Chapter Text
A man with the blue-green eyes watched the other prisoners lined up for the food the warriors were distributing.
Each day, as usual, prisoners would be employed to lift stones and also to destroy them.
"Yegor," a man tapped him on the shoulder and then passed him a loaf of bread. "Eat this," then sit next to the man named Yegor.
"Thanks, Pista," Yegor said, his eyes still looked straight ahead.
"You know, you should talk more," Pista spoke with his mouth full of bread.
"Much talk will get you into trouble."
Pista clicked his tongue, "I know, don't teach me like I'm a kid." he mutters.
Yegor chuckles a little. "Then don't tell me to talk more." he stared at the bread he had not yet eaten. "I prefer to watch in silence."
"Just give me the bread if you won't eat it." After he had finished chewing the bread, the blonde man held out his hand in front of his friend.
Yegor looked at Pista with a judgmental look, "What do you need two loaves of bread for?"
"Hey! I need more energy to continue my work."
"I was joking," Yegor gave his ration of bread to Pista. He still didn't feel hungry, even though it was already lunchtime. He was always full of his breakfast this morning before they did their work. "Eat it. I'm still full."
"Oh, you're very kind." without another word, Pista grabbed the bread from Yegor's hand and ate it right away. "Did you hear the news?"
"No," Yegor shook his head when his friend devoured that bread like there was no tomorrow. The man had not yet drunk a drop of water after he had finished his first bread. Yegor was afraid that man would choke on his second bread.
Pista looked around, made sure no one could hear their conversation, and then said, "They attacked Fort Slava this morning, and successfully destroyed the Middle East fleet, and soon afterward, the Mid-East Allied Forces agreed to a peace treaty with Marley, bringing their four-year war to an end."
"Who accompanied Marley's oppression in the attack?" Yegor asked.
"All the main warriors," the Eldian answered. "But the one who blew them away was Reiner and Zeke." His expression hardened and cold after mentioning both names.
Yegor chose silence and did not reply to Pista.
"Move your lazy ass!" the loud sound of one of the warriors made all the eyes in prison lead to the sound source.
"Looks like we got a new tenant. I wonder what he looks like." Pista said enthusiastically.
A young man with platinum hair who was dragged by two warriors steals Yegor's attention.
Any Marley warriors who come home from the wars, they catch one or two of their enemies and take them into the wall, throw them in prison and enslave them.
Especially if those guys are Eldian.
This whole prison is practically crawling with Eldian blood, and all of them being treated as they please.
There are only two valid options.
First, stay human, then tortured and enslaved.
Second, earn a secure life but must let your body be used to be their property of war. Every choice depends on you.
Yegor observed the young man. His small, slender body wrapped with a white dress jutted up to his knees, his long platinum hair reaching down in the middle of his back.
Yegor could not clearly see the new prisoner's face because his head was lowered, making his long hair hide his face.
The young man's hands were handcuffed to each other.
The man didn't look like a soldier. How can a soldier have such long hair?
All his life, Yegor had never seen a soldier with long hair, not even a woman's soldier allowed to grow their hair over their shoulders.
"Walk quickly! Are you deaf!?" the warrior comes back yelling, pulls hard at the chains attached to the handcuffs of the new prisoner.
The young man whimpers, his wrists covered with multiple bruises. His hand hurts. His feet finally decided to give up, which made him fall and sit on the sand.
"Good thing this was an order from Mr. Zeke to put you in prison and also a good thing you're pretty. Otherwise, I'd have turned you into a titan." the warrior spit on the young man, his hand clutching a whip raised, about to strike the whip at the long-haired man but was stopped by a firm grip on his arm.
"Wha—"
"Don't you dare do that," Yegor spoke in an unfriendly tone, for who knows when he had been standing before them and even ignoring Pista shouting his name to stay out of their business and not to bring new problems.
"A prisoner also has rights that cannot be violated, even if you are a warrior." his grasp is strengthened. "Did you know that?"
"Guh—" the soldier violently yanks his arm from Yegor's grip, which each second strengthened. His arm felt like it would break if he didn't withdraw it immediately. "Yegor! You—!"
Yegor lifted one of his eyebrows, "What? That's right, isn't it?" the look in his eyes was darkening.
The warriors turned their backs on Yegor and walked away, but it was true what the green-eyed man said, they would be in trouble if their commander knew what they had just done, so they had better go.
The solemn gaze given by Yegor makes their hair stand up. Those eyes are very dangerous.
"You okay?" Yegor asked the young man who still looked down in terror.
The long-haired man whimpered and flinched as Yegor touched him on the shoulder, he tried to distance himself from strangers.
"Hey...hey, it's okay," Yegor lowered his body, placed his cane in the ground, and knelt in front of the young man. "You're safe, they're gone," he said softly.
The shoulder of the young man who had been trembling for a long time stopped and began to calm down. His two hands, which had been clutching a handful of sand, began to loosen.
Watching the young man's body gradually became calm down, Yegor smiled. "Hey, what's your name?" he asked gently.
The young man did not answer.
With the help of his cane, Yegor scrambled to his foot. "Wait a minute," he turned and walked toward the place where Pista was standing, watching what had just happened.
Pista cried in frustration. "You little shit! How will your disguise be kept secret if you keep causing trouble?"
"I wouldn't dare if it threatened my disguise." Yegor held out his left hand in front of Pista. "Give me your bread and water."
"Huh?" Pista looked at the half-bitten bread he had gripped and then looked at Yegor in confusion. "Why are you asking me for my bread and water—" but the question was answered quickly when his eyes fell on a long-haired man sitting pitifully in the ground and had yet to show his face.
"Pista," Yegor called.
"Ah, here." Pista gave what Yegor asked. He felt sorry for the young man.
"Thank you." Yegor then again walked over to the young man and again knelt before him. "You must be hungry and thirsty, right?" he handed him a piece of bread and water.
"U-Umm..."
"If I may ask, what is your name?" Yegor watched the young man begin to lift his face. Time instantly stopped to Yegor when he saw the young man's face.
"M-My name is D-Draco," he said shyly. "Thank you for helping me." a soft and faint smile graces his pale pink lips, and a deep blush adorning his pretty face.
The word is spoken so gently, Yegor almost doesn't hear it. He was awestruck by the beauty the man holds. This man was wonderful in every way and had the body of a goddess. He glowed like some ethereal creature that had stepped out of every grown man's fantasy.
Those enchanting silver orbs were covered with long lashes that irregularly flicked at him. Yegor felt himself swimming or maybe even drowning in those eyes. The man's porcelain skin glows peach in the sunlight, his platinum hair making him look more like a fairy than a human.
Or maybe an angel sent by God to illuminate this brutal world.
Notes:
I know this is an unexpected ship for all of you, (me and my crazy mind 😅), but I hope all you guys enjoy the story anyway ❤
Chapter 2
Notes:
Sorry to keep you waiting...
I'm so happy to see many of you interested in this story.
Enjoy the story!! ❤🤗
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Draco..." Yegor uttered that name unconsciously.
"Yes," Draco responded, still with a sweet smile on his pretty face. "My full name is Draco Malfoy, but you may call me Draco." He added, playing with the hem of his dress.
Yegor discovered himself get lost in Draco's beauty. Those smile...a smile that made Yegor feel the fluctuations inside his chest.
Pista walked to Yegor, who is looking at the young man dumbly. "Oi, Yegor." He called.
"Tell me, Pista."
"What?"
"Is this heaven?"
One of Pista's eyebrows uplifted. "What do you mean?" He asked, wondering what his friend had just asked him.
"Am I in heaven right now?" Yegor clarified the question again, while his eyes kept looking at Draco, who was blushed under his intense stare.
"I'm sorry, mate. Nah, unfortunately, you're alive, so yeah, you're not in heaven but here on earth."
"Oh, it feels like I'm in heaven," Yegor mumbled, mostly to himself.
"Are you okay?" Pista waved his hand in front of Yegor's dazed face and then followed the dark-haired man's gaze.
"Um, excuse me," Draco is starting to speak. "Are you okay?" He asked Yegor, concerned about the man before him, who had not moved and not blinked, like a statue.
Is it because he helped me? Draco asked himself. The worry came into his mind. On the other hand, Draco couldn't help but blush under the intense gaze of a handsome man like Yegor. Yes, Draco believes it's the name of the man.
His black hair looses slightly over his firm shoulders and those eyes...the green eyes that remind Draco of someone.
Harry Potter.
Draco mentally cursing himself. Now is not the time to think about that rascal. If so, Draco wants to use obliviate to erase that man from his memory permanently. And he hopes his mother will be okay.
"Aw!" Draco winced as he tried to move his hands, forgetting that his wrists had been covered with bruises because he was handcuffed.
His hand felt numb.
Yegor unexpectedly let out a sound from his throat, like growling, as soon as a pinch of pain climbed Draco's plump lips. He didn't like that.
Protect...
"Hey, are you okay?" Yegor asked apprehensively and then took Draco's hand from the platinum-haired boy's lap.
"Ouch... Sshh ..." Draco hissed in pain, flinched a little when Yegor took his hand for examination.
"Sorry..." Yegor said, taking off Draco's hands and rubbing his nape clumsily. His cheeks were already red.
"It's okay," Draco answered shyly, but then grimaced. "My hand hurts."
"Yegor, let's get him treated first," Pista said.
"Yeah," Yegor looked again at Draco. "Would you like to come with us?" he asked gently.
Draco nodded, "If you don't mind." he answered with a smile.
"But wait," Pista's voice suddenly got Yegor and Draco to disconnect their eyes from each other. "Can you walk?" he asked.
Draco nodded confidently. "Of course—" he tried to move his feet and decided to stand up. "I can—oh!" Draco gasped as he sat back down on the ground. His legs seemed to be completely worn out to support his whole body again.
"I'm sorry," Draco says from behind his hands, which covered his face in embarrassment.
Draco feels like a baby who was just taught to walk by his father and mother.
It's understandable. He was forced to walk from outside the wall, into the prison on the north side of the wall.
Even Draco couldn't feel his legs anymore after that.
"Your feet must feel paralyzed." Yegor's voice laced with concern, and he nearly cooed, watching how cute Draco must be when he felt embarrassed.
"Because Yegor's feet are only one and he must walk with his cane," Pista knelt beside Yegor. "So, let me carry you—what? Why do you look at me like that?" he asked in astonishment as Yegor shot a peevish look in his direction.
Yegor shook his head, and his gaze softened as he looked back on Draco. Somehow the idea of Draco being touched and carried by other men made Yegor's chest clenched just by thinking about it.
