Round 7 - Blackout - Team A - "The Kidnapping of Draco Malfoy"
Title: The Kidnapping of Draco Malfoy
LJ username: firebird5
Team: Ron
Prompt: Blackout
Length: 4,608 words
Rating: PG - totally tame, only a little swearing
Warnings: AU - Deathly Hallows? What’s Deathly Hallows? This fic cheerfully ignores most of the sixth book and all of the seventh. The background comes from my own universe where Lucius conspires with Harry to defeat Voldemort and then gets installed as Minister for Magic. Why and how he does all this is a subject for another fic.
Disclaimer: All sexual activity portrayed in this fic is between two consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age. I do not own any of the characters.
The Kidnapping of Draco Malfoy
Draco stepped onto the street from the telephone box that led out from his father’s office with a feeling of bitter resentment in his heart. Their last conversation had incensed him utterly. Something about being careful because the Resistance -- the pathetic remnants of the Order of the Phoenix -- could possibly kidnap him and use him against the government. Arsehole. Is that all he thought about? His precious office?
The resistance had got slightly stronger lately, and they were actually succeeding in destroying government infrastructure through some devious techniques. Even going so far as to enlist Muggles. Draco shuddered at the thought. But he was sure they wouldn’t resort to kidnapping. Neither of the leaders would allow that -- they still thought they were saintly Gryffindors who were above that sort of thing, even though they were losing so miserably at the moment that stooping that low was the only smart thing to do. Even Draco knew that, and he was the one in danger.
When he thought of them -- that duo that caused the peskiest problems for the government (in an annoying but insignificant way) -- he had to fight himself to control his rage. Lucius had tried to give both of them amnesty and recruit them into his ranks, but all they had done was burn the letters and send back extremely nasty replies. Draco guessed that they had stepped up their pathetic efforts after Lucius had installed a former Death Eater as headmaster at Hogwarts and expelled all the Mudbloods.
The thing about the new government, he had to admit, was that it was inefficient and bureaucratic. Of course, with his father in power, that was to be expected. Draco snorted in disdain and wrapped himself up more fully in his scarf as protection against the chilly air. The Resistance might have picked up more followers if Lucius’s government had been slightly more evil -- as it stood, it bore an uncanny resemblance to Scrimgeour’s, even Fudge’s, old government.
Draco had idolised his father until the end of the war when Voldemort and Harry Potter had killed each other off, and Lucius had stepped into the power vacuum to claim that he had been working against Voldemort all along. Nobody would have believed it if it hadn’t been for Potter’s dying words, confirming Lucius’s version of events. Everyone had been surprised, to say the least. Lucius Malfoy, the big hero? It seemed anti-climactic.
When Draco saw his father’s reptilian smile upon accepting the Ministerial position, bestowed upon him by the grateful populace, he knew he was no hero. Toppling Voldemort, if he did actually have any part in it, was purely to aid his own succession to power. What Draco couldn’t believe was that the bastard had actually managed it.
He had tried to interest Draco in a government position, but Draco had laughed bitterly. He was perfectly happy not having to work for a living, thank you very much.
He thought about Weasley again, and had to control himself from cursing the random Muggles walking past him. Weasley and that bushy-haired Mudblood idiot -- he could’ve done anything else to get back at Draco, but he’d had to go and... do... that. Draco snorted, and forced himself to feel sorry for Granger -- when they got married, they would have the most brainless, clumsy, oafish, spotted red-headed brats--
The blood rushed into his cheeks in his infinite disgust. But really, he said to himself. It’s not like I care. No, not at all.
He pulled up his hood and slipped into the Muggle bar he had been to dozens of times. He felt like a deviant. Nothing like it existed in the wizarding world. At least not in the Malfoys’ world. The little of ‘that funny business’ that there was was confined to private fumblings in boys’ bathrooms, or even secret, guilt-ridden relationships that had no chance of lasting more than a few feverish weeks. It wasn’t exactly frowned upon, as long as you went through that phase and came out a dutiful pure-blooded wizard, married a repulsive pug of a girl and fathered an heir.
The memory of Pansy’s atrocious voice entered his head at that moment, “Like you could convince anyone you’re not a flaming queen enough to agree to marry you!” Followed by her high, sardonic, girly giggle-laugh. She was pure evil wrapped in a pink package. Draco fumed at the thought of her and their last conversation. He had to tried to shrug it off, but no matter how annoying she was, he had to admit she had been his closest friend till very recently.
They hadn’t spoken after they’d exchanged those barbs, though these periods of mutual disdain were frequent and usually short. He'd felt a dull happiness at the expression on her face when he’d called her a repulsive pug. Though she had got the last word. How dare she.
As he walked through the bar, he congratulated himself on being clever enough to have applied charms to his appearance so that he wouldn’t be recognised. It gave him a greater sense of confidence than he had generally, and that, needless to say, was pretty high. He sneered at no one in particular in case they somehow doubted this. None of his wizarding acquaintances would dream of coming within a mile of this place, but you couldn’t be too careful.
The music was deafening, just the way he liked it. He felt anonymous there, and he could always pick up different lovers based on what he felt like at any moment. A brief shiver of happy guilt went through him when he thought of Lucius and Narcissa’s disapproving faces every time he flat-out refused to marry one or the other of the well-bred magical girls they had in mind for him. The last one had been Astoria Greengrass. He had laughed in the girl’s face till he'd very nearly collapsed.
He knew they knew what his problem was. And worst of all, he wasn’t sure they cared. All they wanted was a show marriage, and a Malfoy heir. Possibly a spare too. They didn’t expect him to enjoy it.
