… he remembered the gripping fear that ripped through him. For the first time in his life, Draco had killed. Merciless, he had coolly whipped his wand and killed the figures in black.
He’d felt nothing but revulsion, not pity, no remorse. It was only afterwards that the deaths haunted Draco, lurking in the shadows of his subconscious, never giving him rest. The thoughts of Flora had been his only salvation, the memory of her gilt blond hair and her lovely smile. But she too had been a distraction, a source of concern. Flora had disappeared the day after he had confessed his feelings to her. Draco had opened up, revealing his love humbly in Gryffindor territory, only to have his tender emotions ripped up by the pity in those blue eyes.
He’d kissed her, trying to ignore the pain tearing him apart, trying to ignore the ache as he’d felt the softness of those lips beneath his. Then Fred Weasley had come, pounded him into the pieces his heart had broken him into. Draco had relished the physical pain, for it detracted him from the lingering, untouchable emotions. In anger, he’d hit back, as if the other boy had been all Draco disliked in human form. Unconsciousness had taken him prisoner, and Draco had been submerged into the relief of that state for two days.
When Draco had reawakened, she was gone. Too soon, Voldemort had launched what was to be his last battle. Draco had fought side by side with his former nemesis Harry Potter, everything numbed inside him. When Harry Potter had finally defeated Voldemort, Draco hadn’t felt anything.
For quite a while, he hadn’t felt much through the numbness, save for the frequent thoughts of his childhood love. But yesterday… yesterday Draco had felt pure, hot anger. He’d experienced all-consuming worry for the beautiful Helena. And he didn’t know what to make of it. All Draco knew was that these feelings were dangerous. Unconsciously, the coldness submerged again, his eyes icing over in a gray cast, his lips setting into a stern line. He couldn’t let himself care again.
****************************************************************************
“O’Malley’s been captured.” The Death Eater slammed his fist on the rounded table, shaking the room in his potent anger. The others stood silent, all feeling the dark power emanating from the Death Eater in powerful waves. They knew all too well the force of his wrath, and none wished to be on the receiving end of it.
A mask cloaked the Death Eater’s features from the rest. His powerful frame, with a height of six feet and five inches was heavily muscled. He was as skilled in physical fighting as he was with magical dueling, which was incomparable. Many thought of him as the new Dark Lord, and feared him. They knew not his true name. He wished to be called Mordred.
Mordred had plans. He’d been a firm believer in the Dark Lord, but had not been one of those in his inner circle. However, when Voldemort had fallen, he had been left standing, and he’d seized his chance to gain power. But nothing had gone according to plan…nothing at all. One more trick was left in the bag, though... and the thought cheered him.
“We are going to initiate Plan B,” Mordred said, pushing aside his long mane of midnight black hair. The others nodded, assenting, murderous pleasure visible in the many faces. They drew on their masks, then left to do their task.
The next morning, Draco awoke early. He felt utterly at peace for the first few moments. Then, he took in the contours of his chamber, and remembered the night before. For the first time, Draco noticed the drab, somewhat impersonal feel to his bedroom. The walls were painted a cool shade of gray, the floors unpolished and left bare. His bed was draped with clean but very plain blankets of dingy white. The only form of life in the room was a framed picture of Flora and himself in their last year at Hogwarts.
Slowly, Draco got up, holding the picture up. The familiar clenching in his heart appeared again as his eyes took in the picture of the two teenagers, wide smiles lighting up their faces. That had been him, Draco thought bemusedly, taking in the slightly arrogant set of his chin, the white blond hair framing a face that childhood still held onto.
Draco’s life had been unpleasant for the most part. His father had been a cruel man, driven by his ambitions. No love resided in the icy fortress of Lucius’ heart, if indeed he even had one. All his life, Draco had longed for the approval of his father, his love and understanding. But nothing he’d done had been good enough for Lucius Malfoy. It wasn’t until later that Draco knew that there was no satisfying the man.
Briefly, he thought of his mother, guilt filling him at the thought. The last time Draco had seen her, he’d been unable to say but a few words. He found he didn’t know what to say to his own mother.
He felt like he had lived a thousand years sometimes. Memories of the final battle filled his thoughts. Closing his eyes, Draco remembered that day. Blood everywhere, the pungent smell heavy on the battlefield, death at every turn… The horrible sense of being hunted… he remembered the gripping fear that ripped through him. For the first time in his life, Draco had killed. Merciless, he had coolly whipped his wand and killed the figures in black.
He’d felt nothing but revulsion, not pity, no remorse. It was only afterwards that the deaths haunted Draco, lurking in the shadows of his subconscious, never giving him rest. The thoughts of Flora had been his only salvation, the memory of her gilt blond hair and her lovely smile. But she too had been a distraction, a source of concern. Flora had disappeared the day after he had confessed his feelings to her. Draco had opened up, revealing his love humbly in Gryffindor territory, only to have his tender emotions ripped up by the pity in those blue eyes.
He’d kissed her, trying to ignore the pain tearing him apart, trying to ignore the ache as he’d felt the softness of those lips beneath his. Then Fred Weasley had come, pounded him into the pieces his heart had broken him into. Draco had relished the physical pain, for it detracted him from the lingering, untouchable emotions. In anger, he’d hit back, as if the other boy had been all Draco disliked in human form. Unconsciousness had taken him prisoner, and Draco had been submerged into the relief of that state for two days.
When Draco had reawakened, she was gone. Too soon, Voldemort had launched what was to be his last battle. Draco had fought side by side with his former nemesis Harry Potter, everything numbed inside him. When Harry Potter had finally defeated Voldemort, Draco hadn’t felt anything.
For quite a while, he hadn’t felt much through the numbness, save for the frequent thoughts of his childhood love. But yesterday… yesterday Draco had felt pure, hot anger. He’d experienced all-consuming worry for the beautiful Helena. And he didn’t know what to make of it. All Draco knew was that these feelings were dangerous. Unconsciously, the coldness submerged again, his eyes icing over in a gray cast, his lips setting into a stern line. He couldn’t let himself care again.
****************************************************************************
“O’Malley’s been captured.” The Death Eater slammed his fist on the rounded table, shaking the room in his potent anger. The others stood silent, all feeling the dark power emanating from the Death Eater in powerful waves. They knew all too well the force of his wrath, and none wished to be on the receiving end of it.
A mask cloaked the Death Eater’s features from the rest. His powerful frame, with a height of six feet and five inches was heavily muscled. He was as skilled in physical fighting as he was with magical dueling, which was incomparable. Many thought of him as the new Dark Lord, and feared him. They knew not his true name. He wished to be called Mordred.
Mordred had plans. He’d been a firm believer in the Dark Lord, but had not been one of those in his inner circle. However, when Voldemort had fallen, he had been left standing, and he’d seized his chance to gain power. But nothing had gone according to plan…nothing at all. One more trick was left in the bag, though... and the thought cheered him.
“We are going to initiate Plan B,” Mordred said, pushing aside his long mane of midnight black hair. The others nodded, assenting, murderous pleasure visible in the many faces. They drew on their masks, then left to do their task.