What is this feeling?
"How about Pista and me help you out? Pista's patching up your left side, and I'm your right side?" Yegor asked.
"So, where are you from, Draco?" Pista asked, watching Yegor, who was bandaging the young man's wrist.
Yegor and Pista took him to a place within the walls of the prison. Nor did Draco understand how they could make a hole inside the prison wall without the warriors knowing.
A lamp lit this secret place, and there were several sleeping bags and cutlery. They can even open the handcuffs on his hands with ease, using a key.
This confuses Draco even more. Actually, who are Yegor and Pista? Are they a prisoner?
"I—" Draco racked his brain for a moment. "I am one of the citizens of the Middle East, one of Marley's warriors caught me, and they made me as a prisoner," he said gloomily, the lie came out of his mouth so promptly.
"I'm sorry that happened to you," Yegor spoke softly, and then he cleaned up the equipment used to treat Draco.
Draco smiled. "It's okay. Luckily I met a kind-hearted man like Mr. Zeke. He rescued me from a warrior who wanted to turn me into a titan."
"Mr. Zeke?" Yegor asked. He was a little surprised.
"Yes," Draco nodded. "Who has blonde hair and wears glasses."
"Hmm, did they take anything from you?" Pista asked.
"Erm... Yes, I have something taken by them." Draco answered.
My broken wand, Draco thought sadly, cursing his bad luck.
"If I may know, who are you? How did you two create a hidden place inside the wall." He asked curiously.
"Me and Pista just disguised ourselves as prisoners. We are actually—" Swiftly, Pista clamped Yegor's mouth, and the small man pulled Yegor a little away from Draco.
"What are you thinking?" Pista whispered frantically to his friend. "How can you tell who we really are to someone we just met?"
Yegor paused, then turned to look at Draco, who was staring at the two of them in confusion.
"I trust Draco. He won't expose our secrets." Yegor answered easily.
It made Pista want to punch his handsome face.
"How can you so sure about it? Are you out of your mind? He could have leaked our secret to one of the Marley warriors out there."
"Trust me." Yegor gave Pista a stern look.
Yegor doesn't know what is possessing him. Since he first met Draco, he felt a powerful bond that binds his soul to Draco. The titan in his body rebelled to protect the long-haired beauty.
Pista can only sigh in endurance. "Okay, this time I'll follow your instincts. If, in the end, he spills our secret, I'll blame you." He's threatening.
Yegor nodded, then turned and walked over to Draco, who smiled so sweetly at him, making Yegor's heart melt.
"Is my presence here bothering you?" Draco asked anxiously.
Pista cleared his throat. "No, Draco, don't worry," he answered reassuringly.
"Draco," Yegor began. "Pista and I are actually spies."
Draco knitted his forehead. "A spy?"
"Yes, we are both Eldian, we went undercover and broke into Marley's walls as prisoners."
"What is Eldian?" Draco blinked his blonde lashes cutely. Yegor had to stop himself from getting out of control.
"Wait," Pista said. "You don't know about Eldian and Marley? Do you know Paradis Island?" he asked in surprise.
"O-Oh, that...I—" Draco suddenly became nervous. "Ah yeah, I never heard of the outside world, because my uncle always locked me up. My parents have passed away since I was 5 years old, and my uncle raised me. So I was never taught anything by my uncle, even I have no friends." Draco's face grew somber.
For the umpteenth time, he had to lie. Draco didn't want to reveal his true identity. He didn't want them to know that he was a wizard who had come from a different lifetime.
Right now, he didn't want to trust anyone, but the man named Yegor made Draco feel something inside his chest. He didn't even know why, but Draco felt as if he wanted to throw his body into the arms of the green-eyed man.
"Oh, I'm sorry... Yegor and I have also lost our parents since we were kids. No wonder your skin is white and smooth, and your hair is beautiful...Yeah, you're so lovely." Pista said and instantly got a growl from Yegor because he saw Draco blushed at his friend's words.
"Hey, Yegor. Why do you always growl at me?" Pista gave his friend an unimpressed look. "You always growled and showed me that scary expression when I chattered with Draco," he said.
Yegor regained his senses, and his cheeks flushed red when he noticed Draco staring at him with a concerned look. He rubbed the nape of his neck awkwardly.
"Nothing. Maybe it was your hallucination, Pista." Yegor shrugging the question off, then glanced back at the platinum-haired man who was sitting opposite him. "Do you want to be our friend, Draco?" he asked boldly.
Draco's silvery eyes twinkled like stars in the sky. Yegor's chest puffed out and filled with pride, knowing that he was the one who made Draco happy.
Draco nodded enthusiastically. "Of course I do."
Notes:
This chapter's been in the draft for a long time, only I'm in the mood to continue writing it today.
Well, my mind is full of Asami and Draco lol
For all of you who interested in bottom/feminine/pretty/longhaired Draco, feel free to check my other fic too 👀
Anyway, did you enjoy the chapter? Let me know in the comment! 😘
Chapter 3
Notes:
HEYYO I'M BACKK
It's been a month since the last time I updated this story 😢
I hope you guys are still waiting for Eren and Draco 🥺
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was already evening, and it would soon be night. The prisoners were working to move the stones. They had to be able to carry 15 stones before being permitted to rest in their cells.
Draco was cursing his fate because the stones in front of him were quite heavy, and he didn't have the strength to lift them all.
If only he still had his wand with him, Draco would have used magic to make the stones lift very easily. But on the other hand, Draco is beholden to be here. At least he won't be tracked by Voldemort and made as to the mate of such a sickening creature.
Draco is a veela. To be more precise, he is a submissive veela. Yes, he already has the criteria that a submissive veela has in his body at a young age. One of them was that his body couldn't have a muscular build, even though he had tried many times to grow muscle, which made his body even look slightly feminine, with his long platinum hair and porcelain skin as smooth as silk.
When his mother and father found out that he was a veela, they rigorously hid his identity from others, but it was impossible. Eventually, the news was heard by Voldemort. And by the time Draco was 17 years old, the veela aura transmitted by his body became so strong, he could easily make men fall in love with him, so Voldemort targeted him to make Draco as his little mate.
But Draco, of course, refused, and that's where it all started until he could be here in the world of the titan. His mother used her magic to send Draco away to the past belongs to the muggles. This titan world is 1500 years ago, where titans nearly exterminated humanity.
But the important thing he had to do immediately was to reclaim his broken wand from the warriors' hands. Nobody should know that the wand is a magic wand. Draco must get it back and do something so that his broken wand can be reconnected.
But how? Draco doesn't really understand the world of the titan. He really doesn't have anyone to ask for help. Luckily, Yegor and Pista are generous enough to tell the feud between Eldian and Marley over the centenaries.
"Draco?"
The sound of someone calling his name made him wake up from his daydream. Draco immediately shifted his head to the side, and it turned out that it was Yegor.
"Yes?" Draco blinked with an unconscious face.
"Ermm, can you lift the stones?" Yegor asked in a concerned tone.
"Ah," Draco stared at the stones, his eyes blinking again and suddenly a blush on his cheeks. "Of course, I can lift it..." He smiled shyly.
"I want to help you," Yegor whispered inaudibly.
"Help me? No, you will get in trouble later if you help me." Draco shook his head gently. "How about you and Pista?" He asked.
"Pista still has 10 stones left, while I'm done."
"You finished moving 15 stones?" Draco's eyes widened slightly at the man's answer. He did not think that Yegor was so strong, even though he had only one leg. "Eh, so strong," Draco smirked playfully.
"Ah, it's nothing..." Yegor rubbed the nape of his neck shyly. But then his face became serious again, and he looked around.
After making sure no one can hear, Yegor stared back at Draco.
"Oh yeah, Draco. Tonight Pista and I want to go somewhere. Do you want to come with us?" He whispered carefully so that no one could hear their conversation.
Draco furrowed his brows, he thought for a moment. "Where do you want to go?" He asked in a whisper.
"Somewhere, beyond these walls."
"Do you want to escape from prison?" Draco gasped softly, but then controlling his surprise. "How did you get out of here?" He asked curiously.
This time it was Yegor's turn to smirk. "Just you wait tonight."
They were getting ready inside the wall where Yegor and Pista were hiding. The night had come, and the sky was dark. The warriors were on patrol, making it free for them to escape from their cells. Happily, their cells were dim, so they could trick the warriors by putting the bolster in a blanket as if they were sleeping.
"Wear this, so you don't get cold." Yegor helps Draco to wear a dark green coat.
Seeing the green color made Draco remember his home at Hogwarts. He missed his mother, Pansy, and Blaise.
How are you, mom? I hope mom is fine.
"Thanks..." Draco beamed, then tightened the coat around him.
They stared at each other before Pista's voice brought them to their senses, making their cheeks flush red. Pista walked over to Yegor.
"So, whose horse will Draco ride?" Pista whispered.
Yegor cleared his throat. "Draco will ride my horse."
Pista stared at Yegor in silence, raised both eyebrows, and nodded. "All right, he is yours ."
Yegor choked on the drink he just wanted to swallow as he heard Pista's words, his eyes widened, then Yegor quickly looked at Draco. Thank god, Draco was not paying attention to them. He was busy preparing supplies for their trip later.
"What are you talking about?"
"What? Don't tell me you thought I didn't know that you had feelings for Draco?" Pista smirked mischievously.
Yegor's eyes widened again, staring at Pista with his mouth wide open, but he quickly gained control of himself.
"Y-You are wrong. I-I have no feelings for him." Yegor denied tensely, trying to hide his already reddening cheeks.
"You can't lie to me, Yeager. I can see how you look at Draco." Pista gave a grin.
"Don't tell this to Draco," Yegor whispered menacingly.
"Oh, take it easy. It looks like Draco has feelings for you too. Your feelings are mutual." He waved his hand dismissively, then turned around, continuing the activity of filling his supplies for the trip into his sling bag.
"How do you know?" Yegor's heart was thumping fast.
Did Draco also feel the unusual bond between him and me? He thinks.
Too busy thinking about Draco's feelings for him, he didn't know that Draco had finished putting his supplies in the bag and was in front of him.
"I'm ready," Draco exclaimed eagerly. He has been wearing Yegor's sling bag.
"Ah," Yegor cleared his throat and put on his hood. "Then, let's go now." He peeked out. "Safe." Yegor jumped out of the wall, followed by Draco and Pista.
The prison wall that was their hiding place was the wall that connected them to the outside of Marley's wall, that's why they can get in and out with ease without having to pass through the warriors.
