Dramione One Shots

12. Little Boy Lost

Warning: this story discusses the death of a little boy somewhat graphically

Here's a spooky-themed Dramione story since we're close to Halloween 👻

Enjoy

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The night was dark no father was there

The child was wet with dew.

The mire was deep, & the child did weep

And away the vapour flew.

- William Blake, Little Boy Lost

"He's called little boy lost. The older boys in the neighbourhood used to pick on him because of his limp. Apparently one of his legs was shorter than the other. And get this. One night, they chase him through this field, pin him up on a scarecrow pole and leave him there. Next day, he's dead. One of his eyes is gone, pecked right out of his head.

"Since then, people have heard him crying. Anyone who's seen his ghost has died within hours. There was this one girl who came for a photography walk and was murdered tha—"

"Is there a point to this terrible story?" Hermione interrupts McLaggen. "Sensationalizing the death of a little boy is incredibly insensitive, even for you."

"Don't be a spoilsport, Granger." Patrick steps over a rotten pumpkin, its juices oozing out like hairy sludge. "We're merely brushing up on the farm's history. Everything was factual."

"How you toss around the word factual is what's truly disturbing. You're getting sidetracked by folklore when we're here to work."

"Say it," taunts McLaggen. "Investigating what?"

She says nothing.

He goes on smugly, "A suspicious death. In the same field haunted by little boy lost. Coincidence? I think not."

"Shut up, all of you," says Malfoy. "These cornstalks are too high to search in the dark, and your jabbering is slowing us down. We need to split up. You two cover the west side. Granger and I will take the east."

"It's nine a.m.." McLaggen looks at him dryly. "Hardly getting dark."

He raises a pale brow, mouth twisted in typical Malfoy contempt. Nobody scowls quite like he can, as if he's smelled something foul. Though truthfully there is an odd stench here like something has gone bad and hasn't decayed. Malfoy says, "If you believe we can search an entire cornfield in ten hours and find solid evidence, then you're more dimwitted than you look. Go."

Patrick and McLaggen exchange irked looks and walk off, mumbling to one another under their breaths. Hermione starts in the opposite direction, swiping desiccated cornstalks out of her way, footsteps crunching loudly. Draco follows on her heels.

At the tail end of October the days are bitter and stubby. A playful breeze nips her cheeks and makes her eyes water. She keeps her gaze trained towards the ground, searching for anything out of place—traces of blood, signs of struggle, crushed plant stems.

All the while Malfoy's words hammer into her head, over and over until she can't help but blurt out, "I don't appreciate you telling me to shut up."

His footsteps go quiet. "You can't have it both ways."

She turns on him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're either mine or you're not. You should know exactly what I mean by that."