Lucius had always known about Draco’s little problem, and he guessed that’s why he had acquired that perpetually disgusted eyebrow arch that never seemed to go away.
As Draco pulled off his hood and surveyed the crowded room, he caught the interested eyes of a young man at the other end of the room, sitting at the bar. Draco grinned. He could get the attention of the hottest man in the room within two seconds of entering it. His smile widened when the lights flashing around the club illuminated the boy’s dark red hair. “Lucius, you sodding bastard.” He muttered to himself. “Keep hoping till you kick the fucking bucket.”
He strutted over and plopped himself at the bar, ordering a Muggle concoction that always helped him relax. He already knew he’d be leaving with the red-head. Weasley’s face suddenly flashed into his mind, a taunting expression on his face. Draco popped the cap off the Muggle drink the barman shoved over to him. It was no use trying to fool himself. He knew there was a reason he only ever picked up red-heads.
--
Draco got progressively drunker and drunker until he started to lose his sense of disdain for the Muggles around him. He was genuinely having a good time, as he and the other man ordered one drink after another and were -- he thought -- having a conversation of some sort. He knew he would probably not remember any of it in the morning, but right now, through drunken eyes, this almost seemed like fun.
He felt he was from a different culture, sometimes, when he talked to people in the Muggle world. It really was a different world. Most of the man’s Muggle references just flew over Draco’s head and Draco would occasionally let slip some wizardly jargon, but neither of them seemed to care. They were too drunk to care.
He wondered if bars like this existed in the wizarding world, and then thought better of it. Better to stay with the Muggles who didn’t know him. Besides, he didn’t really have a problem with them. All that carefully manufactured hatred slipped away in bed -- and he’d been feeling a kind of attraction to all things Muggle these days (he was shocked when he realised this). He had to be careful not to voice these feelings though, what with the pure-bloods in power. He made sure that his speech was just as offensive and scathing as ever. It wasn’t difficult; the words slipped out of his mouth easily, as always.
The truth was that he hated everybody. And he hated the pure-bloods and aristocrats -- Lucius’s people -- more than he could ever hate a Muggle. Not that he would admit this. He knew he had to stay in the circle if he wanted a slice of that power someday. “Nepotism, you grand old thing.” Draco raised a toast to it in silence.
He was going to ask the red-head if he wanted to leave when suddenly the music stopped and the lights died. “What in Merlin’s sodding--”
The last thing Draco remembered was a blinding red light filling his vision and the loud thunk of his head as it hit the floor.
--
He couldn’t remember what happened next. He woke up groggily in a bed, alone. It was totally dark, or maybe his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the lack of light yet. He groaned as the headache hit him, and at that moment he knew that whoever had taken him there had to be a wizard. He had been stunned. When he groped around inside his coat for a wand, his heart sank in the realisation that it was gone. He had known it since he regained consciousness, but the realisation had only hit him then, as surely and mercilessly as the Post-Stunning headache.
He heard tentative footsteps outside the door. Although he was still feeling woozy, Draco forced himself to adopt an expression of snarky disdain. Whoever had done this was going to pay.
When Weasley walked in, his unmistakeable figure silhouetted by the soft light from the hallway, Draco’s carefully manufactured disdain slid off his face. His eyes opened wide in surprise. He didn’t know why he was surprised -- he shouldn’t have been, he should’ve known. Only hours ago, he'd received this very warning. Stupid of him not have taken any precautions. To have gone to the bar that night.
His heart started beating wildly and his face flushed. But it was dark enough that Draco wasn’t sure Weasley had caught the expression on his face.
“Lumos,” Weasley said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat as his pale face was illuminated by the magical glow from his wand.
“What a surprise to see my kidnapper is none other the Deformed Circus Freak from my favourite bottom-feeding Weasel family...” Draco drawled hatefully, hoping to sound menacing. “What happened to that high moral ground you people are always on about?”
“Shut up, Malfoy.” Weasley’s freckles disappeared as the blush spread over his face. “I’m only here to give you your food. I wouldn’t, but Hermione insisted,” he added.
Draco muttered something under his breath. Weasley was next to him in a flash, his wand pressed against his throat. “We’re not schoolboys anymore, Malfoy. You’d better learn to respect those in a position of power over you.”
“Power,” Draco spat at his face, mere inches from his. “You blood traitors wouldn’t know about power in a million years. After all, who’s on top now? Oh, that’s right... not the pathetic rag-tag resistance group they used to call the Order of the Phoenix. It’s us -- the purebloods, the Malfoys. It’s nice for a change.” Perhaps to disguise his nervousness, Draco started laughing uncontrollably.
Weasley exhaled in what seemed like disappointment and disgust. He let him go, and threw the paper bag on the bed. “Your dinner.”
“Wait!” Draco shouted after him as Weasley strode heavily to the door and slammed it on his way out. “You can’t keep me in here, you weaselly oaf! Let me out! My father! Will hear! About... this... and...” His voice trailed off as he realised he was talking to a very securely bolted iron door, magically reinforced, and that Weasley couldn’t hear him anymore.
It was completely dark, and Draco didn’t know what to do.
--
Ron didn’t come back. Draco stayed in the darkness as long as he could until a strange fear overtook him. Was it the dark or the confinement that seized his heart like a vice? He let out a small whimper. Why didn’t they at least leave him a light? Who knows what filthy Muggle diseases he would catch from the rats... and the... As if on cue, faint scratching noises seemed to emanate from the walls. Draco imagined beady famished little eyes and blood-stained whiskers. He curled up into a little ball on the bed, his hands clamped over his ears to ward off the noises that were possibly not even there.
