Clean

The Ally

Chapter 12: The Ally

She had his lip caught between her teeth and he had his eyes closed, sighing.

They were back in the library, and Draco had his hands on her. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in; vanilla . . . gardenia . . . rose . . . he wasn't much for flowery scents, but something about this . . . it suited her. And it calmed him. He realized he must be asleep and he smiled, grateful. For once, his mind allowed him a moment of peace.

He pulled back, letting his eyes sweep over her face. Her hair was wild, of course; it always was, and entangling his fingers in it had done her no favors. With her eyes closed, she had the most serene expression, a careful dusting of freckles around her eyes visible only to him. He tightened his grip on her and time seemed to resume its movement as her long lashes fluttered against his cheeks. He groaned as he realized where her hands were; even in a dream, she drove him wild.

He reached up to touch her face and yelped in pain, yanking his stinging hand away. He looked suspiciously at her as he nursed his throbbing fingers, curling them into a fist. Something wasn't right. Her features had taken on a pale, icy hue, and the glitter of gold in her warm brown eyes seem to extinguish right in front of him, blown out like a candle flame. She was ice cold, and hauntingly beautiful – but wrong, all wrong, like an odd, waxy version of herself –

Her skin was milky, unblemished porcelain –

Her charming freckles had disappeared –

Her mischievous smile had vanished –

Her dancing eyes had gone vacant and cold –

Fighting his instinct to run, he rested his cheek painfully against hers, watching in horror as the room took on a dark, gloomy hue. The walls, the books – the very air around them – dissolved into red. An angry, melancholic red. Blood red, he thought, breathing hard.

She pulled away suddenly, gasping for air. He gripped her arms tightly, painfully. "Granger," he yelled, but his voice was muted and heavy, as though they were underwater. "Granger, what's wrong?"

She began clutching at her throat, her face contorted in panic. He reached desperately for his wand, trying to think of a spell – any spell – but found his pockets empty. He looked desperately back at Granger, pleading with her. "Tell me what to do," he begged, his voice ripping from his throat. He cupped her face in his hands, ignoring the pain searing through his fingers. "Granger, I don't know what to do – "

Tears were pouring from her eyes and he watched, helpless; these, too, burned his skin, and he bellowed in pain. "Granger, please – "

"Good evening, Draco Malfoy."

A chill shot up the back of Draco's neck as he recognized the silky, emotionless voice. He gripped Granger's convulsing body tightly in his arms, turning to face the Dark Lord.

"Make it stop," he said, through gritted teeth. "She hasn't done anything, this isn't about her, make it stop – "

"As you wish," Lord Voldemort replied airily, inclining his head. He snapped his fingers and Granger rose in the air, Draco falling forward as he lunged to keep his hold on her. He landed on his hands and knees, gasping.

"Poor, poor Draco," taunted his aunt Bellatrix, stepping out from behind the shadow of Lord Voldemort. "Sad to see the little mudblood go?"

"Stand up, Draco," said Lucius Malfoy, appearing on the Dark Lord's other side. Draco shook his head, panting.

"Your father said to stand, Draco!" commanded Lord Voldemort, flicking his wand. Draco's body wrenched itself up onto its feet and he grimaced, his bones aching as Voldemort's spell forced him upright.