Yegor began whistled, suddenly two gallops of steps...No, four footsteps that were very quickly heard from a distance approached the place they were standing.
Unconsciously, Draco hid behind Yegor and grabbed the man's arm. He was terrified that the titans would abruptly attack them.
"Don't worry, I just called our horse," Yegor said soothingly.
And yes, a brown and a black horse appeared before them. Pista immediately got on the brown horse.
"This is Yori, my horse. It's a girl," said Pista introducing his horse, stroking Yori's cheek, which made Yori let out a joyful noise.
Draco smiled broadly. "She is so beautiful." He admired.
"Thanks, Draco," Pista answered haughtily.
"Draco, do you want to ride my horse?" Yegor asked nervously.
"Yes, of course," Draco answered quickly without thinking.
Yegor nodded with a smile on his face. He gave the horse orders to sit down and helped Draco sit on it, definitely like a gentleman.
Now it was Yegor's turn to get on the horse, right in front of Draco. He put his cane in front of his body and then gave the horse the command to stand up.
"Uwa!" Draco gasped in surprise when the horse he was riding suddenly stood up, reflexively he hugged Yegor from behind.
"Ah, young love." teased Pista. His horse was already walking.
Yegor's cheeks crimsoned red. "If you're scared, you can grab my coat." He said softly.
Draco bit his lower lip lightly. Somehow his heart was hammering so fast. Draco took his hug away from Yegor, and instead grabbed the man's coat. A part of his veela side wanted to keep hugging Yegor, but Draco was too embarrassed to do that.
Then they continued on their trip, with Pista leading the way. The route they took was a route that was not frequently passed by the titans.
Tonight is the full moon, so it's bright, helping to light up their journey. Even Draco felt like he would have a heart attack when they located a titan sitting under a tree, calm and not stirring at all.
But Yegor succeeded to calm him down, saying that the titan was just a 5-meter class titan and that the titan was an abnormal type.
"Don't worry, Draco. If a titan attacks us, I'll protect you," said Pista very casually, showing off his 3D maneuver gear that hovering around his hips.
He immediately got a piercing stare from Yegor, again. Yegor should be the one who says that to Draco.
"We have arrived," Pista exclaimed.
They have arrived at a place. The horse they were riding entered the yard of a damaged building and was not suited to stay. Pista got off his horse. Then Yegor gets off the horse and helps Draco to get off as well.
Finally, Draco's feet hit the ground again. He saw the building. It was dark and tranquil, while the grass in the yard had grown tall, almost reaching Draco's hips. Yegor and Pista take him to keep their horses from the titan, in a shed next to the old building.
Draco tightened his coat. His body shivered slightly from the cold night air. "Umm, Yegor. Why are we here?" He asked.
Yegor invited Draco to walk towards the old building, while Pista had knocked on the door.
"I want to introduce you to some of my comrades."
Notes:
Ohhhh who does Yegor want to introduce to Draco? 👀
Chapter 4
Notes:
MINNA-SAN~! I'M BAACKKKK
OMG, It's been months since I update this story huuuaaa... I hope you guys still waiting for Eren and Draco (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"I want to introduce you to some of my comrades," said Yegor.
"Comrades…" Draco mumbled. Before he could ask any further questions, the door opened, revealing a woman. Draco couldn't see clearly what the woman looked like because of the low lighting.
"Mikasa," Yegor nodded.
"Eren, Pista... Come in," said the woman. She's carrying a lamp.
Eren? Draco wondered. Who does that woman mean by 'Eren'? As far as he knew, there was no one named Eren between him, Yegor, and Pista.
Yegor put his hand gently on the small of Draco's back, snapped Draco from his reverie, then invited him to enter the building. There is no one in the building apart from the woman. The atmosphere is dark and quiet. Draco's heart skipped a beat.
As if sensed that Draco was nervous, Yegor gripped Draco's hand gently and led him, following his steps. Draco vaguely saw a flash of light appearing from underground. The woman opened the door. Draco doesn't know. It looks like an entrance to a basement.
Yegor invited Draco down the stairs after Pista and Mikasa. Draco furrowed his eyebrows as the bright light forced its way into the irises. Draco repeatedly blinked, focusing his gaze around, and he was taken aback by the basement's contents. Somewhat different from before. This basement looks more alive than the top.
"Who is he?"
Draco snapped out of his admiration. A black-haired man who was sitting in one of the chairs looked at him with a cold and penetrating gaze. Draco's body seemed to be splashed with ice water. He froze.
"Captain," Yegor nodded. "This is Draco Malfoy. He is our friend." He said.
"Friend?" Levi put his cup on the table, then his eyes stared at Draco intensely, making Draco's hair bristly. The man's gaze was cold and sharp.
"Yes, he is a citizen of the Middle East, and this morning, he was arrested by Marley's warriors." Pista tries to help explain it to Levi.
Levi rose from his seat, and it made Draco's body stiffen. This man was smaller than him but had an enormous aura and made Draco nervous. Levi walked over to Yegor and Draco, while Mikasa and Pista were standing silently and watching everything.
"Who exactly are you?" Levi asked as he stood in front of Draco.
Yegor swiftly stood in front of Draco, as if protecting the beautiful man. "What do you mean, captain? Draco is Marley's prisoner."
Levi stared at Yegor in silence, then he said, "You sure he's not on Marley's side?" Levi's voice echoed in the room.
The whole room fell silent. Even Pista couldn't help Yegor now because, from the start, Yegor was the one who approached Draco first. And Pista didn't know what defense he could put forward for Draco.
It made Yegor froze, while Draco could only clutch the sleeve of the coat Yegor was wearing. Draco began to regret his decision to follow Yegor and Pista out of the wall. Draco certainly wasn't stupid. His sudden presence in this world would, of course, be a big question mark. Moreover, he doesn't know anything about the world of the titan.
"I'm sure," Yegor answered loudly, causing Darco to raise his head, which has been looking down for some time. “I'm sure Draco isn't on Marley's side. He's not taking sides."
"Get out of my way, Eren..." Levi ordered, still keeping eye contact with Yegor.
"No. I won't let you do anything to Draco." Yegor gritted his teeth. "Draco came here as a friend, and you have no choice but to accept that."
Draco tugged gently at Yegor's coat sleeve. "Yegor... Please, move aside..." he pleaded, feeling guilty. Draco didn't want because of his presence, Yegor had to fight with the man who he called 'captain'.
"No. Draco, you should — khagh!" before Yegor could finish his words, his chin was already in contact with the room's wooden floor. It all happened so fast. Draco didn't even have time to blink.
"Eren!" Mikasa shouted. She rushed over to Yegor, who was lying on the floor and grimacing in pain. Even the cane that helped him walk had broken into two pieces.
Levi kicked Yegor's cane, causing him to lose his balance and fall. Draco gasped, his eyes widened in disbelief. And before Draco got over his astonishment, Levi had already picked up one of the swords that stuck in his maneuver gear, then pointed it at Draco.
"Friend?" Levi snorted at Yegor, who was still kneeling on the floor. "You've done a lot of stupid things, and now don't expect me to let you do it again." Levi looked back at Draco coldly. "Tell me who the fuck you really are before I cut your neck,"
Draco's whole body shook violently. Cold sweat had started streaming down his temples. Draco took a step back as Levi walked closer to him with the sword pointed in front of him.
The sound of the door opening was suddenly heard.
"Eren, Pista... You guys have arri...ved," Jean dropped his voice at the end of his sentence when he saw the chaos that was happening in the room.
Jean had just finished taking a shower after a day of spying in downtown Marley. Tonight he wanted to rest after Eren came to have a meeting and discussed their strategy. But what the fuck he find now?
What he saw was Levi, who's pointing a sword at a man with long blonde hair whom he didn't know where he came from, and Eren, who was kneeling on the floor while snarling, with Mikasa and Pista helping him to his feet.
"Uh, oh..." Jean scratched his nape awkwardly, water from his hair dripping and wetting his shoulders. "What are you doing, guys?"
Levi didn't even move from his position. The sword was still pointing at Draco. Yegor took advantage of Jean's arrival, who suddenly interrupted the tense situation, and he quickly stood up, then grabbed Levi's arm with a tight grip.
"Don't even think about hurting him," Yegor growled. The titan inside him tries to fight the way out, recognizing that Draco is in danger. The feeling of being overprotective and possessive came back to the surface.
Draco could only hold his breath. He didn't even dare to sigh or blink. If only he still had his wand, maybe he could prevent a situation like this from happening. Levi and Yegor are still at each other's throats. Jean was still standing there in the doorway, not knowing what to do. Mikasa and Pista try to stop Levi and Yegor.
The tension continued until Draco opened his mouth to speak. "I can prove to you that I'm not on any side, not even Marley's army," Draco said suddenly.
All eyes were on Draco after he said those words, even the sound made by Yegor's neck was heard because of how fast he turned his head towards Draco and how tranquil the room was.
"Draco..." Yegor muttered, staring at Draco with an anxious face.
"Haa?" Levi narrowed his eyes.
Draco swallowed thickly. “You guys are waiting for Marley's festival, right? And the one who will give a speech at night is a man named Willy Tybur."
"How do you know that?" finally, Mikasa spoke.
Draco took a deep breath. His heart couldn't stop beating rapidly. Then he opened his mouth again. The sentence that he will say after this will determine Yegor, Pista, and his friends' future.
"Marley intends to make a strategic change at the festival because they already knew your plans."
Notes:
Ngl this story is more difficult to write than my other stories (well, at least for me). I'm having trouble writing the next chapter, maybe because I haven't outlined the storyline completely. So it's holding me back from writing a continuation of this story.
I'm sorry for my dramatic-ass and sorry for the short chapter. I hope you enjoyed it xD
Feel free to leave a comment or feedback if you have some. I'll appreciate it a lot. Thank you! <3
Chapter 5: Chapter 1 [NEW VERSION]
Notes:
Hello! Apologies for the sudden update.
In addition to rewriting the Asami/Draco fic, I’ve also been meaning to rewrite this story for quite some time. So, here it finally is. I want to be clear that I’m not deleting the original version, because it holds memories that are too precious to simply erase. That original was one of the very first I ever posted on AO3, and it represents a significant part of my journey as a writer.
Keeping the original up feels like preserving a piece of my past, a reminder of how far I’ve come and the growth I’ve experienced. Rewriting this story is not about replacing what was, but about revisiting it with new eyes, fresh perspectives, and a deeper understanding of the characters and themes.
Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me from the beginning. I hope you’ll enjoy this new version as much as I’ve enjoyed reimagining it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The dungeons of Malfoy Manor were a crypt, suffocating under the weight of damp earth and mildew, the air thick with the acrid tang of desperation that clung to every surface like a living thing, seeping into the very stones that had stood for centuries as a testament to the Malfoy family’s power, now reduced to a prison for its last heir.
The oppressive atmosphere wrapped itself around Draco’s slender frame, slithering beneath the tattered remnants of his once-fine silk robes, garments that had been meticulously tailored to proclaim his status as a scion of one of the most revered pureblood lines, now reduced to rags that hung limply from his shoulders, stained with sweat and blood and the grime of betrayal, each tear and smudge a silent indictment of his failures.
His trembling fingers clutched the broken halves of his hawthorn wand, the jagged edges biting into his palm with a pain that was almost welcome, a physical anchor to distract from the yawning chasm of dread in his chest, the thin rivulets of blood that dripped onto the cold stone floor marking the passage of time in a way that the distant, echoing screams from the upper floors could not.
Lucius had snapped the wand in two with a single, merciless twist of his hands, his face as pale as the parchment of the Dark Lord’s decrees, his eyes hollow with a grief so profound that Draco had not understood its depths until this very moment, standing alone in the dungeon with nothing but the shattered remnants of his pride and the crushing weight of his father’s disappointment.
The wand was useless now, its core exposed like a raw nerve, the delicate strands of unicorn hair that had once thrummed with his magic now frayed and lifeless, a cruel mockery of the power he had once wielded with such effortless arrogance, the power that had marked him as special, as untouchable, as a Malfoy.
Yet Draco held the broken pieces tightly, as if their splinters could somehow anchor him to a world that was crumbling beneath his feet, a world where his name no longer commanded fear or respect, where the whispered legends of his family’s greatness had been reduced to ashes in the wake of the Dark Lord’s ascendancy.
He stood in the center of the dungeon, his breath shallow and uneven, each inhale a struggle against the thick, musty air that seemed determined to choke him, his heart a frantic drumbeat in his chest that echoed in his ears like the distant thunder of an approaching storm. The walls pressed in around him, their damp surfaces glistening in the flickering torchlight like the insides of some great beast’s maw, the shadows twisting and writhing into shapes that seemed to mock his fear, their forms shifting into grotesque parodies of the things he had once held dear—the serpentine curve of the Malfoy crest, the proud arch of his father’s brow, the cold, calculating smile of the Dark Lord as he pronounced judgment upon those who had failed him.
I’m not ready for this, Draco thought, the words looping in his mind like a curse, sharp and relentless, a litany of inadequacy that had haunted him since the day he had been marked, since the day he had realized that the world was not the ordered, predictable place he had been raised to believe it was. I’m not a hero. I’m not Potter. He was sixteen, a boy playing at being a man, his Malfoy pride a fragile shield against the terror gnawing at his insides, a terror that had taken root the moment he had looked into the Dark Lord’s crimson eyes and seen his own reflection staring back at him, small and insignificant and utterly disposable.
He’d failed—failed his father, whose once-unshakable confidence had been eroded by Azkaban and the Dark Lord’s displeasure, failed his mother, whose quiet strength had been the only thing holding their family together, failed to be anything but a pawn in a game he had never truly understood, a game where the stakes were not wealth or influence but survival itself. The weight of his name, once a source of power and privilege, now felt like a noose tightening around his neck, a burden he could not shake no matter how desperately he tried.
I was supposed to be great, he thought, his mind spiraling into self-doubt, the carefully constructed illusions of his childhood crumbling like the walls of the manor itself under the relentless assault of reality. I was supposed to be untouchable. But I’m nothing now.
The Dark Lord’s presence loomed over the manor like a storm cloud, suffocating and inevitable, his magic a palpable force that thickened the air and turned every breath into a struggle, and the black ink of the Dark Mark burned beneath Draco’s sleeve, a brand that marked him as Voldemort’s even as his mother fought to free him, a constant reminder of his cowardice, his weakness, the choices he had made and the ones that had been made for him.
Narcissa knelt before him, her hair falling in tangled strands around her face, no longer the impeccable crown of a pureblood matriarch but the disheveled mane of a woman who had been pushed to the edge of desperation, her once-flawless complexion now pale and drawn, the shadows beneath her eyes speaking of sleepless nights and whispered plans made in the darkest hours before dawn. Her nails dug into his shoulders with a strength that belied her delicate appearance, sharp enough to pierce the thin fabric of his shirt and leave crescent-shaped marks on his skin, a physical anchor to ground him as her breath brushed against his ear, warm and familiar, carrying with it the faintest trace of peppermint tea—her one indulgence, a ritual from quieter days when they had sat together in the manor’s drawing room, sipping from delicate china cups and pretending, if only for a moment, that the world outside was not fracturing beyond repair.
But now, that warmth was laced with the raw, acrid edge of fear, a fear that coiled around her words like a serpent poised to strike, infusing them with a urgency that made Draco’s stomach clench.
“The ritual will send you far away, my dragon,” His mother whispered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands, the hands that had once smoothed his hair and tucked him into bed with stories of the Malfoy ancestors and their great deeds, now trembling with the weight of the unspeakable risk she was taking. “Somewhere he cannot follow.”
Draco’s throat tightened, a knot of panic and guilt choking his words, rendering him mute in the face of his mother’s sacrifice, her determination to save him even as the walls closed in around them both.
Far away?
The phrase was too vast, too terrifying, a yawning abyss of uncertainty that threatened to swallow him whole. He had grown up in a world of certainties—blood purity, wealth, power— a world where his name had been a shield and a sword, where the future had been laid out before him like a meticulously plotted path, every step predetermined, every outcome assured.
Now he was adrift, a boy with a broken wand and a secret that could destroy him, a secret that had been buried beneath layers of charms and lies, a secret that had awoken on his sixteenth birthday in a surge of wild, burning magic that had left him gasping and trembling in his bedchamber, his skin alight with a golden shimmer that had pulsed in time with his racing heart. His Veela blood, a legacy from some long-forgotten ancestor, had stirred to life that night, awakening with a force that had left him aching with a need he could not name, a hunger that had terrified him even as it thrilled him, a duality that had haunted his every waking moment since.
Narcissa had woven spells around him, charms to dull the glow, to mask the scent that drew eyes and whispers, to hide the truth from the Dark Lord and his followers, but it had not been enough. The Dark Lord had sensed it, perhaps through Nagini’s serpentine instincts or his own twisted divination, and now he wanted Draco—not as a soldier, not as a Death Eater, but as a possession, a Veela bound to his will, a creature of magic and desire to be leashed and controlled.
The thought made Draco’s skin crawl, his magic flaring unbidden in response to the surge of revulsion that coursed through him, a golden shimmer erupting from his skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, bathing the dungeon in a defiant glow that seemed to push back against the darkness, if only for a moment.
"I just don’t want to be his mate," He gasped, the admission spilling out in a rush of shame and terror, his mind conjuring unbidden images of the Dark Lord’s crimson eyes gleaming with possessive hunger, of those skeletal fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a mockery of tenderness, of that high, cold voice whispering his name like a promise laced with poison.
The mere thought of being bound to that monster, of having his will stripped away until he was nothing more than a pretty, broken thing kneeling at the Dark Lord’s feet, made his Veela soul scream in revolt, the magic in his blood surging in response to the primal instinct to flee, to fight, to do anything but surrender. Narcissa’s hands clamped around his face with bruising force, her fingers digging into his skin hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks that would bloom into bruises by morning, her touch both an anchor and an agony as she forced him to meet her gaze, her pale eyes blazing with a ferocity that made his breath catch.
"You won’t be," She hissed, her voice low and venomous, every syllable dripping with a mother’s wrath, the kind of fury that could topple empires and raze kingdoms to the ground if it meant protecting her child. "Listen to me, Draco," She commanded, her thumbs smearing the tears he hadn’t even realized he’d shed across his cheeks, the salt stinging the shallow cuts her nails had left behind. "Where you’re going, there are no wizards. No Dark Lords. No wars fought over blood purity and stolen relics."
Her words faltered for the barest fraction of a second as a thunderous crash echoed from the floors above, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass followed by Lucius’ voice rising in a desperate incantation, the syllables sharp and guttural, the kind of spellwork reserved for last stands and lost causes.
A scream—high, agonized, and abruptly silenced—ripped through the air, leaving behind a stillness so profound it seemed to suck the very oxygen from the room.
Narcissa’s jaw tightened, her grip on Draco’s face tightening almost painfully before she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that was nearly lost beneath the distant, ominous hiss slithering from the corridor beyond the dungeon door. "But there are... monsters of a different kind."
"Monsters?" Draco choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of the word, his Veela magic surging in response to the spike of terror that lanced through him, the golden light flaring so brightly it set the ancient runes carved into the dungeon floor ablaze with shimmering, molten radiance.
Monsters worse than the Dark Lord? Worse than the serpent whose slow, sinuous movements he could hear just beyond the iron-barred door, her scales whispering against stone like a blade being drawn across bone, her presence a suffocating weight that made the air itself feel thick with malice?
His stomach twisted violently at the memory of her in the manor’s halls, her massive coils swallowing the shadows whole, her jaws unhinging to reveal rows of needle-sharp fangs dripping with venom, the way she had looked at him the last time their paths had crossed—not with hunger, not with the mindless aggression of a beast, but with a chilling, calculating intelligence that had made his blood run cold.
She knows, he realized with dawning horror, his pulse roaring in his ears like a tidal wave. She can smell the magic in my blood, the fear in my sweat. She’s here for me.
"How far, Mother?" Draco managed to force the words past the lump of dread lodged in his throat, his voice splintering like the fragile remains of his hawthorn wand still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. "What if I can’t do this? What if I’m not enough?" the confession burned like acid on his tongue, the humiliation of admitting his weakness, his inadequacy, carving furrows of shame so deep he feared they might never heal.
He saw himself reflected in Narcissa’s eyes—not the proud, sneering heir of House Malfoy he had spent years pretending to be, but a boy, pale and trembling, his silver eyes wide with terror, his carefully constructed mask of arrogance shattered beyond repair. I’m not a hero, he thought despairingly, the weight of his failures pressing down on him like a physical force. I’m not even a proper Malfoy.
Narcissa’s grip on his chin tightened to the point of pain, her nails breaking skin in half-moon crescents that welled with tiny beads of blood, the sting a grounding counterpoint to the dizzying spiral of his panic. "You are enough," She snarled, her voice a whip-crack of command that brooked no argument, her eyes blazing with a conviction so fierce it seared through the fog of his fear like sunlight through storm clouds. "You are a Malfoy. A Black. And you are mine."
