Draco Malfoy and the Face of Death

Draco’s potions workshop, which occupies a large room in the cellars of Malfoy Manor, is now his and Granger’s potions workshop, and he finds that rather...

Nice.

Some of the time.

Whilst Granger’s carefully labelling the vials containing the memories they’ve already examined, and locking them away, he measures out several doses of Veritaserum, transfers them to glass ampoules, and stows the ampoules in a leather carrying case.

“Now,” he says, pulling out a shallow drawer, “let’s hope that one of these will do, for now.”

Granger gasps. Sitting in the drawer, on a thin cushion of green velvet, are four wands. “Where did you get those?”

“Father, Mother and I all needed new wands after the war,” he says, “and Mother had trouble replacing hers—these three are rejects; this one,”—he runs his forefinger along the fourth wand—“I found in the Drawing Room—you know, afterwards.” Granger nods. “I don’t know who it belonged to, but,”—the wand rolls away from him—“it certainly doesn’t like me.”

“Well, if it doesn’t like you,” says Granger, “I’d hope it wouldn’t like me, either.” For a moment, she scrutinises the other wands, then she picks one—the one, Draco notices, that looks most like her own—and points it at one of the cupboard doors, saying, “Alohomora.”

Draco cringes, but there are no sparks and no explosions. The door swings open.

He slips an arm around her waist, and gives her a congratulatory hug. “Let’s go,” he says.

...

They cross the Entrance Hall, intending to Floo to The Leaky Cauldron, have lunch, and then slip unobtrusively into Knockturn Alley but, before they can reach the fireplace, Draco’s mother accosts them.

“Draco, darling—oh, Hermione, I’m so glad to see you looking better—yes, there’s something we need to discuss, darling. In the Morning Room.”

“I’ll wait for you in the Library,” says Granger.

“No, no, my dear,” says Narcissa. “It concerns you as well.”

The couple exchange an uneasy glance and, clasping hands, follow her through the door.

“It’s about the wedding,” says Narcissa, sitting down, and indicating that they should do the same. “I’ll be blunt: do you want me to postpone it?”

Draco turns to Granger. She’s staring at him in horror. They’ve both been so caught up in events, neither has thought about the possible impact on their wedding.

“I’m not saying,” Narcissa continues, “that Hermione will be charged, of course. But I do think that we should plan ahead.”

“What do you think?” Draco asks Granger. “If you were charged,”—and he grasps her hand—“which you won’t be, I know—but if you were, you’d probably be placed under house arrest pending a trial, and—”

“You couldn’t possibly want to marry me then,” says Granger. Her voice is back to sounding child-like.

“Of course I would.”

Her hand moves, and her fingers press his.

Draco presses back. “Don’t cancel, Mother,” he says, decisively. “We’re getting married, no matter what. And, if we can’t have the ceremony here, we’ll hold it in the Auror Office.”

...

“When we get back,” whispers Granger, as they approach the fireplace, “I want you to extract some memories from me, so that, if I’m in prison, you can—you know—use them whenever you need to.”

...

Diagon Alley’s bustling.

The lamp posts are decked with holly and ivy; the shop fronts are draped with coloured lanterns and their windows crammed with seasonal gifts; a stall outside the ice cream parlour’s selling goblets of fragrant mulled wine; and, somewhere nearby, a choir’s singing Yuletide carols.

“I’ve always loved Yule,” says Granger, sadly.

Draco squeezes her hand. He’s always loved Yule himself—that’s why he’d suggested a Yuletide wedding—but with all the crap they’re having to deal with, they’re missing out on the festivities.

Still, he knows that now isn’t the time to spout platitudes, nor make any promises he can’t keep.

Instead, he leads her over to Madam Malkin’s and, whilst she’s loudly admiring the goods on display, he quietly scans Diagon Alley for anyone who might know them, or might be watching them, or—Merlin forbid—might be stalking them for Witch Bloody Weekly.

Once he’s satisfied that the coast is clear, he quickly draws Granger across the road, and they duck into Knockturn Alley.

It’s even seedier than he remembers, and he holds her hand more tightly as he hurries her past the dark walls, and the hidden doorways, and the piles of rubbish, to the house where everything had turned to shit, only two days before.

It appears to be empty.

Draco draws out his wand.

“Wait,” says Granger, and—with a professionalism he can only admire—she places herself where her body will best screen him from passers by, looks quickly left and right, and hisses, “Now!”

“Alohomora.”

He’s really not expecting it to be that easy, but it seems reasonable to start with the simplest of charms and, to his surprise, he hears the lock click, and sees the door crack open.

“Well done,” says Granger.

Draco pushes the door. “Keep behind me.”

She mutters a tart reply but Draco, deciding to ignore it, steps up to the door frame and, working methodically, sweeps his wand over the interior, looking for traps or curses. He finds nothing, and he’s just wondering whether it really is safe to enter, when Granger whispers, “Someone’s coming,” and the decision’s made for him.