He woke up several hours later and it was still pitch-black. It took him a long time to finally think of feeling his way along the walls and accidentally come across a little plastic contraption built right into the wall that, when flipped, caused a blinding light to go on above him. His heart leaped. As he gazed up at the ceiling, he caught sight of the light source. A glass sphere with a glowing wire in it, somehow illuminating the room. He vaguely recalled seeing one in his Muggle bar.
Draco realised he was in a modest-looking room. Anonymous, like a hotel room. There was a rectangular box at one corner that looked like it was watching him and several books stacked neatly on a table. Was he supposed to read those? And what the hell was that box for? He went back to the bed and sat on it gingerly, resolving not to touch anything else in the room. His dignity was still aching, dully.
--
Draco held out a week, trying not to eat, kicking each house elf that came in, trembling. “You tell your masters that Draco Betelgeuse Malfoy won’t be kept prisoner!” he would yell and lob his boot at the figure that came in. The house elves were silent, however. They merely squeaked, dropped the food and ran away. Once he tried to run at the diminutive figure as the door opened but was blasted back and slammed into the wall by a powerful charm.
“What are you looking at?” Draco snarled at the terrified elf who was goggling at him. He picked himself up, ignoring the pain in his shoulder where he had made contact with the wall.
Finally, Draco’s patience (what little of it there was, that he managed to extend for an impossible amount of time) was wearing out. He started sinking into long periods of despair. It was the solitude that got to him most. If he were tortured, he would give in after seconds, he thought. He couldn’t bear it, even after a day. What he hated most, though, was that there was no one around to witness his drama queen routine, so all of this was for nothing.
He tried not to give up his cynical hope in the essential goodness of the Gryffindors. But the door was always locked, and no matter how much Draco pounded on it, howling like a madman, he could never break it down. He didn’t try running at the open door again.
He finally gave in and attacked the food ravenously, consuming the meat pie in a couple of fierce bites. He had no mirror, but he knew that his features were becoming gaunt from all this mistreatment. They could’ve given me a mirror at least, to check, he complained bitterly to himself as he wiped the last crumbs off his chin.
He started wondering if his father would do anything, or if he’d leave him here to rot forever. More likely the latter, he thought with a sigh, and finally picked up one of the books on the table. He squinted at the title. Some revolutionary manifesto. “Muggle filth,” he muttered, holding it between two fingers.
He dropped it in surprise when he heard approaching footsteps. They weren’t as heavy as Ron’s, but not as light as the house elves’, either.
Much to Draco’s surprise, it was Granger who entered the room. She had a paper bag in one hand. She looked slightly ashamed, as Ron had earlier.
“What the fuck do you want?” Draco spat at her, looking half crazy with the loss of his dignity.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly and steadily. “I didn’t want to do this.”
Draco’s eyes widened a bit in surprise that she was apologising, but caught it in time. He immediately turned on an expression of derision. “Really? You’re telling me it was Weasley’s idea?”
“No, it was my idea. I didn’t think it through. I didn’t realise what a morally dicey thing this is to do... I have a tendency to do that. I mean it happened with Umbridge, and I’ve never really forgiven myself for that, though it was long ago and I was young--”
“Shut up!” Draco told her. “Just let me go, then, and we’re even. You’ve kept me here a week already, in utterly filthy conditions. 'Morally dicey' doesn’t even come close to keeping someone in the stench of these Muggles.”
Granger looked pained, though an expression of annoyance briefly crossed her face. “We can’t do that, you see. I mean, we haven’t had a victory in--”
“What? What is wrong with you?” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “LET ME GO, YOU CRAZY MUDBLOOD BITCH!”
Granger’s eyes widened and then narrowed. Maybe that hadn’t been the best move. She turned around huffily, her bushy hair whipping around, walked away and slammed the door like Ron had.
“Wait!” Draco called after her. “Maybe we can work something out!” He was apparently not too enraged to briefly note how none of them had changed at all from their student years. Granger was still a neurotic mess, Weasley a clumsy thickhead, and Draco fantastically sexy and perfect. Except for the kidnapping and torture the first two seemed to be into, nowadays. Draco let out a long sigh.
--
He didn’t see anybody for several days. When he couldn’t stand the boredom and solitude anymore he picked up one of the books and started to look through it. It was by some Muggle hero who defeated a despotic government, and despite himself, Draco found himself absorbed in the story of his struggles. He almost sympathised with the rag-tag bunch of terrorists as they faced off the grand army of the dictator. He was at a particularly exciting part when he heard footsteps again. Heavy but reluctant, as if they were forced to come here against their will. Weasley. Draco slammed the book shut, resenting him a little for the interruption.
He positioned himself so that he was sitting on the bed facing the wall when Weasley entered, for Weasley to see his dramatic posture. He sneaked a glance backwards at Weasley’s face as the door opened.
Weasley’s voice sounded hollow. “Get out of here,” he said with utter loathing in his eyes.
Draco was silent.
“I said get out of here! You win, OK! We’re better than that. We don’t have to resort to kidnapping useless little ponces like you to make our point.”
Draco didn’t speak. It didn’t feel like a victory. At least he tried to remain silent before he exploded with, “I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you...!” He whipped around and stood up, facing Ron. Weasley was a bit taller than he was, which made it hard to keep all his dignity intact. His face was flushed with the effort of searching for the words.
“What?”
“You-- and... and... Granger! And me!” Draco sputtered as his eyes bulged out slightly in outrage. He hated being speechless in front of Ron but he just couldn’t find words venomous enough. Perhaps they didn’t exist.
“Huh?” Ron was bemused, as usual for him. He wore his usual expression of idiotic confusion. Any minute now, he’ll scratch his head from incomprehension, Draco thought, snorting. He paused to wonder for a moment why he snorted so much, and if it served to attract anyone or if he should change his signature reaction.