Each word was a brand, searing itself into his soul, a litany of identity and belonging that cut through the self-doubt festering in his chest.
"You will survive because I will not let you fall to him," She vowed, her voice dropping to a whisper that was no less powerful for its softness, the promise in her words a lifeline thrown across the chasm of his terror. "You carry our blood, our strength, our legacy. You are not his to claim."
"But what about you?" Draco’s voice was little more than a broken whisper, his throat so tight he could barely force the words out, his eyes burning with tears that blurred Narcissa’s face into a pale, grief-stricken smudge. "What about Father? I can’t leave you here—"
The thought of abandoning them to the Dark Lord’s wrath, of fleeing like a coward while they faced the consequences of his failure, was a physical pain, a knife twisting between his ribs with every ragged breath. I should be protecting you, he thought, the guilt was a living thing gnawing at his insides, its teeth sharp and relentless. I should be strong enough to stand beside you.
"You will," Narcissa said, her voice steel wrapped in velvet, the kind of tone that had cowed lesser witches and wizards for generations, the kind of tone that left no room for argument. "You will live, Draco, because I cannot lose you. Not to him. Not to anyone." Her nails pressed deeper, the pain a bright, clarifying spark in the maelstrom of his fear. "Promise me you’ll fight. Promise me you’ll find a way back."
"I promise," Draco whispered, the lie sticking in his throat like a shard of glass, the unspoken confession—I’m afraid, Mother. I’m so afraid—lodged behind his ribs like a second heart, beating in time with the terrified flutter of his pulse. He wanted to cling to her, to bury his face in the familiar scent of her perfume and beg her not to send him away, to let him stay and face whatever came next at her side, but he knew she would never allow it.
His mother was sacrificing everything—her life, her husband, her world—to save him, and the weight of that knowledge was a crushing, unbearable thing, a guilt that would follow him no matter how far he ran.
Narcissa pressed her silver locket into his palm. It pressed into Draco’s palm carried the weight of centuries, its ornate Black family crest—a serpentine S coiled around emeralds that gleamed like captured starlight—digging into his skin with a cold insistence that anchored him to this moment even as the world around them unraveled. Narcissa’s fingers lingered against his for a heartbeat too long, her touch trembling yet deliberate, as if she could imprint the memory of her hands onto his flesh, a final tactile reminder of her presence before the ritual tore them apart.
"This will guide you," She said, her voice steady despite the fine tremor that ran through her, the controlled cadence of a woman who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of composure even as her world crumbled. "Keep it close. It’s all I can give you now."
The locket’s edges bit into the raw flesh of his bloodied palm, the pain sharp and clarifying, a counterpoint to the dizzying rush of terror and magic that threatened to sweep him away.
The iron-barred door groaned under a sudden, immense pressure, the metal shrieking in protest as something massive and sinuous threw itself against the other side, the sound of scales rasping against stone setting Draco’s teeth on edge, the noise like a thousand nails dragged across slate. Nagini’s presence was a suffocating weight in the air, her hunger a palpable thing that slithered down his spine and coiled in the pit of his stomach, her eagerness to please her master radiating from her like heat from a forge.
She’s coming. He’s coming. The thought was a noose tightening around his throat, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as his Veela magic surged in response, a golden wave of
light erupting from his skin that illuminated every crevice of the dungeon, every shadowed corner where danger might lurk, and in doing so, betrayed him utterly. She’ll find me. He’ll find me. The certainty of it was a knife twisting in his gut.
Narcissa’s voice rose in a chant then, low and melodic, the words weaving together in a language so ancient it predated the foundations of Hogwarts, predated even the Malfoy name itself, a tongue spoken by those who had walked the earth when magic was still wild and untamed, when blood rituals were not forbidden but revered. The syllables rolled off her tongue like shadows given sound, like starlight given voice, and the air around them hummed with the weight of that power, thick and heavy as if the very atmosphere had turned to syrup.
The runes carved into the dungeon floor flared to life in response, their jagged lines glowing a deep, arterial red, pulsing in time with the frantic rhythm of Draco’s heart, the light so vivid it seemed to bleed into the air itself. This magic was forbidden, a secret passed down through the Black family’s darkest branches, and it felt alive, sentient, coiling around them like a great serpent poised to strike, its hunger a living thing that pressed against Draco’s skin with an almost physical weight.
The runes twisted before his eyes, their shapes warping into grotesque, nightmarish forms— serpents with human faces contorted in silent screams, their mouths gaping wide as if to swallow the world whole; stars that wept crimson tears, their light pooling on the stone like spilled blood; a spiral of fire that surged upward with a roar, its flames licking at the ceiling as if to devour the manor whole, the edges tinged gold where Draco’s Veela magic mingled with the ritual’s power.
The air crackled with energy, thick with the scent of ozone and iron and something darker, something old and ravenous, as if the magic itself were a living entity that fed on sacrifice, on pain, on the raw, unfiltered terror that clawed at Draco’s throat.
"What is this?" Draco’s voice was barely recognizable, the words trembling as they left his lips, his eyes darting frantically between the glowing runes and his mother’s face, the searing red light leaving afterimages burned into his vision. The air was so thick with power it was hard to breathe, each inhale a struggle against the oppressive weight of the magic coiling around them, and his Veela magic pulsed in response, the golden light from his skin mingling with the runes’ crimson glow in a dizzying kaleidoscope of fire and shadow. "What are you doing?"
"Saving you," Narcissa answered without breaking her chant, her voice the only steady thing in the maelstrom of magic and fear that surrounded them. "The locket will anchor you. The ritual will carry you." Her eyes flicked to the silver locket still clutched in his hand, the emeralds gleaming with an almost sentient light, and for the briefest moment, Draco saw the full weight of her emotions laid bare—fear, love, a resolve so fierce it bordered on madness. "But you must seek the Founder’s relic when you arrive. It’s the only way back."
"Back?" Draco’s heart pounded so violently he feared it might burst from his chest, his mind reeling as he tried to grasp the enormity of what she was saying, the impossibility of it. "Back to what? To this?" His gesture encompassed the dungeon, the manor, the war waiting beyond these walls, his voice rising with a desperation that bordered on hysteria. "To him? To this hell?"
"Back to me," Narcissa said, the words so soft they were nearly lost beneath the growing hum of the ritual’s power, yet they carried the weight of a vow, of a promise carved into bone and blood. "Back to us." Her eyes held his, and for a fleeting, heart-wrenching moment, Draco saw not the woman who had stood unflinching in the face of the Dark Lord’s wrath, but the mother who had once tucked him into bed with stories of dragons and knights, her voice warm with laughter, her hands gentle as they brushed his hair from his forehead.
But that woman was gone, buried beneath layers of grief and sacrifice, replaced by someone harder, fiercer, someone who would tear the world apart with her bare hands if it meant saving her son.
"Mother, please," Draco begged, his voice breaking on the words, the plea torn from somewhere deep and wounded inside him. "Come with me. We can both—"
"No," Narcissa cut him off sharply, the word a blade severing his hope before it could fully form. "I stay to hold him back. To give you time." She leaned forward then, pressing her lips to his forehead in a kiss that burned with the heat of a thousand unsaid goodbyes, her breath trembling against his skin, a fleeting warmth in the growing cold. "You are my heart, Draco. My dragon." Her voice cracked then, the first true fracture in her composure, revealing the raw, bleeding edges of her love, of her fear. "You will find a way, even if you don’t believe it now." A pause, a breath, a moment stretched to breaking. "You are all I have left."
The admission shattered something in him, the weight of it too much to bear, and for the first time since the Dark Lord had returned, since the world had begun its slow, inevitable collapse, Draco let the truth spill from his lips unvarnished and unashamed.
"I’m scared," He whispered, the words small and broken, the confession of a boy who had been forced to wear the mask of a man far too soon. He hated how weak it made him sound, how vulnerable, but the truth was a burden too heavy to carry alone, and for this one, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to be just Draco—just her son—and not the heir to a legacy of blood and lies.
Narcissa’s eyes softened, but her voice was steel, unyielding, the voice of a woman who had stared into the abyss and refused to blink. "Fear is a blade, Draco," She said, her thumb brushing away a tear he hadn’t realized had fallen. "Wield it, don’t let it cut you." She kissed his forehead again, her lips lingering this time, as if she could imprint the memory of her touch onto his skin, a talisman to carry him through whatever lay ahead. "You are my heart. My dragon. You will find a way."
The words were a vow, a prayer, a benediction, and as the ritual’s power reached its crescendo, as the world around them dissolved into light and shadow, Draco clung to them like a lifeline, the last tether to the woman who had given him everything, even as she let him go.
The explosion that ripped through the dungeon was not merely sound but a physical force, a concussive wave that rattled Draco’s bones and sent jagged cracks spiderwebbing across the ancient stone walls, the very foundations of Malfoy Manor trembling as if the earth itself recoiled from the Dark Lord’s approach. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling in a thick, choking cascade, the particles catching the hellish glow of the runes and swirling like embers in the aftermath of a great fire, each speck a tiny funeral pyre for the life Draco had known.
The iron door, once a formidable barrier, now splintered into a thousand jagged shards that flew through the air like deadly projectiles, one grazing Draco’s cheek with a sting that sent warm blood trickling down his jawline, the metallic tang flooding his mouth as he gasped.
Nagini’s hiss transformed into a guttural roar, the sound vibrating through the dungeon with predatory triumph, her massive head forcing its way through the ruined doorway, her scales glinting with a sickly, poisonous sheen that seemed to pulse in time with the Dark Lord’s magic, her eyes glowing like twin moons in the darkness, pupils slit with malice. Her jaws unhinged obscenely wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp fangs dripping with venom that sizzled and spat as it struck the stone floor, eating through the rock like acid, the acrid stench of burning stone filling the air and making Draco’s eyes water.
And behind her, a shadow darker than the dungeon’s deepest corners, stood Voldemort.
His skeletal frame was wreathed in the crimson light of the runes, his silhouette a nightmare given form, his presence a yawning void that seemed to suck the very oxygen from the room, leaving Draco’s lungs burning for air he could not draw. The Dark Lord’s wand was raised in a gesture both elegant and terrible, the movement of a conductor poised to unleash a symphony of death, and the sight of it sent Draco’s Veela magic recoiling in visceral horror, a primal scream of revulsion echoing through his blood that made his knees buckle, his body instinctively seeking to fold in on itself as if to make a smaller target for the monster’s gaze.