They slip inside, and close the door behind them, and Granger mutters a sealing charm. “It won’t keep out anyone who’s really determined,” she says, “but it will open for us as we approach, which could be useful if we need to leave in a hurry.”

“Clever,” says Draco. He raises his wand. “Lumos.”

The extra light reveals a single, wing-back chair, hidden in the shadow of the stairs, with a clear view of the front door and the alley beyond.

“He must have been sitting here,” he says, “watching me.”

“I’ve been thinking... We’ve been assuming that Delilah knew who he was.” Granger looks up at him. “But suppose he was wearing a mask?”

“A Death Eater!” says Draco.

“That would explain why he hates you and your father—Voldemort’s right hand man and Voldemort’s golden boy, both living in the lap of luxury, winning back respect and influence, whilst he’s an outcast...”

Draco says nothing.

Granger lights her wand and, opening the door to the next room, looks inside. “Oh, my God!”

She seldom uses that Muggle expletive and, panicked, Draco rushes to her side.

Glimmering in the darkness, besides some strange containers of liquid, he sees a metal table, large enough for a man to lie upon, with various straps and chains and other devices attached—

“What was he planning to do to you?” sobs Granger. “Oh, Draco, thank God I came to find you when I did.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her towards the front door. It opens, just as she’d said it would, and they rush outside.

Draco’s breathing hard.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes...” He hurries her back to the safety of Diagon Alley. “Why did you come to find me?” he asks. “You never said.”

“I’d found a book I wanted to show you. I thought you might like it for Yule.”

“Oh Granger!” He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. “I love you.”

...

He’s never said that before.

Not really.

He makes love to her; he’s told her how he fell in love with her; he’s going to marry her.

But this is the first time he’s actually said those three little words...

...

“Let’s go and talk to Harry,” says Granger.

They’ve retreated to the History section of Flourish and Blotts, a place where—for some reason—they both feel safe, but Draco’s still shaking. Granger squeezes his arm. “Draco—let’s go and talk to Harry.”

She looks terrible. He pulls himself together, for her. “Yes, all right.”

...

They Floo to the Ministry of Magic, and Granger uses her leverage as one of the Golden Trio to persuade someone to tell Harry Potter that they need to speak to him.

Urgently.

Within moments they’re in an interrogation room with Potter and the Weasel. “What in Merlin’s name has happened to you?” asks Potter.

“Do we look that bad?” Granger rubs her face. “We’re scared, Harry,” she says. “We really need your help.”

Potter nods. “Sit down—sit down, Ron.” He takes the fourth chair himself. “Thank you, by the way, for Flooing Ginny this morning,” he says to Draco. “We were both worried.”

“I meant what I said, Potter,” replies Draco. “Anything.”

Potter nods again, gravely. “So, what’s happened since?”

Granger glances at Draco.

“You tell him,” he says.

“This morning,” says Granger, “we went back to Knockturn Alley.” She explains how, wanting to find out more about the man who’d had tried to kidnap Draco, they’d broken into the house, and found the metal table, and the horrible things lying on it.

“Blimey,” says Weasley.

“Have you any idea who it could be?” asks Potter.

“With a grudge against me and my father?” says Draco. “It could be anyone. Any of the Death Eaters who disappeared after the war, obviously. It could even...” He hesitates for a moment, then he continues: “It could even be someone from your side who feels that the Malfoys got off too lightly.”

He glances at Granger.

She grasps his hand, supportively. “But we think it’s a Death Eater,” she says, “because,”—she turns to Draco—“can I tell them about your father’s letter?”

“I think you’d better.”

“Lucius thought that he was writing to Borgin,” she explains. “Borgin was supposedly acting on behalf of some important foreign wizard, anxious to buy—um—a Malfoy family heirloom.”

“I see,” says Potter, with the slightest of smiles.

Draco can see that Potter’s remembering the half-truths that he, Draco, had told him the previous day, that Potter knows exactly what’s been hidden from him, what Granger’s still hiding from him, and that he doesn’t seem to care. And he realises that, at some point during the last two days, he and Potter have broken through an invisible barrier.

Potter’s accepted him as Granger’s fiancé. And, he thinks, I’ve accepted him as her friend…

Weasley, on the other hand, will always be a turd.

“Do you think that Borgin’s actually involved in this?” Potter asks.

“I’ve no idea,” says Draco. “He’s always treated my father like royalty, to his face, but I doubt that his price is particularly high.”

“You know, five years is a long time for a Death Eater to nurse a grudge.” Potter rubs his stubbly chin. “Death Eaters don’t usually wait until the time’s right. They swoop in, attack, and fly away.”

“Unless he’s been prevented in some way,” says Granger.

“Locked up in Azkaban, probably,” says Weasley. “Or on the run—abroad, maybe.”

“Have there been any escapes lately?” asks Potter.

“Not since Jugson,” says Weasley. “And he was retaken in June.”

“On the run, then,” says Potter.

“Pity,” says Weasley. “A known escapee would at least give us a starting point.”

“There is another possibility,” says Granger. She glances at Draco, but he has no idea what she’s about to say. “Before the Marriage Law put a stop to it, Draco was supposed to marry Astoria Greengrass.”

