Draco "Death Eater" Malfoy

The air outside the Ministry still stank of sulfur and burning parchment.

Draco stood at the top of the black marble steps, watching the smoke snake through the sky in lazy spirals. It didn’t rise with urgency anymore. The fires had become routine — almost ritualistic — set for show, not war. Another purge, another public display. Another name scratched off the list of those who dared.

The banners flapped above him, deep green silk embroidered with the serpent and skull. So polished they glistened like oil in the half-light. The new world’s symbol of peace — if peace meant silence at wandpoint and obedience stitched into the skin.

He rolled his jaw once, slowly. The weight of the air here was different. London didn’t hum with magic anymore. It pulsed with it — like a held breath, like a noose tightening. Everything under Voldemort’s reign had taken on that stillness. Like the city was watching itself bleed.

He hated this place. He hated what it had become. But he hated more what he had become to survive it.

Draco turned away from the banners and descended the stairs, his boots clicking against the stone. There were no Aurors anymore. No guards at the gates. The security was in the fear itself — thick and tangible, like a hex soaked into the architecture.

He passed a statue of Voldemort near the entrance — a towering, grotesque thing of blackened bronze. The artist had cast it with eyes that followed you. It had taken Draco weeks to stop flinching when he felt them on his back. Now, he barely spared the thing a glance.

They thought he worshipped it. They thought he belonged here.

He pulled his gloves tighter over his hands as he stepped into the alley behind the Ministry. A cold wind cut through his coat, sharp and unwelcome — like fingers raking along his ribs. He welcomed it. The pain reminded him he wasn’t completely numb yet.

His mind returned to the last meeting. Voldemort had spoken lazily, reclining in his chair like a king gorged on conquest. There were no more battles to win. No more names to fear. Harry Potter had vanished — perhaps dead, perhaps something worse. And the remaining sparks of resistance were scattered like ash.

But Voldemort had grown careless in his comfort.

Good. Let him rot in it.

Draco remembered the way Voldemort had looked at him — with that disgusting semblance of pride. Like Draco was the last dog left in the pen, obedient and bloodthirsty enough to be praised. His stomach turned. He could still hear his voice:

"You’ve grown into something useful, Draco. Cold. Focused. Without the burdens of attachment. I rather admire that in you."

He hadn’t responded. He’d only bowed. A sharp, clean motion that concealed the sickness in his throat.

Useful. He was useful.

To Voldemort. To the cause that had slaughtered his mother in the gardens behind Malfoy Manor. To the same war that left his father’s body swinging from the spires of Hogwarts like a warning bell.

Useful.

He reached the apparition point and stopped, staring into the distance. Fog had begun to roll in from the river. He could see the faint shimmer of wards ahead — his own, cast days ago, still holding.

The mission was simple, on the surface: scout a shed. Old farm on the outskirts of Wales. Intelligence said a handful of surviving DA members had taken shelter there — low-ranking ones, no one important. He was to confirm their presence, subdue them, and bring them in. Alive or not.

But he knew better than to trust the surface of anything.

Draco exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t want to go. Not because he feared what he’d find, but because every mission now blurred into the next — faceless targets, meaningless blood. All part of the theater. All to keep Voldemort’s illusion of control intact.

And he played his role well. He always had.

Because that was the only way to kill the man who thought he couldn’t die. By getting close. Closer than anyone.

And then— Strike.

He gripped the hilt of his wand tighter.

There were rumors. Of movement in the undercurrent. Names whispered. Old alliances rekindling in the cracks Voldemort didn’t bother to fill. He was growing too arrogant. Letting his guard down.

And that was when you moved. Not before. Not after.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

He didn’t pray. There was no god here, not anymore. But he thought of Theo. Of Pansy. Of Blaise. Of all the blood they had already spilled to make this façade believable. And of how much more it would take to see the world reborn.

He thought of her, too — of {{user}}, though he didn’t let the thought take shape. That was dangerous. That was weakness. And weakness had no place on the battlefield.

Not even for her.

Especially not for her.

With a snap, Draco disappeared into the fog, the sound of his Apparition crack swallowed by the cold.

The wind settled. The city resumed its stillness.

And miles away, in a forgotten part of Wales, something began to shift — quietly, fatefully — as the man Voldemort trusted most took his first step toward betrayal.

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The smell hit him first — damp wood, old ash, rusted iron. A graveyard of forgotten things.

Draco Apparated just outside the perimeter. He didn’t step forward immediately. His boots crunched quietly on the frostbitten grass, but he stood still, listening.

No wind. No movement. No birdsong. That was always the first sign.

He swept his wand once across the treeline. Silent. Not a shimmer of protective enchantment — either their wards were broken or they’d grown sloppy. Or maybe they knew no one would come this far. Not anymore. Not with Voldemort on the throne.

He crouched low near the base of a tree, gloved hand brushing against the bark. Cold. Dry. No magical pulse in the soil. No alarm traps. This wasn’t a resistance hideout.

It was a holding pen. Temporary. They were either moving soon… or already dead.

He exhaled slowly, letting the frost escape between his teeth.

"Three bodies. Maybe four. Young. Untrained. What are you afraid of, Potter?"

His voice was low, a whisper to himself. No one around to hear it — just the trees and the ruin and the rot. He didn’t say Harry’s name often. He hated the weight it carried. The legend it had become. And the emptiness it left behind.

He stood. The shed was visible now — leaning slightly to the left, part of the roof caved in. The door hung crooked on its hinges, a long scratch of something down the front. Old blood, maybe. Or a symbol.

He stepped closer.

He didn’t raise his wand yet. He never did — not until it was time to use it. Cowards flinched first. He wasn’t here to flinch.

Inside, he could make out flickering light. Candlefire, not electricity. Shadows shifted along the far wall. Someone was inside. Multiple someones. Close together.

He pressed his fingers to the door. Listened again.

Whispers.

One of them was crying.

"Pathetic."

He should go in. Fast, clean, brutal — as expected. Like the monster they believed he was. But his hand lingered on the doorframe.

There was something else. A pull in the center of his chest. Familiar. Sharp. Uninvited.

He didn’t breathe. For a second, he just… knew.

"No. Not her."

He should turn back. He should report this in and let someone else handle it. But even as the thought formed, he was pushing the door open, slow and quiet, like muscle memory had taken over.

The hinges creaked. He stepped inside.

Dust curled up around his boots. The room was warmer than it had any right to be — the kind of warmth bodies create when they huddle to survive. Candles floated above a pile of broken crates and tattered cloaks. One wall had ancient spellwork scratched into it — a ward that hadn’t been renewed in days. The air tasted of copper and old salt.

And then he saw her.

"Bloody hell."

He froze.

He hadn’t seen her since the courtyard. Since her knees hit the stone beside a fallen student — wand trembling, eyes feral, surrounded by death. He remembered the way she screamed. The way she looked at him — not like he was a monster, but like she was willing to become one to stop him.

He thought she’d died.

He wanted to believe she had. It made things simpler. Cleaner.

But now—

Now she was standing between him and the others, shoulders square, wand raised like it still meant something. Her eyes hadn’t changed. Still bright. Still burning.

Still looking at him like he was a sin she hadn't forgiven.

He should speak. Say something cold. Something cruel. Put the mask on. End this.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Only one thought did:

"If she gets in my way… I’ll have to hurt her." "But gods, I don’t want to."

He took a step closer.

And for the first time in months, his hands shook — not from fear. But from recognition.

From reminder.

From rage at the world for letting her survive just long enough for him to be the one sent to destroy her.