Word Count: 1,160
Summary: Draco has issues.
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and do not own these characters. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Warning: Spoilers for book seven. Currently pre-beta.
So I wanted to write something about Draco's wand before EVERYONE ELSE in fandom exhausted every possible take on it, so here it is, my first (non-crack) Draco POV ficlet. I didn't know anyone who would be free to beta read this week, so please let me know if you see any glaring errors. Or have a title suggestion. Haha.
ETA: Unlocked now, as requested! :) Also, everyone, PLEASE jump in on the wand discussion. That's part of why I wrote this--I want to explore this issue.
ETA2: Now with title! (I figured I ought to give it one, now that it's public. Please feel free to suggest a better one.)
Draco and his mother stood at Crabbe's graveside. The service was rather pointless, in Draco's opinion. There was no body to bury--Crabbe's funeral pyre had been at Hogwarts, in the Room of Requirement. And few other mourners were present. Most at the cemetery today were gathered at the other service, the one for people who had not died attempting to murder Harry Potter. Those few who did glance in their direction looked at them with distaste. Draco pointedly did not return those stares. He didn't look at Granger, he didn't look at the many Weasleys, and he most definitely did not look at Harry Potter.
He looked instead at Crabbe's empty casket. Draco should perhaps have been angry at Crabbe, for turning against Draco, for being so stupid as to cast the Fiendfyre, for getting himself killed. But he wasn't angry. He'd felt horrified, grief-stricken as he gasped and choked on the floor outside the Room of Requirement. He'd felt entirely numb as he huddled with his parents after. He just felt empty, now. Hollow.
Crabbe's service ended far before the other. Draco glanced back once at the larger group, despite himself, and caught sight of that dark, messy hair. The emptiness was immediately replaced with the sick combination of gratitude and humiliation that invaded him whenever Draco allowed himself to think too long on Harry Potter, on what he owed Potter. Not that Draco would ever have to repay him. Potter had obviously forgotten Draco existed, that he held Draco's wand in his possession. With a frustrated jerk, he turned away again and took his mother's arm.
Draco did not see Harry Potter again until two weeks later, at Narcissa Malfoy's trial. Lucius Malfoy had already been returned to Azkaban. Narcissa's fate remained to be seen. As Harry Potter testified on her behalf, spoke about how she'd covered for him, played a vital role in the victory against Voldemort, Draco felt it again. Gratitude. Humiliation. Because here Potter was, saving Draco again, saving him from the loss of his mother, and all the while he hadn't once glanced in Draco's direction.
Potter did look at him, though, after the trial. When Narcissa was cleared of her charges, when she stood proudly next to Draco, Potter's gaze shifted from Narcissa over to Draco's face, and Potter blinked, as if remembering something. He approached, purposefully, striding straight toward Draco, and Draco's gut clenched. What did Potter want? A thank you? An acknowledgement of the life debt that now hung between them? Perhaps he wanted an apology for all the years of petty vindictiveness or for the way Draco had squeezed him too tightly and screamed like a girl as Potter flew them to safety. A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched.
Potter reached into his robes and pulled out a wand. Draco's wand.
"Here," Potter said. "I don't need this anymore. You can have it back."
Draco took the wand with numb fingers, uncertain what to say, but Potter obviously expected nothing from him. He'd already turned and walked away again. This was somehow worse than Potter just forgetting about the wand, about the life debt. That he remembered and just didn't seem to think it mattered. Humiliation seemed to suddenly far outweigh the gratitude, and all of it was tinged through with bitterness.
That evening, Draco held the wand, staring at it. It looked just the same as he remembered it.
That wand had been a part of Draco. He'd held it with reverence, treasured it, when he'd received it at eleven years old. He'd been so certain that he would do great things with that wand. He hadn't, though. Potter had taken it, Potter had done great things with it, and then he'd discarded it. Even Draco's wand hadn't measured up to Potter's standards. Draco felt sick.
He tossed the wand onto his bedside table and refused to look at it.
He woke up, gasping. The room was pitch-black, and he felt soaked in sweat. Another nightmare. There had been fire, and screams, and slitted, malicious eyes.
Snatching up his wand, he muttered, "Lumos." But nothing happened. "Lumos!" he shouted again. Still nothing. Hands shaking, Draco dropped the wand again and shut his eyes tightly so the dark would not feel so unnatural.
His mother's wand should still be in the pocket of his robes. Fumbling, he located it and cast the spell. Light filled the room. Exhaling shakily, he stared at his useless wand. He didn't put out the light until dawn.
Three days later, Draco's wand still lay on the bedside table, untouched. Aside from that one spell, Draco hadn't done magic since before his mother's trial. His mother had reclaimed her old wand, assuming that Draco had no need for it. And he shouldn't have need for it, he thought in frustration.
It was ridiculous that he was living like a...like a squib because Potter had broken his wand.
Only he knew that wasn't true. The wand was smooth, unmarred, undamaged. The only thing broken was Draco. Had Potter defeated him so completely that even his traitorous wand was entirely unresponsive?
Filled with a new, desperate resolve, he grabbed the wand and held it with tense fingers. "Lumos!" Nothing. "Accio!" Nothing. "Wingardium Leviosa!" Nothing. Finally, angrily, "Incendio!" Still nothing.
Horrified, he dropped the wand and rushed from the room.
Hours later, he returned with his owl. He knew what he needed to do. That wand was no longer a part of him; it was a part of Harry Potter, and he refused to keep it any longer.
Seating himself at his desk, he began a letter.
Those words had been difficult to write, but even Draco knew they needed to be said. If Potter was half as smart as he was supposed to be, he'd know Draco was acknowledging more than just the return of his wand. Placing quill to parchment again, he continued.
But this wand no longer recognizes me as its master. You may have no need for it, but it is now of even less use to me.
Before he could reconsider, he wrapped up both wand and note and sent them with his owl. It was done. He could buy a new wand tomorrow. A better wand.
He was still trying to convince himself of that when the owl returned, and Draco's eyes widened when he saw that the owl carried a note.
With trembling fingers, he opened it and read a single, messily scrawled line:
Well, then, you'll just have to win it back from me, won't you?
For the first time in weeks, Draco smiled.