Chapter 10: Friday night, Claw Hall

“GRANGERRR!”

Draco’s on his feet and running before the full horror of what’s happening has reached his conscious mind.

Crabbe’s got her draped over his broom, and he’s flying like a maniac through the twists and turns of Knockturn Alley—Draco can’t keep up with the old bastard. He can see that Granger’s not moving, and he prays that Crabbe’s used a Freezing Charm on her.

Please Merlin, he panics, don’t let him give her any more of that fucking poison.

He sprints under an archway, and into an open space, lunging for the broom, but he’s just too late—Crabbe’s rising, jerking the handle back and powering upwards, climbing past the jumbled rooftops and soaring out into clear sky.

Draco’s hand’s full of empty air. “No,” he screams, “NOOOOOO!”

Potter and Weasley pound into the courtyard behind him. “Hermione...” gasps Weasley.

Draco drives his fist into the wall.

Then he does it again, and again, and again... And it’s Potter who stops him, grabbing his arms and pulling them behind his back. But Draco struggles, and—though he’s always thought himself a weakling—he almost breaks free, until Weasley slaps his face, and the shock leaves him limp.

“We’ll get her back,” says Potter, shaking him. “We will.” His voice is hoarse.

“How?” shouts Draco. “How’re you going to find her?” He wrenches himself free, and—“Fuck!”—he throws one last punch at the wall. “She should have gone back to the fucking Manor! Why was I so fucking stupid!”

“Draco... Draco!” Potter—filthy from the fire—runs his hand through his matted hair. “I’m telling you—we’ve got leads.”

“What leads?”

“I need to think.”

“Look,” says Draco, “I didn’t tell you this before, because my father said it was just symbolic, but...” Suddenly, he’s yelling: “I saw him, Potter! In Granger’s memories! I saw him rape her with his fucking walking stick!” It’s too much to bear: he falls to his hands and knees, and throws up.

“Come on,” says Potter, grasping his shoulder.

Draco looks up, wiping his mouth. The physical shock of emptying his stomach seems to have cleared his mind. “Who owled that note for Delilah?” he pants.

Potter hauls him to his feet.

“Can you find out?” Draco persists. “In the pensieve it was a postal service owl, but suppose it wasn’t?”

“We’ll go back to the office,” says Potter. “We’ll see if there’s any record of anyone sending an owl to ‘Draco Malfoy and fiancée’.”

They retrace their steps back to Crucible Court. Weasley’s there ahead of them, briefing the Ministry fire fighters who are battling the blaze. “It’s feeding on a Muggle substance—something they call petrol,” he’s shouting, “so you may need to use Muggle methods...” He turns to Potter as he and Draco are crossing the courtyard: “I’ll catch you up as soon as I can.”

“Listen, Potter,” says Draco, urgently. “That list of Delilah’s punters you drew up—does it show when they were with her? We need to find out who was with her just before the owl was sent—that same morning, or maybe the day before... Come on, we’ve got to hurry!”

...

They travel by Floo to the Ministry of Magic and take the lift to the Auror Office.

Draco catches sight of himself in the glass of a notice board, and sneers at his reflection—his robes are torn and filthy, his face is grimy, his hair’s sticking out in clumps.

In his cubicle, Potter rummages through a pile of scrolls, selects one, and hands it over.

Draco quickly scans the list of Delilah’s clients. Alderton... Boardman... Coote... “Wait a minute,” he says. “Septimus Capper. That name sounds familiar.”

Potter consults another scroll. “Belby’s already questioned him,” he says. “He’d been seeing Delilah once a week for almost a year. He last saw her on Monday night—”

“That fits.”

“He claims she never told him anything about herself. He’s no known association with Voldemort. The only comment Belby’s made is, How could he afford her? Apparently, he has a secretarial position at a firm called Moran Holdings—”

“Of course,” says Draco. “I was in a meeting with Edgar Moran when Granger was arrested. Capper’s the prick who brought me your owl...” He’s already on his feet. “He’ll have access to the company owlery as part of his job.”