The Dark Lord’s red, slit-like eyes locked onto Draco with terrifying focus, a promise of pain and possession gleaming in their depths, and in that moment, Draco understood with chilling clarity that Voldemort did not see him as a person, not even as a servant, but as a thing to be claimed, a prize to be broken and remade into something obedient, something owned.
Narcissa’s chanting reached a fever pitch, her voice rising above the din of destruction with unnatural clarity, the ancient words weaving through the air like threads of pure power, each syllable resonating in Draco’s bones as the runes beneath their feet blazed with a light so intense it seared his vision, leaving afterimages of fire and blood burned onto his retinas even when he squeezed his eyes shut.
The locket in his hand pulsed like a living heart, its heat growing until it was nearly unbearable, the silver chain tightening around his wrist with bruising force, the edges of the Black family crest biting into his palm hard enough to draw fresh blood, the droplets sizzling as they struck the glowing runes below, sending up thin tendrils of smoke that carried the scent of burning flesh and something deeper, something sacrificial, as if the very act of bleeding onto the runes was an offering the magic demanded.
"Mother, I—" Draco’s voice broke, the words dying in his throat as the enormity of the moment crashed over him, the weight of everything he wanted to say but could not—that he loved her, that he was sorry for every disappointment, that he would spend the rest of his life trying to make her proud—lodging in his chest like a stone.
There was no time. The room was a maelstrom of magic and destruction, the runes twisting like living things beneath his feet, their hunger a palpable force that seemed to pull at his very soul, and Nagini’s massive coils were pushing relentlessly through the ruined doorway, her body undulating with predatory grace, her jaws parting wider still, venom dripping in thick, corrosive strands that ate through stone and magic alike.
Voldemort’s gaze never wavered from Draco, the promise in those crimson eyes making his Veela magic scream in protest, the instinct to flee or fight warring with the paralyzing terror that held him rooted to the spot.
"When you arrive, find the Founder’s relic," Narcissa said, her voice cutting through the chaos with unnatural clarity, the words laced with a desperation that belied her calm. "It’s the only way back." She pressed a final, trembling kiss to his forehead, her lips cold against his skin, her tears—so rarely shed—glistening in her lashes but refusing to fall, as if even now she would not grant their enemies the satisfaction of seeing her break. "And Draco…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, the words meant for him alone, a secret carried on a breath. "Trust no one. Especially not green-eyed boys."
Green-eyed boys?
The warning was so absurd, so incongruous with the horror unfolding around them, that for a moment Draco could only stare, his mind scrambling to make sense of it.
Potter?
The thought was ludicrous—Potter was a world away, fighting his own battles, the golden boy who had never known the weight of true failure, the hero Draco could never hope to match even on his best day.
But before he could demand an explanation, he saw them—green eyes flashing in the periphery of his vision, vivid and haunting, their color not the familiar bright green of Potter’s gaze but something deeper, something older, something wrong. They were not real, not truly there, but they burned into his soul all the same, their gaze searing through him like a brand, a promise or a threat he could not decipher, their unnatural green fire mingling with the ritual’s crimson and gold in a way that made his stomach lurch.
Then the world tore apart.
The sound was deafening, a great, rending shriek as if reality itself had been split open, the runes exploding upward in a column of fire and blood and golden light that swallowed Draco whole, the heat so intense it should have burned him to ashes but instead felt like falling into the heart of a star.
The last thing he saw was Narcissa’s face, pale and resolute, her hand outstretched as if she could somehow keep him safe even as the magic ripped him away, her lips forming three final words lost to the roar of power—and then there was nothing but the void, the locket’s chain cutting into his wrist like a shackle, the emeralds in the Black family crest glowing like malevolent stars as he tumbled through darkness and time and the unknown.
The air hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of terror, a scent that coiled through Nagini’s senses like the finest wine, intoxicating and rich, the kind of fear that spoke of desperation rather than mere fleeting panic, the kind that seeped from pores and clung to the tongue like the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood.
She drank it in, her forked tongue flickering rhythmically, tasting every nuance of it—the sharp, acrid sting of the boy’s sweat, the cloying bitterness of the woman’s defiance, the underlying musk of ancient stone and damp earth that had borne witness to centuries of Malfoy secrets. Her massive body moved with sinuous grace, each scale rasping against the worn stone of the manor’s corridor, the sound like a thousand whispers slithering through the darkness, her coils expanding to fill the space with a presence that was both physical and primal, a living tide of shadow that swallowed the flickering torchlight whole.
Her master’s voice slithered through her mind, colder than the deepest winter, sharper than the fangs that lined her gaping maw.
Bring me the boy. The Veela.
The command was absolute, unyielding, and it sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through her ancient blood. She could taste the boy’s magic even now, a tantalizing thread woven into the very air, sweet as wildflower honey yet crackling with the raw, untamed energy of a summer storm, a duality that stirred something deep within her, something older than the manor’s foundations, older than the wizards who scurried like insects beneath her notice.
It called to her, that magic, a siren song that made her jaws ache with the need to sink into yielding flesh, to claim, to consume.
The woman—Narcissa—stood between her and her prey, her voice rising in a chant that was both melody and defiance, the words laced with a power that prickled against Nagini’s scales like static. Foolish. Futile. The woman’s resistance was a spark against the suffocating dark, a flicker that would be snuffed out as easily as a candle in a hurricane.
Nagini’s jaws parted in a slow, deliberate gesture, venom welling along the length of her fangs in thick, glistening strands, each droplet hissing as it struck the stone floor, the acid eating through rock with a hunger that mirrored her own. The door before her was nothing, a flimsy barrier of iron and arrogance, and she lunged without hesitation, her body uncoiling in a surge of muscle and malice, the impact sending splinters of metal flying like shrapnel, the ruined hinges screaming as they gave way beneath her weight.
But the boy was gone.
A flash of light—red as a fresh wound, gold as the sun at its zenith—exploded through the chamber, a brilliance so searing it burned even Nagini’s slit-pupiled eyes, and the air itself seemed to tear open with a sound like the world screaming, a rift yawning wide for the briefest of moments before snapping shut with finality. The boy’s scent lingered, faint and fading, a ghost already slipping through her grasp, as if he had been plucked from existence itself. Nagini hissed, her tongue flicking wildly, searching, seeking, but the trail was dissipating like smoke on the wind, leaving behind only the barest whisper of honey and lightning, a taunting reminder of what had been stolen from her.
Her master’s rage was a living thing, a cold fire that licked through the bond they shared, scalding her from within, making her scales itch with the need to act, to hunt, to rend.
Find him, the command came again, a blade of ice driven into her mind, no room for refusal, no tolerance for failure. No matter where he runs. The words were a vow, a curse, a promise of suffering if she did not obey. She lunged again, her massive body slamming against the glowing runes that littered the floor, her coils crushing the remnants of the ritual’s power beneath her weight, but the magic was already spent, its energy dissipated, its purpose fulfilled.
The boy had slipped through her grasp, and the knowledge burned like venom in her veins. Only the woman remained.
Narcissa stood tall amidst the wreckage, her wand raised in a gesture that was both defiance and desperation, her eyes blazing with a fire that would not be quenched, even now, even in the face of certain death. It was a look that might have given a lesser creature pause, but Nagini was no lesser creature. She was death given form, a relic of a time when the world was wilder and crueler, and the woman’s courage was nothing but a fleeting amusement, a final spark before the dark swallowed her whole.
Nagini’s jaws parted wider, her hunger a yawning chasm, her fangs glistening with venom that dripped in eager anticipation. Her master’s will propelled her forward, a relentless force that brooked no hesitation, and she struck, her body a blur of scaled fury, her fangs seeking the soft, vulnerable flesh of the woman’s throat, the promise of pain and submission a sweet symphony in her mind.
The hunt for the boy would come later. Now, there was only the woman, and the satisfaction of watching defiance crumble into silence.
Draco's scream was torn from his throat as the very fabric of reality twisted around him, the sensation nothing like the controlled discomfort of Apparition nor the calculated precision of Portkey travel—this was an annihilation of self, a violent unmaking that ripped through every fiber of his being with the merciless efficiency of a butcher's blade.
His bones were no longer solid but threads being pulled from some cosmic tapestry, his blood no longer liquid but molten fire coursing through collapsing veins, his soul stretched so thin across the screaming void between worlds that he feared he might dissolve entirely, scattered across dimensions like ashes on a hurricane wind.
The silver locket burned against his wrist with a heat that surpassed mere pain, its metal searing flesh with the intensity of a blacksmith's forge, the Black family crest branding him even as its chain sawed deeper into his skin, each link tightening like a serpent's coils until fresh blood welled forth in ruby droplets that sizzled as they fell, each one igniting briefly in the chaos before being swallowed by the maelstrom.
The world had become a nightmare of bleeding colors—crimson rune-light dissolving into gold Veela magic, swirling with tendrils of inky blackness that lashed like living shadows—all churning together in a vortex that assaulted every sense, the visual cacophony matched only by the deafening roar of unraveling magic that pounded against his eardrums like a thousand thunderclaps.
Somewhere in the madness, his mother's final words echoed faintly, a ghostly whisper nearly lost beneath the storm. Find the Founder's relic. But even as he grasped at them, they were drowned by a voice that cut through dimensions with razor precision, cold and high and terrible, a sound that bypassed his ears to scrape directly against his soul.
"Homenum Revelio!" Voldemort's spell tore after him like a hunting beast, its magic a spectral claw that raked across the tattered edges of Draco's being, hooking into the very essence of him with predatory intent, dragging with the weight of a thousand anchors.
For one heart-stopping moment, Draco felt himself being pulled backward, the vortex itself warping as the spell's power sought to reel him in like a fish on a line, his body stretching agonizingly between worlds. His Veela magic erupted in response, a last, desperate defense— a burst of golden light that flared from his skin like a dying star, so bright it bleached the swirling colors to blinding white—and the locket answered with a pulse so violent it near shattered his wrist bones, the sudden wrench sending him spinning free just as the spell's claws closed on empty air.
The near-miss left him raw, his mind scraped hollow, his magic flickering weakly like a guttering candle in a storm, the certainty of his narrow escape a brand upon his thoughts: I almost had me.
The Dark Lord's presence lingered at the edges of perception, a stain upon reality itself, and Draco knew with sickening clarity that only the ritual's ancient power—and his mother's sacrifice—had saved him from being dragged back to hell.
The vortex convulsed around him, the maelstrom reaching a crescendo of light and sound so overwhelming it ceased to be sensory input and became pure pain, his nerves alight with a fire that threatened to reduce him to screaming atoms.