“You kidnapped me! And kept me in this filthy hellhole, feeding me gods know what, with that box staring at me--”
“It’s a television,” Ron muttered.
“--and filthy Muggle books I wouldn’t deign to touch.”
Ron shrugged and scratched his head, messing up his red curls. “I think it’s a bit more comfortable than the house Hermione and I are living in,” he said.
Draco hissed in jealous hatred.
“Well, she says you’re to be let go,” Ron said, grinning. “So I no longer have to put up with you. And she says apologise on her behalf and then punch you right in your smug gob. So if you don’t leave right now, I’ll deliver the rest of the message. With pleasure.”
“I’m not scared of your macho posturing, Weasel. Look at your scrawny arms, for gods' sakes.” He laughed sardonically, taking a page out of Pansy’s book, though of course his laugh was much deeper and more manly.
Draco smiled at the way Weasley instantly shrank into himself -- a gangly mess of bottled-up rage and insecurity. He could always push Weasley’s buttons, that was for sure. How far could he push him, though? That was Draco’s ultimate question, and he knew he wouldn't give up until he'd found out.
“Fine.” Draco said, crossing his arms. “I’ll leave if you answer one question for me.”
“What?”
“Am I still a useless ponce if I inform your precious Granger about that night in the Room of Requirement? Or, wait... Would that be you?” Draco’s smile grew as Ron turned a colour almost the same shade as his hair.
Weasley looked like he was trying very hard not to open his mouth, as if he was afraid he would explode, but managed to spit out: “As far as I’m concerned, I was drunk and it never happened. Now leave.”
“Fine. But I’m warning you -- when you marry that bushy-haired shrew and she starts popping out little mudblood squibs that are just a perfect combination of the two of you... I know you’ll be thinking of me.”
He had expected Weasley to blow his top but he just slipped back from insecure rage to bemusement. It was funny to see him switch between the two emotions and absolutely nothing else (though the occasional blinding grin still made Draco go weak at the knees and then curse Ron for it). The boy never was known for his brightness though. “Marry?” Ron echoed, and let out a dull laugh. “What makes you think Hermione and I are together?”
“We have our intelligence,” Draco admitted. “I am my father’s son. And you know who my father is.”
Weasley looked almost sheepish for a second. “Well, we were.” Draco’s grey eyes flashed knife silver when he heard that. “But now we’re back to friends. I guess being a couple isn’t that great for joint leadership of the Order.”
“Leadership? Don’t make me laugh!”
Weasley shook his tousled red head. “I’m through with you, Malfoy. Just leave. Go back to daddy. You never grew up. You haven't changed in the slightest.”
Draco echoed Weasley’s disgusted head-shake, and started walking away. When he reached the door, he had the urge to look back. It was strange, them letting him go like that, after that week of torture. He suddenly wondered if it were all a trick. Maybe they had implanted something in him-- Maybe that pie had been poisoned-- Maybe--
“We didn’t kidnap you, anyway,” Weasley muttered after Draco.
Draco stopped at the open door, then whipped around. He couldn’t disguise the confusion on his face, though the slow realisation of the truth was worse. “What do you mean, you didn’t kidnap me? What the fuck do you call this?”
Weasley lazily crossed his arms and gave his signature one-shoulder shrug. He continued reluctantly as if he really oughtn't to go on. “We were testing you -- we’ve been watching you, you know.”
Draco opened his mouth and closed it again. He opened it again, very much aware that he looked like a goldfish. Finally, he said, “That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It was Hermione’s idea to get you alone so we could offer you a position in the order. Pansy told us you could possibly convert -- planted the information about your possible kidnapping, which is exactly what we wanted you to believe. Hermione believed that you had changed. I was against it, of course, but she thought maybe you had it in you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Now this is starting to sound like some idiot’s surreal dream. You kidnap me to try and convince me to join you weak losers and now Parkinson’s a spy?”
Weasley went on as if Draco hadn’t said anything. “Well, she was totally wrong. You’ve been nothing but offensive and bigoted from the start. So we thought we’d let you suffer for a bit. Imagine wild scenarios of how we were going to torture and kill you. You haven’t changed a bit -- you just proved that I was right.”
Draco was seething. “You were. If you thought I would ever join this pathetic excuse you call a terrorist outfit, you have another-- Hey!”
Draco twisted pathetically as Weasley's fist clenched tighter around his arm. He was breathing steadily, and his grip was like a vice. Not so scrawny now, Draco thought. He actually felt a little nervous at the violence in Weasley’s eyes.
“I don’t care if you’re with us or against us, Malfoy, but if you run to daddy and tell him about Pansy and everything that happened here I will personally hunt you down and rip off your head. Understand that?”
Draco stared at him with deep loathing. Even though he could have celebrated all the blackmail potential as a victory, he knew he would keep his mouth shut. He had no idea how the Mudblood figured it out, but they apparently knew him better than he did.
He hated his father more than he hated the Order of the Phoenix any day. And of course he was madly in love with one of its leaders. (Not the bushy-haired female one.) And although he would never formally accept their offer, they -- and now he -- knew that he would keep working his whole life against their archenemy, his own father, working in their interests.
“I... I won’t,” he spat out, feeling empty.
“Good. Now fuck off, and I never want to see your ugly rat-face again.”
Weasley's grasp loosened, but he left his hot palm there for a moment, a fraction of a second longer than if he really had completely forgotten that night. Their sixth year, and the Room of Requirement. A few too many bottles of Butterbeer. A kiss, that led to everything else.
Ron flashed a blinding victory grin at him before Disapparating and Draco was left at the open door, feeling slightly unstable and wanting to cursing everything in existence.