“We’ll take the Floo to Moran Tower,” says Potter, whilst they’re waiting for the lift. “But we’ll pick up a couple of brooms before we go. We want to keep our options open.”

...

Edgar Moran’s all oily charm.

He can’t prevent Potter’s questioning his favourite arse-licker, but it’s not until Draco points out—quite forcefully—that if Lucius Malfoy’s soon-to-be daughter-in-law is harmed by his fucking-about he can kiss any hopes of a profitable partnership goodbye, that Moran summons his secretary, and withdraws, leaving Potter and Draco to interrogate the man.

“I’ve already answered your questions,” says Capper.

Potter tries to appeal to the git’s sense of self preservation. “Technically, you’re an accessory before the fact,” he begins, “but we might be willing to overlook...”

Losing patience, Draco yanks open several cupboards, finds the drinks cabinet, and pours a glass of Firewisky. Then, taking the leather carrying case from his extended breast pocket, he draws out an ampoule of the Veritaserum that Granger had planned to use on the girls at Madam Mafalda’s.

“That’s illegal,” says Capper. “I know it is. Potter...”

“It’s perfectly legal,” says Potter, “when it’s being done on my orders.”

Draco snaps off the top of the ampoule and pours the potion into the glass.

“I won’t drink it.”

“I’d call that an admission of guilt,” says Draco, holding the glass to the man’s mouth, “wouldn’t you, Potter?” And, without any warning, he grabs Capper’s nose.

Capper struggles, slapping and kicking feebly, but Draco shoves him down into the chair and hangs on grimly, and when, at last, Capper opens his mouth for a desperate gulp of air, Draco tips the whisky down his throat.

Capper coughs and splutters.

“More,” says Draco, forcing the rest down. Then he steps back, breathing hard. “Get it out of him,” he says to Potter. “That bastard’s had her for almost two hours.”

“Right,” says Potter, crouching down in front of the dazed man. “All we want to know is this: where has Crabbe taken Hermione Granger?”

...

Capper doesn’t know where Crabbe’s hiding but, gradually, Potter extracts enough information for him and Draco to deduce he’s probably taken Hermione to a place called Claw Hall, somewhere near Cripplecrutch Hill.

Draco finds the village on Moran’s map of Wizarding Britain and—since it’s the best lead they have—the two men travel by Floo to the village pub, and fly the rest of the way.

The moon is full and the sky’s cloudless, and they easily spot what’s left of the mansion, set in a small, overgrown park. They land a quarter mile from the ruin and, keeping to the trees, move swiftly on foot, dropping to their bellies and crawling the last fifty yards, halting in the shadow of a garden wall.

Cautiously, they peer over the parapet.

The ruins of Claw Hall look like the set of a Grand Opera—an elegant stone backdrop, pierced by shattered stained-glass windows, stands above a patch of tiled floor, behind a maze of broken pillars. Crabbe, clad in his Death Eater robes, is walking back and forth, his immobile silver mask glinting in the moonlight.

Beyond him, Draco spots Granger, chained to one of the marble columns.

She’s alive!

He slides to the ground and leans his head against the wall.

She’s alive but—for fuck’s sake—she’s surrounded by a pile of wood.

The fucker’s going to burn her!

He glances up at Potter, who’s still watching.

What the fuck are they going to do?

“He’s broken her wand,” Potter whispers.

Draco thinks of Hermione, kind and caring, innocent in all of this, the channel of her magic taken from her and destroyed before her eyes, the threat of a horrifying death hanging over her.

He sees red.

And, suddenly, he’s not feeling anything any more—he’s not nervous, nor hesitant, nor confused—he’s not even frightened for himself. He knows he loves Granger, and he knows he’ll do whatever it takes to save her.

He’s ready.

And, with that thought, he stands up, steps over the wall, and strides out onto the ‘stage’.