“Oh, Granger,”—Draco pats her hand— “no—you can’t possibly think that Astoria has anything to do with this.”

“Not Astoria, Draco, her father,” says Granger. “You said yourself that it was a business deal between your families. If the Greengrasses lost out, maybe the father blames you.”

“We can easily look into that,” says Potter, “with a few discreet enquiries at Gringotts.”

“Gringotts? I thought Gringotts had a strict policy of secrecy,” says Draco.

“Not since the war,” says Potter. “By the new laws they’re obliged to give us any information we request—though they generally take their time about it.”

“I see.” Out of habit, Draco makes a mental note.

“We also thought,” says Granger, “that Delilah might have confided in someone at Madam Mafalda’s. We were planning to go there ourselves and question the women, but when we found the chains, and those other things—”

“Granger lost her nerve,” says Draco.

“We both lost our nerve,” says Granger, giving him a little push. “It was awful, Harry.”

Potter turns to Draco. “Might your father know more than he’s telling you?”

“I don’t think so. I talked to him this morning, and Granger and I both watched his reactions in the pensieve. He seemed as bewildered as we are.”

“Okay. We’ll follow up the friend angle to start with,” says Potter. “Delilah may have said something useful, even if she didn’t mention a name. If we find nothing there, we’ll come and question your father.”

“Look,” says Draco, locking eyes with Potter, “however Granger came to be in Knockturn Alley that morning, it’s obvious that it was this Death Eater—or whatever—that killed Delilah, and that he poisoned Granger because she tried to stop him. The Muggle doctor says he used some combination of Muggle poisons on her, and administered them using a Muggle implement called a ‘syringe’, which may have been hidden—”

“Yes, I know all that,” says Potter, leaning back in his chair. “St Mungo’s sent me a copy of the test results. Belby’s charges don’t stand up. I’ve just been getting Robarts to agree, and drop them. If you hadn’t come in to see me, I’d have Floo’d you later this afternoon.”

“Does that mean I’m cleared, Harry?” asks Granger.

“Unless we find any more evidence against you,” he says, with a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes. “I’ll let you have your wand back before you leave.”

They share a smile that makes Draco’s heart lurch. The way the Golden Trio still works together like clockwork fills him with both admiration and jealousy.

...

They Floo back to Malfoy Manor because neither of them is in any state to Apparate. Draco places a supportive hand in the small of Granger’s back. “You look shattered,” he says.

“We need to talk.”

“What?”

She stares up at him, frowning. Then, “Oh, no, I don’t mean that sort of talk—”

“Thank bloody Merlin.”

“I just have some ideas I need to talk over with you.”

“In private?”

She nods. “My bedroom.”

“All right,” he says. “I’ll just check on Mother and Father, and then I’ll come up and join you.”

…

His father’s in his study and doesn’t want to be disturbed.

His mother’s in the Conservatory, trimming her plants with a small pair of shears—“This is so much more satisfying,” she says, with a loud snip, “than using a wand,”—but, when she sees how exhausted he is, she puts them down, removes her gloves and, reaching up and taking his face in her hands, she kisses his forehead.

“I do have some good news, Mother,” he murmurs. “The Aurors have dropped all the charges against Granger.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so happy for you...”

She kisses him again.

…

Draco climbs the stairs to Granger’s bedroom.

After the day’s anxieties, he really needs to unwind, but he finds Granger fast asleep and, instead of waking her, he simply pulls up a chair, and sits down beside her.

When he’d proposed to her, he’d thought that marrying her would make him ‘happy’.

He’d imagined himself talking to her over breakfast, giving her expensive gifts, showing her off at glittering functions, making love to her (of course), and eventually having children with her.

What he hadn’t realised was just how much she would bring to the relationship, nor how—together—they would build and share something that felt uniquely their own.

He’d never imagined himself wanting to protect her, nor being protected by her in return. And he’d certainly never imagined himself sitting patiently, ignoring his own needs, so that she might sleep.

I must love her, he thinks, and he’s just contemplating a trip to the bathroom, to sort himself out, when Granger wakes with a sigh and a long, slow stretch. Oh, Merlin.

She smiles, and reaches out for him.

“If I get onto that bed with you,” he warns, “I’ll have to shag you senseless.”

Her smile broadens. “Before or after we talk?”

“The way I’m feeling right now, before and during and after.”

Granger laughs. Her arms are still extended. “Be gentle, Draco.”

Oh, fucking Merlin.

Yes.

…

He comes far too soon, but Granger’s not bothered—she cradles him in her arms and tells him that it’s all right, it doesn’t matter, she knows it won’t take him long to recover.

She’s right.

With the edge gone, he excels himself—lying on top of her, his body pressing hers, he slowly, sensuously, rocks them back and forth, building the tension gradually, letting her enjoy his cock—and babble to her heart’s content about his length, his girth, and his stamina—until their joint need’s become so urgent, it suddenly escapes them in a profound, mutual orgasm that melts them like wax.