Draco heard the clock strike one in the distance. The night darkness thickened, the infirmary lamps dimmed, and the bright moon vanished. Shadows lengthened. Hermione had not returned—the Vanishing Spell had likely taken her away earlier that evening. The searing pain from the Skele-Gro had finally subsided, and Draco dropped his head onto the pillow with a sigh, pulling the thin white blanket over himself.
He stared into the near-total darkness, trying to process his sudden liberation from a lifelong dependence on Wolfsbane Potion and raw meat. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't even marked. He was whole and unharmed. Draco squeezed his injured shoulder and felt a faint echo of pain. She came to me. Kissed me. I could have asked her... what if we could... Maybe she'll want to... Even after we destroy... No—Malfoy's internal voice sounded cold and harsh. She is not for you.
Draco closed his eyes. "Will you uncover all my secrets?" he had once asked Vane. "The darkness will be to your liking." Hermione had reached the depths of his soul—and the darkness indeed had been to her liking. But she did not belong to the darkness. She would leave. In her future, there was no place for a wizard who was grim, cold, and hated by everyone.
He rolled over on the narrow cot and winced as he hit his ankle against the metal footboard. And what about your future, Draco?
The picture was crystal clear. After graduation, he would return to Malfoy Manor. Serve his probation. Care for his mother. All that awaited him were occasional, secret liaisons. No marriage. No family. Only dark, quiet evenings in solitude as the years passed him by. He would sit in the manor's spacious library with a glass in hand and remember one distant night—and his breath would hitch at the thought of honey-gold eyes opposite him. And the gold card. "UNDER REVIEW."
A painful pang in his chest and a ragged sob pulled Draco back to reality—he lay curled in a trembling heap. Enough. He sat up in bed, adjusting the pathetic pillow behind his back. Taking a sip of water, Draco stared at the nightstand. He intended to have a serious talk with that old eccentric about the dark wood wand and the fucking harlequin. Hermione could have died. He could have died. Irresponsible, dangerous, reckless to sell such wands...
A silent tirade calmed his nerves—his best ideas came to him at night. And his worst ones too, he admitted to himself, recalling the night he lay awake pondering Vane's antics and looking at the dark wooden bedposts.
A slight movement made him start. It could have been a draft stirring the curtain or a mouse, but Draco knew that sound. A quiet rustle, the weak breath of an unconscious person beginning to come to. At the manor, he had heard it too often.
Draco silently lowered his bare feet onto the icy stone floor, ignoring the cold. Tennant's outline was barely visible, but Draco saw his fingers twitch slightly. The full Body-Bind Curse cast by Potter was weakening—the ropes still bound his body, but Tennant was waking up.
A familiar cold spread through his veins. Draco looked at the nightstand again. No.
He walked quietly to the curtain separating his cot from the rest of the infirmary and slipped behind it. Isobel lay in her bed—she seemed so small and vulnerable. But she was not his target. The trophy waited on a stack of parchments at her headboard.
Seconds later, Draco stood by Tennant's cot again, clutching Isobel's chestnut wand in his hand.
Tennant's head lolled helplessly; his fingers jerked. He was definitely coming to. Draco looked down at him, and seconds ticked in his head like the hand of a silver pocket watch.
Tennant had done too much. Seen too much. Learned too much. Tick.
Tennant knew about the nights Hermione spent in the same bed as Draco. Tick.
Tennant attacked Hermione. Tick.
And Isobel. And Lovegood. Who knows who else. Tick.
Tennant would tell the Aurors everything, try to make a deal. Both Draco and Tennant could end up in Azkaban. Tick. Tick.
The dark Black side whispered, "Kill him, kill him right now. With every second, Tennant is coming to more and more." "No," the Malfoy side said. "Too risky."
Draco aimed Isobel's wand at Tennant's forehead and cleared his own mind of thoughts, as Aunt Bellatrix had taught him.
— Legilimens.
The minds of people are always full of thoughts, whether they are conscious or not. Draco cautiously entered Tennant's head, not wanting to disturb, only observing. There was damage, yes, and bleeding from the simultaneous stunning and blow to the head. But this mind was recovering.
Draco's concentration wavered, his control loosened—and Tennant's thoughts flooded into his mind like ink spreading across parchment and forming into words. Faces, sounds, smells, voices... And over it all—a thick, oily filter of Tennant's emotions: rage, pain, lust.
In most people, emotions resembled a kaleidoscope, changing complex patterns. Draco himself often struggled with several feelings at once—that was the Black blood in him.
But Tennant's mind and body were simply looped on three emotions in a closed circle, coloring every thought and word: Rage. Pain. Lust... Rage. Pain. Lust... No wonder he was half-insane. How was he even able to concentrate on his studies?
Involuntarily, Draco opened his mind wider to Tennant's thoughts, curiosity pulling him deeper. Now he saw specific memories: battles, orgies, beatings. Thorfinn loomed like a fiery shadow. Rage, pain—and pain again. Crushed again and over again.
Draco was no stranger to the hell in which the sons of dark wizards had to exist—he was Lucius's son, after all. But Draco was a valuable heir; there was always a limit. For Thorfinn, there was no such limit. First rage, then pain. Then claws and fangs. Greyback cornered him again and again.
And then—lust. An emotion Tennant resorted to during the war, nurtured at Death Eater orgies. Lust. A physical and mental state that temporarily dulled the pain. And Tennant sought this escape from reality again and again...
Draco felt a wave of nausea and began to retreat. Carefully, brick by silver brick, he built an Occlumency barrier between himself and Tennant, trying not to wake him completely. A little higher...
But then Rowle's mind began to push out fresh memories—fleeting images of Isobel and Luna, fortunately only stunned, not violated. There was no time.