Finis
LJ username: firebird5
Team: Ron
Prompt: Blackout
Length: 4,608 words
Rating: PG - totally tame, only a little swearing
Warnings: AU - Deathly Hallows? What’s Deathly Hallows? This fic cheerfully ignores most of the sixth book and all of the seventh. The background comes from my own universe where Lucius conspires with Harry to defeat Voldemort and then gets installed as Minister for Magic. Why and how he does all this is a subject for another fic.
Disclaimer: All sexual activity portrayed in this fic is between two consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age. I do not own any of the characters.
The Kidnapping of Draco Malfoy
Draco stepped onto the street from the telephone box that led out from his father’s office with a feeling of bitter resentment in his heart. Their last conversation had incensed him utterly. Something about being careful because the Resistance -- the pathetic remnants of the Order of the Phoenix -- could possibly kidnap him and use him against the government. Arsehole. Is that all he thought about? His precious office?
The resistance had got slightly stronger lately, and they were actually succeeding in destroying government infrastructure through some devious techniques. Even going so far as to enlist Muggles. Draco shuddered at the thought. But he was sure they wouldn’t resort to kidnapping. Neither of the leaders would allow that -- they still thought they were saintly Gryffindors who were above that sort of thing, even though they were losing so miserably at the moment that stooping that low was the only smart thing to do. Even Draco knew that, and he was the one in danger.
When he thought of them -- that duo that caused the peskiest problems for the government (in an annoying but insignificant way) -- he had to fight himself to control his rage. Lucius had tried to give both of them amnesty and recruit them into his ranks, but all they had done was burn the letters and send back extremely nasty replies. Draco guessed that they had stepped up their pathetic efforts after Lucius had installed a former Death Eater as headmaster at Hogwarts and expelled all the Mudbloods.
The thing about the new government, he had to admit, was that it was inefficient and bureaucratic. Of course, with his father in power, that was to be expected. Draco snorted in disdain and wrapped himself up more fully in his scarf as protection against the chilly air. The Resistance might have picked up more followers if Lucius’s government had been slightly more evil -- as it stood, it bore an uncanny resemblance to Scrimgeour’s, even Fudge’s, old government.
Draco had idolised his father until the end of the war when Voldemort and Harry Potter had killed each other off, and Lucius had stepped into the power vacuum to claim that he had been working against Voldemort all along. Nobody would have believed it if it hadn’t been for Potter’s dying words, confirming Lucius’s version of events. Everyone had been surprised, to say the least. Lucius Malfoy, the big hero? It seemed anti-climactic.
When Draco saw his father’s reptilian smile upon accepting the Ministerial position, bestowed upon him by the grateful populace, he knew he was no hero. Toppling Voldemort, if he did actually have any part in it, was purely to aid his own succession to power. What Draco couldn’t believe was that the bastard had actually managed it.
He had tried to interest Draco in a government position, but Draco had laughed bitterly. He was perfectly happy not having to work for a living, thank you very much.
He thought about Weasley again, and had to control himself from cursing the random Muggles walking past him. Weasley and that bushy-haired Mudblood idiot -- he could’ve done anything else to get back at Draco, but he’d had to go and... do... that. Draco snorted, and forced himself to feel sorry for Granger -- when they got married, they would have the most brainless, clumsy, oafish, spotted red-headed brats--
The blood rushed into his cheeks in his infinite disgust. But really, he said to himself. It’s not like I care. No, not at all.
He pulled up his hood and slipped into the Muggle bar he had been to dozens of times. He felt like a deviant. Nothing like it existed in the wizarding world. At least not in the Malfoys’ world. The little of ‘that funny business’ that there was was confined to private fumblings in boys’ bathrooms, or even secret, guilt-ridden relationships that had no chance of lasting more than a few feverish weeks. It wasn’t exactly frowned upon, as long as you went through that phase and came out a dutiful pure-blooded wizard, married a repulsive pug of a girl and fathered an heir.
The memory of Pansy’s atrocious voice entered his head at that moment, “Like you could convince anyone you’re not a flaming queen enough to agree to marry you!” Followed by her high, sardonic, girly giggle-laugh. She was pure evil wrapped in a pink package. Draco fumed at the thought of her and their last conversation. He had to tried to shrug it off, but no matter how annoying she was, he had to admit she had been his closest friend till very recently.
They hadn’t spoken after they’d exchanged those barbs, though these periods of mutual disdain were frequent and usually short. He'd felt a dull happiness at the expression on her face when he’d called her a repulsive pug. Though she had got the last word. How dare she.
As he walked through the bar, he congratulated himself on being clever enough to have applied charms to his appearance so that he wouldn’t be recognised. It gave him a greater sense of confidence than he had generally, and that, needless to say, was pretty high. He sneered at no one in particular in case they somehow doubted this. None of his wizarding acquaintances would dream of coming within a mile of this place, but you couldn’t be too careful.
The music was deafening, just the way he liked it. He felt anonymous there, and he could always pick up different lovers based on what he felt like at any moment. A brief shiver of happy guilt went through him when he thought of Lucius and Narcissa’s disapproving faces every time he flat-out refused to marry one or the other of the well-bred magical girls they had in mind for him. The last one had been Astoria Greengrass. He had laughed in the girl’s face till he'd very nearly collapsed.
He knew they knew what his problem was. And worst of all, he wasn’t sure they cared. All they wanted was a show marriage, and a Malfoy heir. Possibly a spare too. They didn’t expect him to enjoy it.
Lucius had always known about Draco’s little problem, and he guessed that’s why he had acquired that perpetually disgusted eyebrow arch that never seemed to go away.