Fragments of memory and premonition flashed before him—Hogwarts' once-proud spires crumbling to dust, his father's broken body sprawled across marble floors, his mother standing alone with her wand raised against impossible darkness—each image more devastating than the last, a slideshow of despair that lasted both seconds and eternities before dissolving into the yawning black of absolute nothingness.
His Veela magic sputtered, its usual radiance dimmed to a feeble glow, as if the ritual were feeding upon it, draining his power along with the blood still dripping from his locket-bound wrist.
Yet through it all, the locket remained—a constant, searing agony, its heat now so intense he could smell his own flesh cooking, the scent of burning skin mingling with the ozone-charged air. He clung to it regardless, his fingers fused to the metal by pain or fate or both, for it was the only tether left to a world that might already be lost, the only proof that Narcissa Malfoy had ever existed, that her sacrifice had meaning.
I'll find a way back, he thought, the words a mantra against the void, a spell in their own right. I have to.
The universe answered with violence. One final, bone-shattering wrench— And he landed in mud.
The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop a cold, stinging lash against Draco's battered skin, the water running in rivulets down his face and mingling with the blood from his split lip, the metallic taste lingering on his tongue like a bitter reminder of his helplessness.
Thunder rumbled overhead, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, the vibrations traveling up through the mud that clung to his knees and into his bones, making his teeth rattle with each earth-shaking peal. He gasped for air, his lungs burning as if filled with smoke, his fingers clawing at the churned earth beneath him, the cold, clinging mud oozing between his fingers like some living thing seeking to pull him under, to swallow him whole.
The locket hung from his wrist like a dead weight, its once-gleaming surface now dull and pitted, the intricate Black family crest barely visible beneath layers of grime and tarnish, its emeralds dark and lifeless as if the magic that had once pulsed within them had been drained away by the violent journey between worlds.
His broken wand lay half-buried in the filth beside him, its splintered halves catching the intermittent flashes of lightning that split the sky, the faint glimmer of the unicorn hair core barely visible beneath the muck—a pathetic, broken remnant of the power he had once wielded so effortlessly.
Where am I?
Draco's heart pounding so violently he could feel it in his throat, each beat a painful throb that threatened to choke him. The air itself felt wrong, thick and oppressive as if the very atmosphere resisted his presence, pressing down on him with a weight that made each breath a struggle, the magic that normally thrummed through the world around him conspicuously absent, leaving only a hollow, aching void where his senses told him power should be.
He reached inward, grasping desperately for the well of Veela magic that had always answered his call, but it was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands—the golden power flickered weakly within him, sputtering like a dying candle flame in this alien world that seemed determined to smother it.
Mother, what have you done? The thought was a prayer, a plea sent out into the uncaring storm, but there was no answer, no comforting voice in the darkness—only the endless drumming of the rain and the crushing weight of his solitude, more complete than anything he had ever known. Draco forced his eyes open against the stinging rain, blinking rapidly as his vision swam with pain and exhaustion, the world resolving slowly into a nightmare landscape that bore no resemblance to anything he had ever known.
Towering walls of ancient stone loomed above him, their massive faces stretching upward until they disappeared into the roiling storm clouds, their surfaces scarred and pitted with countless cracks and fissures that spoke of battles beyond counting, of sieges endured and attacks repelled, the stones themselves seeming to whisper of blood and fire and endless suffering.
The walls hummed with a strange, unsettling energy that resonated in Draco's bones, a vibration that reminded him faintly of Hogwarts' ancient wards but twisted somehow, distorted as if viewed through a cracked mirror, the magic—if it could even be called that—of this world a grotesque parody of what he knew.
This isn't Hogwarts. This isn't home. The realization struck him with the force of a well-aimed curse, his Veela soul trembling within him as it screamed its protest at this wrongness, this place where nothing was as it should be.
Movement beyond the walls caught his eye, a shadow so massive it seemed to blot out the sky itself, its approach sending tremors through the earth that Draco could feel even through the mud.
The creature—for it could be nothing else—stood at least fifty meters tall, its skinless form glistening grotesquely in the intermittent flashes of lightning, raw muscles and tendons exposed to the elements, pulsing with an unnatural vitality that sent waves of revulsion through Draco's body. Steam rose from its massive frame in great billowing clouds, curling into the storm- wracked sky like the breath of some primordial dragon, each slow, deliberate step shaking the ground with a deep, bone-rattling thud that seemed to echo in Draco's chest.
Its face was a nightmare given form—a grotesque rictus grin stretched impossibly wide across its features, revealing row upon row of jagged, yellowed teeth each the size of a grown man, the grin fixed and unchanging as if carved into its very flesh.
But worst of all were its eyes—empty, soulless voids that nevertheless saw him, locked onto his trembling form with a hunger that was beyond animal, beyond anything Draco could comprehend, a mindless, insatiable need that made his Veela blood scream in protest even as his mind recoiled in primal terror.
A Titan, the word came unbidden to his mind, plucked from the very air of this cursed world, and with it came the certain knowledge that this was no mere beast but a force of nature given form, a walking catastrophe that existed only to consume and destroy.
The Titan's head tilted slightly, its impossible grin seeming to widen further as it focused on him, and Draco felt the weight of its attention like a physical blow, pressing him deeper into the mud, stripping away what little remained of his composure and leaving only raw, naked fear.
Mother, you sent me to hell. The thought was a scream inside his skull, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird as the Titan's shadow loomed ever larger, its steaming breath curling around him like the fingers of some malevolent spirit.
Draco scrambled to his feet, his legs trembling violently beneath him, his waterlogged robes clinging to his skin with a weight that threatened to pull him back down into the mire. The compound around him was a maze of rusted iron and rotting wood, the air thick with the stench of human sweat and corroded metal, undercut by something sharper and more primal—the coppery tang of blood, perhaps, or the acrid bite of fear-sweat from countless prisoners.
Soldiers in beige uniforms moved through the storm with practiced efficiency, their rifles glinting dully in the poor light, the swords at their hips swinging with each purposeful stride, their voices barking orders in a language that was utterly foreign yet somehow familiar, as if his magic were struggling to translate the words even as they were spoken. Their uniforms bore an ominous insignia—a jagged white starburst on a field of red, encircled by stark white lines— that seemed to radiate authority and menace in equal measure, a symbol of ruthless power in a brutal, unforgiving world.
A boot connected sharply with his ribs, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a pained gasp as he was rolled onto his back, mud splattering across his face and into his mouth, the taste of earth and blood flooding his senses.
"Get up, Eldian scum," a voice sneered from above him, the words dripping with contempt so thick it was nearly tangible, the tone colder than the rain soaking through his clothes.
Draco's vision swam as he looked up, blinking against the downpour to see a soldier towering over him, his beige uniform darkened by rain, the barrel of his rifle glinting with a promise of violence even as the man's free hand reached down to yank Draco upright with a grip that would leave bruises.
The soldier's face was all hard angles and sharper contempt, his eyes boring into Draco with a look that stripped him of humanity, reducing him to something less than an animal—something to be used and discarded without a second thought.
"Move," the man growled, his breath reeking of stale tobacco and cheaper liquor, the heat of it against Draco's face a stark contrast to the chill of the rain.
Behind the soldier, others were herding a line of prisoners through the mud, their chains rattling with each shuffling step, their shouts and pleas swallowed by the storm's relentless roar. The prisoners were gaunt, their faces hollowed by hunger and despair, their clothes little more than rags hanging from skeletal frames, and with a jolt of horror Draco realized that he was now one of them—just another nameless body to be processed in this nightmare world.
Eldian? The word echoed in Draco's mind, unfamiliar yet heavy with meaning, a label that clearly marked him as something despised in this place. What's an Eldian? Where am I? The questions swirled through his thoughts like leaves caught in a whirlpool, but there was no time to ponder them as the soldier's boot connected with his thigh, the sharp pain forcing him to stumble forward into the line of prisoners.
The chains around his wrists rattled with each movement, their weight a new and terrible kind of prison, the cold metal biting into his skin as he was shoved along with the others. The air was thick with the scent of rust and despair, the towering walls looming on all sides like the bones of some long-dead behemoth, their primal energy a constant, oppressive reminder of his utter isolation in this alien world. The Titan's shadow lingered at the edges of his vision, its grotesque smile burned into his mind's eye, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him still, its empty eyes tracking his every move with that same mindless hunger.
The soldiers dragged their human cargo through the compound, their grips bruising, their voices harsh as whips as they barked orders that sent prisoners scrambling to obey. The other captives stared at Draco as he passed, their eyes hollow and sunken, their faces gaunt masks of resignation that spoke of hope long since carved away by suffering. They didn't remark on his ruined silk robes, now little more than sodden rags clinging to his frame, nor the broken wand still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, its splinters digging into his palm—instead, their gazes locked onto his hair, pale as moonlight and still faintly aglow with the remnants of his Veela magic despite his best efforts to suppress it.
In this place of mud and misery, his hair was a beacon, a brand that marked him as other, as something strange and dangerous in a world that already reeked of cruelty.
I don't belong here, he thought desperately, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged beast. But where do I belong?
"Pretty," one of the prisoners spat as Draco was shoved past, the word dripping with disdain as the man's cracked lips curled into a sneer. "Marleyan's new pet?"
The term “Marleyan” was heavy with venom, a slur laden with generations of hatred and fear, the prisoner's eyes glinting with malice but also a deep, weary resignation, as if he'd seen too many like Draco broken by this world and its merciless rules. The sharp crack of a whip cut through the air, making Draco flinch violently, his body reacting before his mind could process the sound, his chains rattling as he stumbled.
The soldier behind him yanked him upright with a grip that would leave finger-shaped bruises, his breath hot and foul against Draco's neck as he growled, "Move, bitch," the word landing like a slap, a deliberate stripping away of whatever dignity Draco might have clung to. For a moment, pure Malfoy pride flared in his chest, his lips parting to spit some retort about who he was, who his family was, but the words died unspoken as the reality of his situation crashed over him—here, in this place, he was no one.
I'm a Malfoy, he wanted to snarl, but the words rang hollow even in his own mind, meaningless in a world where his name carried no weight, where his lineage meant nothing. I'm nobody. The truth of it cut deeper than any insult, than any physical wound, and he hated how easily the realization settled into his bones, how right it felt in this place that seemed designed to break men down to their most basic parts.
Eren stood motionless in the shadow of the supply crate, his broad shoulders pressed against the rough wood, the steady weight of his cane grounding him as the rain hammered down upon the compound with relentless fury, transforming the hard-packed earth into a churning sea of mud that sucked at boots and swallowed hope with equal indifference.
