ethrosdemon ||| Harry Potter

War: Draco
by ethrosdemon
naturallycalm@yahoo.com

Early spring perpetually lingers in the garden. A rainbow's worth of bulbs symmetrically dance and the rattling leaves on the trees are so bright a green they draw an ache. The air is warm enough by day and crisp by night. The garden that lies beyond the opposite side of his suite lazes in constant late summer. He likes the balance.

Draco notes his newest keeper. His Lord always grants him the sweetest gifts, and his minders are always pleasurable. Angelina flutters on her broom among the apple trees gathering the most fragrant blossoms in a basket strapped to her chest. Fluid light dapples her tight ringlets and illuminates the soft curve of her cheeks. When she notices him watching her from his divan, she grins saucily and waves.

After the sedation stopped being such an expedient plan, when he had overdosed three times and had to be artificially revived the last, a new plan was hatched. He was to be minded around the clock by a bodyguard. Well vetted, naturally. Stripped of any inclination to aid Draco against Voldemort's bidding. The mind control curses became more and more precise by the month.

In a turn of poetic justice, Blaise was his first watcher. No one got the joke but Draco, but he was well accustomed to that.

He killed Blaise with his hands, not his wand.

//"Malfoy, do you remember that look Snape used to get when Potter would bungle his class work?" Blaise lounged on his side, head propped on his hand. His wavy hair caught the candle light.

"Why?" Draco had had a dream just before waking from his nap. There was a field, a massive, flat field stretching to the horizon. Carrion birds circled above barriers warded to keep them off the precious flesh of once-humans.

The dream plucked at Draco while Blaise spoke. "You just remind me of him sometimes."

"Of whom?" Blaise had been in the dream, smiling broadly and cracking dead ribs under his feet.

"Of Snape! Sometimes I wonder why he keeps your daft…" Blaise looked startled as he died. Draco hadn't ever liked that clock anyway.

He left the body cooling on the couch. A couple house elves were along directly to collect it.

"A personal matter?" his father asked over frozen vodka and crab puffs. Draco was no longer speaking to Lucius by then, so he let him wonder.//

He only kills murderers. That makes him an executioner. One with some pride and honour as well. They always know who is killing them, and they always see his face as they go.

Angelina picks over her flowers. She casts aside any with even the tiniest blemish. Draco suspects she's run her course. Even if she possesses smooth, muscled thighs and heavy, perfectly rounded breasts. Even if she responds to him as a man and not like an assignment. They all have their specific felicities.

The apple blossoms trill at him. They sing a macabre tale of burnt organs and victims still living. The invisible voices indict him. He would soothe them, if he could. Assure them and their source that Angelina is not long for this world. But that would be a warning to her. And he needs his tea first.



back to top