As he goes, he feels Potter’s hand clutch at his trouser leg, but he pulls himself free. The rational part of his mind’s hoping that Crabbe won’t realise Potter’s there, and that Potter will work out some way to help him, but his determination propels him forward alone.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

In the quiet of the night, his voice sounds unnaturally loud, and strangely calm, and he sees Granger’s head jerk up, and sees her fix her eyes upon him, and for a split-second his nerves jangle, because she looks so vulnerable, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses her.

But he isn’t going to lose her.

He focuses on Crabbe.

The man has turned towards him, wand raised, and Draco can see his eyes through the holes in his mask. The fucker’s frightened, but defiant. “Draco Malfoy,” he sneers. “Traitor and coward.”

“Let the Mudblood go,” says Draco, “and fight me, wizard to wizard. We’ll see who’s the coward.”

“The Mudblood? You mean this slut you were going to marry?” Crabbe moves closer to Granger. “Maybe I’ll keep her,” he says, stretching out a gloved hand and fondling her. “That Muggle bitch,”—he’s referring to Delilah—“was mad for pure-blood cock. I’ll wager this cunt’ll be the same...”

Don’t let him see that you love her.

“You can have her if you want,” says Draco. “D’you think I care? The bint was forced on me.”

He risks a glance at Granger. Her face is as hard as stone, and he knows that must have hurt her, but—Please Merlin—he can make it up to her later. “All I want is satisfaction from the man who’s tried to frame my father, and kidnap me, and who’s calling me a coward.”

Crabbe stops touching Granger and backs away, closer to the wall.

Draco moves, keeping level with him, and glimpses Potter, working his way round the ruin, his wand drawn and ready. Save her, he thinks. I’ll keep the old bastard busy.

“My son trusted you,” says Crabbe. His wand hand’s shaking. “He followed you! And, at the first sign of trouble, you ran away with your Mudblood friends, and left my Vincent to die. You fucking COWARD!”

He shoots a Stunning Spell.

Draco sees it coming, dodges behind a column, draws his wand, and replies with a Stunner of his own.

He’s young and fast, and his aim is true. It can’t miss.

But it does.

Something’s deflected it.

Draco hugs the column, keeping it between himself and Crabbe. This is his ancestral home, he thinks. Some of the protective wards must still be in place.

I need to get him out into the open.

He moves backwards, trying to lure Crabbe onto the grass.

“Where are you going, coward,” the man screams—and his arm shoots out: “Incendio!”

The spell streaks across the ruins, lighting a path of flame through the weeds in the tiled floor, and narrowly missing the wood piled round Granger’s feet.

“No!” shouts Draco, running back to the house and diving in front of her. “Protego!”

A second Incendio bounces off Draco’s shield, but the ancient wards protect Crabbe from the rebound, deflecting it upwards.

Draco fights his mounting desperation. Where the fuck’s Potter?

Behind him, he hears Granger croak, “Run, Draco,” and he’s no time to tell her to forget it, because Crabbe’s advancing on him, and there’s murder in his eyes.

“Stupefy!” yells Draco, but the wards disperse his spell in a cloud of red vapour.

Crabbe points his wand.

And Draco knows what’s coming.

He knows he might be able to dodge the curse himself, but that would expose Granger, and—chained to the column—she wouldn’t stand a chance.

He could cast his own Avada, like Granger in the pensieve, but that...

No.

To cheat the wards, he thinks, I must defend.

He reaches deep inside himself and, summoning every ounce of joy he’s ever felt in Granger’s arms, he lets it fill him, and then releases it: “Expecto patronum!”

A dazzling, fully-fledged dragon bursts from the end of his wand, rearing up on its hind legs and beating its huge wings, spitting lightning from its massive jaws.

And Crabbe falls back!

The Death Eater cowers—his curse forgotten—instinctively raising his hands to cover his face and, seeing his chance, Draco rushes forward, barrelling Crabbe out into the remains of the garden.

Both men have lost their wands, and the battle’s physical, a muddle of flying fists.

