By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 5: Draco

They landed on a small, rocky island with a lonely shack standing amidst the grass. Upon hitting the ground, Draco slid from Potter's grasp and collapsed to his knees, his face pinched with agony. He took quick, shallow breaths, eyes closed against the salty breeze, sure he was going to pass out. Again. He heard Potter muttering protection spells around them, his footsteps softly crunching the pebbles. Draco was confident if he fainted, Potter would leave him out here in the darkened cold.

The pain and dizziness began to subside, and he slowly opened his eyes to find that, sure enough, Potter had disappeared, although the door to the shack was ajar. He stumbled to his feet, his wound throbbing with each step as he dragged himself toward the shoddy structure.

The shack consisted of a single room, with a thin set of stairs leading up to a tiny loft. The air was cool and damp, a layer of salt glimmering on every surface in the weak moonlight filtering through gaps in the walls. Potter lit a fire in the small fireplace, the flames hissing against the wet wood. Draco leaned against the musty, torn up couch. "What is this place?"

Potter glanced at him, something like apprehension woven into his features. "My aunt and uncle brought me here once."

"Should've known this is where Muggles would want to vacation."

"They were trying to keep me from receiving my Hogwarts letter," he said, voice cold and hard and thin with exhaustion.

"Are you defending them?" Draco asked, tilting his head. "Smashing job you're doing."

Potter shook his own head before throwing himself onto the opposite end of the couch. "Fuck you, Malfoy."

Draco slid along the arm before collapsing, rather unsteadily, onto the cushion, feeling a warm spurt of blood ooze beneath his bandages. "I bet you'd love that, Potter."

Potter rolled his eyes behind his round glasses, but Draco didn't miss the splash of crimson rising to his cheeks. "Fuck off, then."

"I would if you gave me my wand."

Potter pointed the wand at the door, shutting and locking it with a resounding slam. "Not going to happen."

Leaning his head against the back of the couch, Draco stared up at the ceiling, watching a spider scuttle across an exposed beam. "What's your plan, then?" he asked, folding his hands across his stomach, the cool air of the shack sending goose-bumps rising along his bare arms. He felt light headed, possibly from the blood loss, so he shut his eyes. "Going to haul me around the country? Hiding out in derelict shacks until the war's over? I didn't take you for being such a coward."

"I'm not a coward," Potter growled, his fist thumping against the cushion, a puff of salt and dust releasing into the air between them, and Draco fought the urge to cough, knowing how badly it would hurt. "I just have to figure out what to do with you so I can finish my mission."

Draco's eyes opened. "Your mission?"

Potter laughed, the sound bitter in the damp air. "As if I'd tell you."

"As if I care," Draco shot back, his gaze snapping up to meet Potter's. They glared at one another in the silence. He couldn't believe, after everything that had happened to him in the past year, he'd managed to get himself sliced in half and trapped in some seaside hut with Harry fucking Potter. He'd wanted nothing more than to escape the Manor a few days ago, but this was a twisted joke on the universe's part.

Potter stood, his hand shaking as he pulled Draco's wand from his jacket pocket. Tiredness coated his every movement, making them sluggish. "You'll have to sleep at some point," Draco commented mildly.

"I know," Potter replied, pointing the wand at Draco, who flinched, raising his hands as if to shield himself. "Incarcerous." Thick, black ropes shot out of the wand and wound themselves tightly around Draco, gluing his arms to his sides and his feet together at the ankles.

"What the hell?"

Potter shrugged, pocketing the wand. "I don't trust you," he said, his eyes trailing down Draco's body. "Even if you can barely stand up on your own."

Draco watched with barely stifled rage as Potter climbed the sagging steps up to the loft. He struggled against the ropes, but that only caused him more pain. Sagging back against the couch, his chest throbbing, he closed his eyes again. The humiliation was tangible, curdling in his blood like sour milk.

He found himself drifting in and out of sleep, his head lolling forward and waking him with a quick snapping motion. His dreams appeared in shattered fragments of bright green light and gurgling screams, that same goddamn train leaving the taste of fear like iron lingering in his mouth.

Only once the cool gray light of approaching dawn filtered through the slats of the wooden walls did Draco finally give up on sleep. He flexed his long fingers, trying to restore some of the blood flow that had been cut off by the ropes. The sight of his pale hands made him think of his mother, and he wondered if she was worried about him. Perhaps she and Lucius assumed he'd died when he'd evaporated in the drawing room, clinging to the Boy Who Lived. A sharp ache lodged in his chest at the thought of Narcissa's anxious, dark eyes.

A shuffling noise alerted him that Potter was descending the stairs, his arms stretched above his head. He looked slightly more rested than he had before, but dark circles still crested the skin below his green eyes. "Sleep well?" he asked, his smile saccharine. He stopped beside the couch, slashing the wand in Draco's direction, and the ropes disappeared.

Draco shook out his arms, his skin chafed from pushing against the ropes. Blood surged to his hands and feet, leaving a prickly sensation in its wake. A pear landed in his lap, and he looked up to see Potter leaning against a sagging column, chewing on a chunk of bread. "Eat up," he said brightly.

Hunger lanced through Draco's body, and he bit into the pear, the sweet flesh dissolving in his mouth. The juice trickled down his throat, and he realized he'd not had anything to drink in days. As if reading his mind, Potter pushed off the column and held up the wand. "Water?" Draco nodded, and that same sickly sweet smile spread across Potter's face. "Open up," he ordered.

Draco rolled his eyes, but popped open his mouth like a marionette. A blast of cool water hit him square in the face, and he spluttered, holding his hands up to block the spell. The stream abated, and he glared up at Potter, water dripping from his silvery locks and eyelashes, running in red-tinged rivulets down his arms and chest. "Sod off, Potter," he hissed.

"Manners, Malfoy," Potter admonished. He extended the wand again. "Hold out your hands." Draco narrowed his eyes, but ravaging thirst forced him to comply, his pale hands hovering between them as if in supplication. Potter repeated the spell, and the water streamed into Draco's outstretched hands. He gulped it down greedily, and it spilled down his arms and into his lap until he was nearly soaked.

He wiped his hand across his mouth and leaned back against the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him, warmth from the dying embers in the fireplace prickling his skin. He closed his eyes, folding his arms across his damp chest.

Potter cleared his throat, and Draco opened one eye. "Yes?"

"You're terrible at gratitude, Malfoy."

He closed his eyes again, settling deeper into the couch. "I believe thanking your captor is a symptom of Stockholm Syndrome."

Potter began to shuffle away, muttering fiercely under his breath. A devilish smile tugged at Draco's lips.