Once More Unto The Breach // DHr

f i f t e e n

Of course it was a bloody Gryffindor.

Draco already figured him out and knew his name, remembering a spindly boy with knobby knees and sandy brown hair that had a sneer a bit like how a mouse would try to look intimidating, but it didn't register at the time what House Philip Cadwallader was in until they already had fetched him. He actually didn't really care. Literal class divide, after all. And due to the falling out of grace of the Malfoy clan - or what's left of it - once again, Draco was never let into any information regarding the spy. Didn't even know that there was. After Snape, he was sure their Lord would never trust anyone to be his eyes and ears anymore.

A part of him, a very small part, the part in him that wants to tear down the rest of the fence, smiles just a fraction of an inch at the realisation that even though he has all the cards and the upper hand, he still needs insider information on how to destroy the Order.

Both he and Nott were to accompany Cadwallader from outside the wrought-iron gates of the Malfoy Manor, and they both flank him in silence. Nott sends a nod to him so inconspicuous you'd miss it in a blink, and he sends a nod back just as discreetly in return.

The morning sun, high above now though hiding partially from half a wispy cloud, was warm, but he still feels a cold shiver run down his spine.

The tick in Cadwallader's jaw tells him he's fighting off the sickening feeling in the pit of his own stomach too. Draco pauses, lets half a beat pass, and looks towards Nott. Same tick in his jaw, same unseen dread in his stance. He picks up his stride.

One could never prepare themselves to witness a public torturing, though it happens so often it should already be second-nature. A montage of memories play through his mind like a sick album, only they show saliva and blood foaming about faceless lips, spilling onto the wooden floors and stone.

And yet, he finds himself constantly fighting the urge to run. Fighting the urge to seek refuge behind the old, withered tree and retch until he couldn't anymore. He wants the screams to stop haunting his ears as if they've gone on for hours and hours.

It was only mere minutes.

He knew the elves cleaned the grounds up every single time he desecrated it. Because the next time he would walk over, already bending forward, the patch of dead grass is always clean.

But it doesn't matter how often they would clean, because there would always be another victim. Always another puddle of sick, always another puddle of blood.

The only thing that wakes him up from the nightmares is the knowledge that his mother has never once been on the other end of the sadist's wand - because he has taken them all for her.