Draco’s younger and fitter, but Crabbe’s bigger and heavier and he’s driven by madness and, once he’s got Draco down, and clamped his meaty hands around his throat, it’s all over.

Draco’s flat on his back. There’s no fight left in him. An unbearable weight’s crushing his chest, his head’s bursting, and he can’t breathe—he needs to breathe—he must breathe, or he’s going to die—

He’s—

He’s—

Oh, fuck...

Suddenly, the weight’s torn from his aching chest, and he’s gulping down air, and it hurts like shit, and the pain in his head’s blinding him, but he keeps doing it—keeps breathing and breathing and breathing—and somewhere, far away, he hears her voice: “Episkey,” she says, and his nose is on fire; “Episkey,” and his mouth’s burning; “Episkey,” and his right hand ignites...

Draco opens his eyes and looks up at her.

“Oh, Draco,” she sobs, “Draco, Draco,” and she throws herself upon him.

“Ow...” he moans, feebly.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Y’aw right?” His mouth’s frozen.

“Yes... My arms hurt a bit.”

“Did ’e...?”

“No.” She kisses his forehead. “No, he didn’t touch me.”

...

“Where’s Potter?” he asks, once the agony’s more or less subsided, and the shock of the healing spells has passed.

“Over here.”

Draco turns his head. The Boy Who’s Obviously Pretty Handy in a Tight Spot appears to have stunned Crabbe and he’s binding him with an Inescapable Rope, ready for Side-Along Apparition to the Ministry of Magic. “That’s an impressive patronus, Malfoy,” he says. “Gave me a chance to reach Hermione, and release her.”

Draco’s not about to admit that it’d been the first time—despite hours of patient guidance from Granger—he’d ever managed to cast a Patronus.

“Everything about Draco’s impressive,” says Granger, innocently.

And, despite the lingering pain, Draco laughs, and Potter laughs with him.

...

They agree to visit the Auror Office the following morning, to make full statements.

Then, once Potter’s Apparated away with Crabbe, Draco—despite some very cogent arguments regarding the stupidity of attempting too much just moments after he’s almost died—persuades Granger to climb onto the broom with him, and flies her back to the Manor.

...

Draco sinks into the bath.

The water warms his balls, and laps around his cock, and pretty soon, he’s fully erect.

He leans back, and lets the water pleasure him, lets it pull the vital essences from deep in his legs, and his arse, and his belly, lets it suck it all down to his balls, lets it build up the pressure, harder and tighter, till the sweet, sweet ache’s spread right up his shaft, and—Oh, he thinks, fuck! I’m going to come!—and he arches his back and thrusts out his hips, and—Yes, he thinks, yes, I’m com—

He wakes, sitting bolt upright.

Granger’s lying across his thighs, gagging—Oh fuck, oh fuck—his hand flies to his cock—one more, just one more, oh yes, oh yes, oh fuck YES!

He lets out a long and grateful sigh, and his body slumps.

Fucking hell.

When his eyes can focus, and he’s able to move again, he gathers up Granger, and holds her tight. “Are you all right?”

“You took me by surprise,” she giggles, because his kisses are tickling her neck.

She’s warm and soft, and she smells of sleep, and of her own desire spiced with his come, and—despite what’s she’s just done to him—he wants her, wants to make love to her with that soul-sharing intimacy he’s only ever known with her, and he buries his face in her hair, knowing that he’s going to have her, the moment his cock will let him.

“I took you by surprise,” he says. “Fucking hell, Granger! And you’re the brightest witch of the age—”

“For the millionth time, that’s not what he said.”

Draco laughs. “I know it’s not—but that doesn’t change the fact that you were sucking me off in my sleep—what did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought you’d take a bit longer.”

There’s a smear of his semen on her cheek, and he kisses her, lovingly. “I will next time,” he promises. “I’ll take so long you’ll be begging me to finish and let you rest.” A wave of mingled desire, and joy, and sheer possessiveness crests inside him, and he releases it in a growl of triumph: “Merlin, I’m a lucky wizard!”