As Draco pulled off his hood and surveyed the crowded room, he caught the interested eyes of a young man at the other end of the room, sitting at the bar. Draco grinned. He could get the attention of the hottest man in the room within two seconds of entering it. His smile widened when the lights flashing around the club illuminated the boy’s dark red hair. “Lucius, you sodding bastard.” He muttered to himself. “Keep hoping till you kick the fucking bucket.”
He strutted over and plopped himself at the bar, ordering a Muggle concoction that always helped him relax. He already knew he’d be leaving with the red-head. Weasley’s face suddenly flashed into his mind, a taunting expression on his face. Draco popped the cap off the Muggle drink the barman shoved over to him. It was no use trying to fool himself. He knew there was a reason he only ever picked up red-heads.
--
Draco got progressively drunker and drunker until he started to lose his sense of disdain for the Muggles around him. He was genuinely having a good time, as he and the other man ordered one drink after another and were -- he thought -- having a conversation of some sort. He knew he would probably not remember any of it in the morning, but right now, through drunken eyes, this almost seemed like fun.
He felt he was from a different culture, sometimes, when he talked to people in the Muggle world. It really was a different world. Most of the man’s Muggle references just flew over Draco’s head and Draco would occasionally let slip some wizardly jargon, but neither of them seemed to care. They were too drunk to care.
He wondered if bars like this existed in the wizarding world, and then thought better of it. Better to stay with the Muggles who didn’t know him. Besides, he didn’t really have a problem with them. All that carefully manufactured hatred slipped away in bed -- and he’d been feeling a kind of attraction to all things Muggle these days (he was shocked when he realised this). He had to be careful not to voice these feelings though, what with the pure-bloods in power. He made sure that his speech was just as offensive and scathing as ever. It wasn’t difficult; the words slipped out of his mouth easily, as always.
The truth was that he hated everybody. And he hated the pure-bloods and aristocrats -- Lucius’s people -- more than he could ever hate a Muggle. Not that he would admit this. He knew he had to stay in the circle if he wanted a slice of that power someday. “Nepotism, you grand old thing.” Draco raised a toast to it in silence.
He was going to ask the red-head if he wanted to leave when suddenly the music stopped and the lights died. “What in Merlin’s sodding--”
The last thing Draco remembered was a blinding red light filling his vision and the loud thunk of his head as it hit the floor.
--
He couldn’t remember what happened next. He woke up groggily in a bed, alone. It was totally dark, or maybe his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the lack of light yet. He groaned as the headache hit him, and at that moment he knew that whoever had taken him there had to be a wizard. He had been stunned. When he groped around inside his coat for a wand, his heart sank in the realisation that it was gone. He had known it since he regained consciousness, but the realisation had only hit him then, as surely and mercilessly as the Post-Stunning headache.
He heard tentative footsteps outside the door. Although he was still feeling woozy, Draco forced himself to adopt an expression of snarky disdain. Whoever had done this was going to pay.
When Weasley walked in, his unmistakeable figure silhouetted by the soft light from the hallway, Draco’s carefully manufactured disdain slid off his face. His eyes opened wide in surprise. He didn’t know why he was surprised -- he shouldn’t have been, he should’ve known. Only hours ago, he'd received this very warning. Stupid of him not have taken any precautions. To have gone to the bar that night.
His heart started beating wildly and his face flushed. But it was dark enough that Draco wasn’t sure Weasley had caught the expression on his face.
“Lumos,” Weasley said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat as his pale face was illuminated by the magical glow from his wand.
“What a surprise to see my kidnapper is none other the Deformed Circus Freak from my favourite bottom-feeding Weasel family...” Draco drawled hatefully, hoping to sound menacing. “What happened to that high moral ground you people are always on about?”
“Shut up, Malfoy.” Weasley’s freckles disappeared as the blush spread over his face. “I’m only here to give you your food. I wouldn’t, but Hermione insisted,” he added.
Draco muttered something under his breath. Weasley was next to him in a flash, his wand pressed against his throat. “We’re not schoolboys anymore, Malfoy. You’d better learn to respect those in a position of power over you.”
“Power,” Draco spat at his face, mere inches from his. “You blood traitors wouldn’t know about power in a million years. After all, who’s on top now? Oh, that’s right... not the pathetic rag-tag resistance group they used to call the Order of the Phoenix. It’s us -- the purebloods, the Malfoys. It’s nice for a change.” Perhaps to disguise his nervousness, Draco started laughing uncontrollably.
Weasley exhaled in what seemed like disappointment and disgust. He let him go, and threw the paper bag on the bed. “Your dinner.”
“Wait!” Draco shouted after him as Weasley strode heavily to the door and slammed it on his way out. “You can’t keep me in here, you weaselly oaf! Let me out! My father! Will hear! About... this... and...” His voice trailed off as he realised he was talking to a very securely bolted iron door, magically reinforced, and that Weasley couldn’t hear him anymore.
It was completely dark, and Draco didn’t know what to do.
--
Ron didn’t come back. Draco stayed in the darkness as long as he could until a strange fear overtook him. Was it the dark or the confinement that seized his heart like a vice? He let out a small whimper. Why didn’t they at least leave him a light? Who knows what filthy Muggle diseases he would catch from the rats... and the... As if on cue, faint scratching noises seemed to emanate from the walls. Draco imagined beady famished little eyes and blood-stained whiskers. He curled up into a little ball on the bed, his hands clamped over his ears to ward off the noises that were possibly not even there.