And then everything else retreated before a flood of more vivid, saturated memories—thoughts, feelings, images related to one single witch. Hermione.
This was not surprising. Draco knew that in Legilimency, the caster's mind is drawn to the strongest memories in another's consciousness. And Tennant was obsessed with Hermione. The Mudblood in red stands before him, cheeks flushed, her icy voice cutting through the fog of Tennant's arousal. — Merlin, Rowle. One would think you've never seen a woman before. — You can't fool me, darling. You smell of lies. And sin. And sex. So many secrets...
Tennant's desire intensified, and as Hermione continued to snap back, the memory colored with anger. Lust, rage. Lust, rage. Rage, lust... Draco untangled himself from this memory, but a new one immediately filled the void. The Mudblood walking around the library table, her arrogant words and the faint scent of Draco's perfume were incredibly irritating. Then a new feeling. Interest. A challenge. — Bossy. I can't stand people like that. But maybe you can change my mind. — Oh no, that's a terrible idea. The worst thing imaginable. I'm a real nightmare.
Astonishment momentarily dissipated Tennant's lust, but it didn't last long. His mind cooled, and now he was with her in a corridor alcove, under the influence of Polyjuice Potion, squeezed into an unfamiliar suit and tie, but yearning—yearning to taste his roommate's pet Mudblood. So close—she looked almost like a pureblood witch in purple silk, those pretty tits inches away from him... — Have you even opened my notes on incorporating numerology into dowsing formulas?
Another vivid memory—a scene that happened only a few hours ago. The same witch under him, helpless, eyes full of terror, her soft breast in his palm: — Now say my name. — Rowle. — Name, you cunning bitch. — Thorfinn! Ten-Tennant!
A flood of perverted plans, fantasies of blood, screams, and pleas poured into Draco's mind—and he wrenched himself away from Tennant's mind, barely stifling his own cry.
He collapsed to his knees and vomited onto the stone floor. When the spasms were replaced by dry heaves and then a muffled cough, Draco cleared the mess with a spell and struggled to his feet. He glanced at the drawn curtain, but the infirmary was silent, broken only by his faint coughing and Tennant's restless movements on the cot.
Draco stood wobbling, still coughing, and looked at the twitching wizard. How does Tennant live with such a mind? The pain was almost unbearable, but the all-consuming sense of helplessness was even worse. Helplessness in the face of his father, the Death Eaters, Greyback in human form cornering Tennant at Malfoy Manor, licking him, biting him, and then...
The taste of blood on his own lips pulled Draco back to reality. Now was not the time to vomit again. Madame Pomfrey checked on patients regularly. Isobel could also wake up and reach for her wand. But most worrying were Tennant's twitching legs and the eye movements beneath his eyelids. Now or never.
Draco knew well how the Cruciatus Curse was cast—he was shit at the practice, but understood the theory thoroughly. The curse caused no physical injury, only stimulated pain receptors in the brain; therefore, victims often went mad from its frequent use. And what would happen to a damaged, vulnerable, still-recovering brain—no one knew.
But Draco knew. He had seen the consequences. He wondered if McGonagall knew?
His hand was steady as he pointed the wand at Tennant's forehead.
— Silencio!
Then Draco took a deep breath, planted his feet wider for stability, and hissed the second word:
— Crucio!
The curse worked flawlessly—Draco truly hated Tennant enough—and the effect was instantaneous. Tennant's eyes flew open, pain burst into his mind, wrenching him from oblivion, and he stared at Draco. His lips moved soundlessly, forming words. And since his and Draco's minds were still faintly connected, Draco felt an echo of Tennant's pain and saw a dim image of himself: blonde hair falling over sharp features, lips twisted in a snarl, burning eyes under a furrowed brow.
His own appearance horrified him. As a child, Draco dreamed of being a rich and powerful wizard, someone his mother could be proud of. He was to be loved and admired; he imagined moving through life easily on the arm of a succession of beauties, generously rewarding those who served him faithfully. The Death Eater mark received before his sixth year put an end to those dreams. And this is what he had turned into—a dark wizard torturing a helpless mind and enjoying it.
— Crucio!
Tennant's body shook, making the metal cot rattle. Draco glanced anxiously at the curtain—he should have cast protective charms on this part of the infirmary. The noise subsided, and he looked at Tennant again—he lay deathly pale, head thrown back, eyes glazed.
A chill of fear ran down Draco's spine. Is Tennant dead? That would be an inexcusable blunder... He felt for the wizard's pulse and nodded, feeling relieved. Wiping sweat from his forehead, Draco pointed the chestnut wand at Tennant again:
— Legilimens.
This time, a desolate, windy landscape stretched before him—abandoned and lifeless. Only misty wisps of dark thoughts and sensations. Pain without purpose, too weak to hold on. The remains of Tennant's consciousness were scattered and aimless, like scraps of parchment. Flashes of fire and blood. Snarling fangs. Sobs. Soft dark curls and wide-open golden eyes.
Only pathetic fragments of a mind. Crumbling without hope of recovery. Draco shuddered and withdrew the wand. He regretted nothing. Perhaps now peace had come—for both of them. You shouldn't have touched her, Tenny.
He picked up the white blanket from the floor, thrown off by Tennant in his convulsions, and neatly smoothed it over the wizard's body. Then he walked to Isobel's cot and placed the wand back on top of the stack of parchments.
Satisfied, Draco returned to his bed and lay down, without even a glance at the motionless body two cots away. Somewhere far off, the clock struck half past one. He tucked the thin pillow under his head, turned on his side, and instantly fell into a dreamless sleep.
Both of his halves—both Malfoy and Black—were silent. They were content.