He woke up several hours later and it was still pitch-black. It took him a long time to finally think of feeling his way along the walls and accidentally come across a little plastic contraption built right into the wall that, when flipped, caused a blinding light to go on above him. His heart leaped. As he gazed up at the ceiling, he caught sight of the light source. A glass sphere with a glowing wire in it, somehow illuminating the room. He vaguely recalled seeing one in his Muggle bar.
Draco realised he was in a modest-looking room. Anonymous, like a hotel room. There was a rectangular box at one corner that looked like it was watching him and several books stacked neatly on a table. Was he supposed to read those? And what the hell was that box for? He went back to the bed and sat on it gingerly, resolving not to touch anything else in the room. His dignity was still aching, dully.
--
Draco held out a week, trying not to eat, kicking each house elf that came in, trembling. “You tell your masters that Draco Betelgeuse Malfoy won’t be kept prisoner!” he would yell and lob his boot at the figure that came in. The house elves were silent, however. They merely squeaked, dropped the food and ran away. Once he tried to run at the diminutive figure as the door opened but was blasted back and slammed into the wall by a powerful charm.
“What are you looking at?” Draco snarled at the terrified elf who was goggling at him. He picked himself up, ignoring the pain in his shoulder where he had made contact with the wall.
Finally, Draco’s patience (what little of it there was, that he managed to extend for an impossible amount of time) was wearing out. He started sinking into long periods of despair. It was the solitude that got to him most. If he were tortured, he would give in after seconds, he thought. He couldn’t bear it, even after a day. What he hated most, though, was that there was no one around to witness his drama queen routine, so all of this was for nothing.
He tried not to give up his cynical hope in the essential goodness of the Gryffindors. But the door was always locked, and no matter how much Draco pounded on it, howling like a madman, he could never break it down. He didn’t try running at the open door again.
He finally gave in and attacked the food ravenously, consuming the meat pie in a couple of fierce bites. He had no mirror, but he knew that his features were becoming gaunt from all this mistreatment. They could’ve given me a mirror at least, to check, he complained bitterly to himself as he wiped the last crumbs off his chin.
He started wondering if his father would do anything, or if he’d leave him here to rot forever. More likely the latter, he thought with a sigh, and finally picked up one of the books on the table. He squinted at the title. Some revolutionary manifesto. “Muggle filth,” he muttered, holding it between two fingers.
He dropped it in surprise when he heard approaching footsteps. They weren’t as heavy as Ron’s, but not as light as the house elves’, either.
Much to Draco’s surprise, it was Granger who entered the room. She had a paper bag in one hand. She looked slightly ashamed, as Ron had earlier.
“What the fuck do you want?” Draco spat at her, looking half crazy with the loss of his dignity.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly and steadily. “I didn’t want to do this.”
Draco’s eyes widened a bit in surprise that she was apologising, but caught it in time. He immediately turned on an expression of derision. “Really? You’re telling me it was Weasley’s idea?”
“No, it was my idea. I didn’t think it through. I didn’t realise what a morally dicey thing this is to do... I have a tendency to do that. I mean it happened with Umbridge, and I’ve never really forgiven myself for that, though it was long ago and I was young--”
“Shut up!” Draco told her. “Just let me go, then, and we’re even. You’ve kept me here a week already, in utterly filthy conditions. 'Morally dicey' doesn’t even come close to keeping someone in the stench of these Muggles.”
Granger looked pained, though an expression of annoyance briefly crossed her face. “We can’t do that, you see. I mean, we haven’t had a victory in--”
“What? What is wrong with you?” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “LET ME GO, YOU CRAZY MUDBLOOD BITCH!”
Granger’s eyes widened and then narrowed. Maybe that hadn’t been the best move. She turned around huffily, her bushy hair whipping around, walked away and slammed the door like Ron had.
“Wait!” Draco called after her. “Maybe we can work something out!” He was apparently not too enraged to briefly note how none of them had changed at all from their student years. Granger was still a neurotic mess, Weasley a clumsy thickhead, and Draco fantastically sexy and perfect. Except for the kidnapping and torture the first two seemed to be into, nowadays. Draco let out a long sigh.
--
He didn’t see anybody for several days. When he couldn’t stand the boredom and solitude anymore he picked up one of the books and started to look through it. It was by some Muggle hero who defeated a despotic government, and despite himself, Draco found himself absorbed in the story of his struggles. He almost sympathised with the rag-tag bunch of terrorists as they faced off the grand army of the dictator. He was at a particularly exciting part when he heard footsteps again. Heavy but reluctant, as if they were forced to come here against their will. Weasley. Draco slammed the book shut, resenting him a little for the interruption.
He positioned himself so that he was sitting on the bed facing the wall when Weasley entered, for Weasley to see his dramatic posture. He sneaked a glance backwards at Weasley’s face as the door opened.
Weasley’s voice sounded hollow. “Get out of here,” he said with utter loathing in his eyes.
Draco was silent.
“I said get out of here! You win, OK! We’re better than that. We don’t have to resort to kidnapping useless little ponces like you to make our point.”
Draco didn’t speak. It didn’t feel like a victory. At least he tried to remain silent before he exploded with, “I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you...!” He whipped around and stood up, facing Ron. Weasley was a bit taller than he was, which made it hard to keep all his dignity intact. His face was flushed with the effort of searching for the words.
“What?”
“You-- and... and... Granger! And me!” Draco sputtered as his eyes bulged out slightly in outrage. He hated being speechless in front of Ron but he just couldn’t find words venomous enough. Perhaps they didn’t exist.
“Huh?” Ron was bemused, as usual for him. He wore his usual expression of idiotic confusion. Any minute now, he’ll scratch his head from incomprehension, Draco thought, snorting. He paused to wonder for a moment why he snorted so much, and if it served to attract anyone or if he should change his signature reaction.
“You kidnapped me! And kept me in this filthy hellhole, feeding me gods know what, with that box staring at me--”
“It’s a television,” Ron muttered.
“--and filthy Muggle books I wouldn’t deign to touch.”
Ron shrugged and scratched his head, messing up his red curls. “I think it’s a bit more comfortable than the house Hermione and I are living in,” he said.
Draco hissed in jealous hatred.
“Well, she says you’re to be let go,” Ron said, grinning. “So I no longer have to put up with you. And she says apologise on her behalf and then punch you right in your smug gob. So if you don’t leave right now, I’ll deliver the rest of the message. With pleasure.”
“I’m not scared of your macho posturing, Weasel. Look at your scrawny arms, for gods' sakes.” He laughed sardonically, taking a page out of Pansy’s book, though of course his laugh was much deeper and more manly.
Draco smiled at the way Weasley instantly shrank into himself -- a gangly mess of bottled-up rage and insecurity. He could always push Weasley’s buttons, that was for sure. How far could he push him, though? That was Draco’s ultimate question, and he knew he wouldn't give up until he'd found out.
“Fine.” Draco said, crossing his arms. “I’ll leave if you answer one question for me.”
“What?”
“Am I still a useless ponce if I inform your precious Granger about that night in the Room of Requirement? Or, wait... Would that be you?” Draco’s smile grew as Ron turned a colour almost the same shade as his hair.
Weasley looked like he was trying very hard not to open his mouth, as if he was afraid he would explode, but managed to spit out: “As far as I’m concerned, I was drunk and it never happened. Now leave.”
“Fine. But I’m warning you -- when you marry that bushy-haired shrew and she starts popping out little mudblood squibs that are just a perfect combination of the two of you... I know you’ll be thinking of me.”
He had expected Weasley to blow his top but he just slipped back from insecure rage to bemusement. It was funny to see him switch between the two emotions and absolutely nothing else (though the occasional blinding grin still made Draco go weak at the knees and then curse Ron for it). The boy never was known for his brightness though. “Marry?” Ron echoed, and let out a dull laugh. “What makes you think Hermione and I are together?”
“We have our intelligence,” Draco admitted. “I am my father’s son. And you know who my father is.”
Weasley looked almost sheepish for a second. “Well, we were.” Draco’s grey eyes flashed knife silver when he heard that. “But now we’re back to friends. I guess being a couple isn’t that great for joint leadership of the Order.”
“Leadership? Don’t make me laugh!”
Weasley shook his tousled red head. “I’m through with you, Malfoy. Just leave. Go back to daddy. You never grew up. You haven't changed in the slightest.”
Draco echoed Weasley’s disgusted head-shake, and started walking away. When he reached the door, he had the urge to look back. It was strange, them letting him go like that, after that week of torture. He suddenly wondered if it were all a trick. Maybe they had implanted something in him-- Maybe that pie had been poisoned-- Maybe--
“We didn’t kidnap you, anyway,” Weasley muttered after Draco.
Draco stopped at the open door, then whipped around. He couldn’t disguise the confusion on his face, though the slow realisation of the truth was worse. “What do you mean, you didn’t kidnap me? What the fuck do you call this?”
Weasley lazily crossed his arms and gave his signature one-shoulder shrug. He continued reluctantly as if he really oughtn't to go on. “We were testing you -- we’ve been watching you, you know.”
Draco opened his mouth and closed it again. He opened it again, very much aware that he looked like a goldfish. Finally, he said, “That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It was Hermione’s idea to get you alone so we could offer you a position in the order. Pansy told us you could possibly convert -- planted the information about your possible kidnapping, which is exactly what we wanted you to believe. Hermione believed that you had changed. I was against it, of course, but she thought maybe you had it in you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Now this is starting to sound like some idiot’s surreal dream. You kidnap me to try and convince me to join you weak losers and now Parkinson’s a spy?”
Weasley went on as if Draco hadn’t said anything. “Well, she was totally wrong. You’ve been nothing but offensive and bigoted from the start. So we thought we’d let you suffer for a bit. Imagine wild scenarios of how we were going to torture and kill you. You haven’t changed a bit -- you just proved that I was right.”
Draco was seething. “You were. If you thought I would ever join this pathetic excuse you call a terrorist outfit, you have another-- Hey!”
Draco twisted pathetically as Weasley's fist clenched tighter around his arm. He was breathing steadily, and his grip was like a vice. Not so scrawny now, Draco thought. He actually felt a little nervous at the violence in Weasley’s eyes.
“I don’t care if you’re with us or against us, Malfoy, but if you run to daddy and tell him about Pansy and everything that happened here I will personally hunt you down and rip off your head. Understand that?”
Draco stared at him with deep loathing. Even though he could have celebrated all the blackmail potential as a victory, he knew he would keep his mouth shut. He had no idea how the Mudblood figured it out, but they apparently knew him better than he did.
He hated his father more than he hated the Order of the Phoenix any day. And of course he was madly in love with one of its leaders. (Not the bushy-haired female one.) And although he would never formally accept their offer, they -- and now he -- knew that he would keep working his whole life against their archenemy, his own father, working in their interests.
“I... I won’t,” he spat out, feeling empty.
“Good. Now fuck off, and I never want to see your ugly rat-face again.”
Weasley's grasp loosened, but he left his hot palm there for a moment, a fraction of a second longer than if he really had completely forgotten that night. Their sixth year, and the Room of Requirement. A few too many bottles of Butterbeer. A kiss, that led to everything else.
Ron flashed a blinding victory grin at him before Disapparating and Draco was left at the open door, feeling slightly unstable and wanting to cursing everything in existence.
Finis