The rhythmic pounding of the downpour should have been soothing, a natural counterpoint to the chaos that churned endlessly in his mind, but instead it only amplified the exhaustion that had settled deep into his bones, a weariness that went beyond physical fatigue and into something far more profound—a soul-deep tiredness from bearing witness to too much blood, too many screams, the endless cycle of death and rebirth that had become his existence.
Within him, the Titan stirred restlessly, its immense power humming just beneath his skin like a second heartbeat, a constant reminder of the monster he had willingly become in pursuit of an ideal that grew more nebulous with each passing day. Freedom, he thought bitterly, the word tasting like ashes on his tongue, the concept that had once burned so brightly in his chest now feeling like a distant star, its light obscured by the smoke of countless pyres.
The towering walls that surrounded them, their scarred surfaces bearing the marks of countless battles both won and lost, seemed to mock him with their permanence, their unyielding presence a physical manifestation of the prison they had all been born into, and he found himself wondering if freedom had ever been anything more than a carefully constructed lie, a story he’d told himself to justify the atrocities he’d committed and the ones he had yet to perform.
The line of prisoners shuffled past in their rusted chains, the rhythmic clinking of metal links blending with the squelch of mud underfoot, their gaunt faces hollowed by hunger and despair, their eyes downcast in the manner of those who had long since learned the futility of hope. Eren watched them with sharp eyes that missed nothing—not the subtle flinch of a man anticipating a blow, not the way another’s shoulders slumped under the weight of invisible burdens, not the quiet trembling of hands that had once been steady.
Eldians, he thought, the word heavy with the weight of centuries of persecution, of blood spilled and lives ruined, a curse passed down through generations like some malignant heirloom. He was one of them, bound by blood and history, marked by the power that coursed through his veins, and yet he was also something more, something other, and the Titan within him growled its approval, urging him to act, to fight, to tear apart the chains that bound them all with tooth and claw until the earth ran red with the blood of their oppressors.
With deliberate effort, he pushed the impulse down, his jaw clenching until his teeth ached, his fingers tightening around the smooth wood of his cane until his knuckles turned white. Not now. Not here. The compound was a cage within a cage, and for all his power, he was as much a prisoner as the others—bound not by physical chains but by duty, by memory, by the ghosts that whispered to him in the quiet hours before dawn.
The air in the compound felt heavier today, charged with a tension that went beyond the usual pall of despair, as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for something to break. The rain, relentless and cold, seemed to carry a strange undercurrent, a faint hum of energy that set Eren’s nerves on edge and made the Titan within him restless, its instincts sharpening with an unfamiliar hunger.
What is it? He wondered, his gaze sweeping over the bedraggled procession with renewed intensity, the rain running in cold rivulets down his neck, the mud clinging to his boots with stubborn persistence.
The Coordinate—that ancient, unfathomable power that connected all Subjects of Ymir— thrummed faintly in response, a whisper of something beyond his understanding, beyond his control, stirring memories of battles fought and lives lost, of connections forged in blood and fire. His heart began to pound with a rhythm not entirely his own, a syncopated beat that set his nerves alight, and then, as if drawn by some unseen force, his eyes found the source of the disturbance.
The boy was slight in stature, his frame drowned in sodden rags that might once have been fine clothing, his pale skin marred by bruises and fresh cuts, but there was no mistaking the otherworldly aura that clung to him like a second skin. His hair, the color of starlight on snow, shimmered with an ethereal glow that defied the gloom of the compound, a beacon in the shadows that seemed to pulse in time with Eren’s own quickening heartbeat.
And his scent—sweet and wild like a thunderstorm breaking over an ancient forest, crisp and electric with something that was undeniably magic—cut through the usual stench of rust and despair and unwashed bodies, stirring something deep in Eren’s core that he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t hunger, not the raw, gnawing need that drove him in battle, nor was it the cold, calculating rage that fueled his Titan’s destructive power.
It was something far more unsettling—recognition, as if this stranger, this so-called Eldian scum with eyes like a cornered animal, was a piece of some grand design that Eren had only just begun to glimpse, a missing fragment of a puzzle he hadn’t known he was trying to solve.
His fingers tightened around the cane until the wood groaned in protest, his entire body thrumming with the intensity of the connection he felt, the way this boy’s mere presence made his blood sing with a heat that had nothing to do with rage and everything to do with possession. It was dangerous, this pull, a distraction he couldn’t afford in the middle of a war that demanded his full attention, his complete focus.
But the Titan didn’t care for strategy or consequences—it only knew that it wanted, with a primal intensity that bordered on obsession, to claim, to protect, to devour.
The boy’s magic—because what else could that golden flicker be, that spark that answered Eren’s own power like a mirror reflecting flame—was weak here, faltering as if the very air of this world sought to smother it, but it called to him all the same, a siren song he lacked the strength to resist. His jaw clenched, his pulse hammering in his throat as his gaze traced the bruises mottling the boy’s pale skin, the blood welling from the wounds on his wrist where manacles had bitten deep, the silver eyes that held a mixture of fear and defiance that was achingly familiar.
Who are you? He thought, the question echoing in the hollow spaces of his mind, the spaces he’d thought long since filled with nothing but vengeance and regret. You don’t belong here. But then, neither do I.
A sharp shout broke the moment as a soldier shoved the boy forward with unnecessary force, sending him stumbling to his knees in the mud, and Eren’s Titan responded with a growl so deep it vibrated in the air around them, a sound more felt than heard.
Without thinking, he stepped forward, ignoring the warning looks from nearby soldiers, his cane sinking into the muck with each determined step. The boy’s head snapped up at his approach, those silver eyes widening as they locked onto Eren’s with an intensity that stole his breath, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them—two lost creatures caught in a dance older than the walls, older than the Titans, older perhaps than time itself.
Eren’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile that held equal parts curiosity and hunger, a predator recognizing another predator despite the chains and the fear.
You’re not from here. But you’re mine. The thought was unbidden, primal, rising from some deep place within him that had nothing to do with strategy or revenge, and it terrified him even as it thrilled him, a truth he couldn’t deny even if he’d wanted to.
Draco's magic, usually a roaring tide beneath his skin, now felt like a distant whisper, an ocean reduced to a shallow stream, its power stifled by the oppressive air of this alien world that seemed to actively resist the very concept of sorcery. He reached for it desperately, fingers twitching at his sides as if he could physically grasp the fading energy, but it slipped through his mental fingers like smoke, leaving behind only frustration and a growing sense of helplessness.
His mind churned with unanswered questions, each more terrifying than the last—what was this place where magic seemed to wither and die, where towering monsters with grotesque smiles roamed beyond colossal walls, where soldiers spoke in harsh tongues and treated prisoners like cattle?
The image of the Titan burned behind his eyelids every time he blinked, its skinless form glistening with unnatural vitality, that impossibly wide grin splitting its face like a wound, those empty eyes that somehow saw everything—he could still feel its gaze like a physical weight, and a shudder ran through him at the thought that even now, somewhere beyond these walls, it might be watching, waiting, hungry.
Then, as if summoned by his spiraling thoughts, he saw him.
The man stood apart from the other soldiers, his broad frame leaning casually against a weathered supply crate, his posture deceptively relaxed but radiating a tension that set Draco's teeth on edge.
He was young—perhaps only a few years older than Draco himself—but there was something unnaturally ancient in the way he carried himself, in the deliberate way his fingers curled around the worn handle of his cane, its tip sinking slightly into the mud where it compensated for the absence of his left leg, lost below the knee, leaving him balanced with a quiet defiance that spoke of battles survived. His dark hair hung in damp strands around a face that might have been handsome if not for the hardness in his expression, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones giving him a predatory look that made the fine hairs on Draco's arms stand on end.
But it was his eyes that truly arrested Draco's attention—green like cursed fire, bright and unyielding, their intensity burning through the rain and mud and misery of the compound as they locked onto Draco's with terrifying focus.
The moment their gazes met, something primal and electric surged through Draco's veins, his Veela magic—dormant and weakened in this strange world—suddenly roaring to life with a force that left him breathless. It sang in his blood, a wild, reckless melody that made his heart stutter and his knees weaken, the magic responding to this stranger in a way it never had to anyone before, not even during the height of his awakening.
The connection was instant and undeniable, a pull so strong it was nearly physical, exhilarating in its intensity yet terrifying in its implications. Draco's breath caught in his throat, his body freezing as if the world had narrowed to just those piercing green eyes and the inexplicable, overwhelming sense that this moment—this meeting—was somehow inevitable.
No, he thought desperately, his mother's warning echoing through his mind like a tolling bell.
Trust no one. Especially not green-eyed boys.
This wasn't Potter—the eyes were wrong, too sharp, too knowing, holding none of Potter's brash heroism but instead a depth of darkness that spoke of battles fought and lines crossed— and yet there was something hauntingly familiar in their intensity, a promise of danger that made Draco's blood sing even as his soul trembled in warning. His Veela magic flared uncontrollably, a golden shimmer breaking through his skin to light the mud around his feet in an ethereal glow, and Draco cursed it silently, cursed the traitorous pull that drew him toward this stranger like a moth to flame.
Who are you?
The question burned in Draco's mind, his pulse racing with equal parts fear and fascination as the man's gaze traced over him with unsettling focus, taking in his bruises, his torn and muddied robes, the faint golden luminescence of his skin that no amount of suppression could fully hide. There was something in that look—something not entirely human, a hunger that went beyond physical need, a curiosity that bordered on obsession—that made Draco's chest tighten with a mixture of dread and something dangerously close to anticipation.
He's not like the others, Draco realized with dawning horror, his thoughts spinning wildly. He's something else, something more. The locket around his wrist pulsed suddenly, sharp and hot against his skin, its warning cutting through the fog of his instincts like a knife. Trust no one.
The soldier—Aiden, the other soldiers had called him—yanked sharply on Draco's chains, the metal biting into his already raw wrists with fresh cruelty, drawing beads of blood that welled up and dripped onto the mud below.
"Move, pretty boy," Aiden sneered, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol and rotting teeth, his grip tightening as he prepared to drag Draco forward.
But then—
A shift in the air, a tension so palpable it made the rain seem to hesitate in its fall.
The dark-haired man pushed off from the crate with predatory grace, his cane tapping once against the muddy ground in a sound that seemed to echo unnaturally loud in the sudden hush. Aiden froze, his grip slackening slightly, his eyes darting to the man with a flicker of fear that he couldn't quite hide.
"Kruger," one of the other soldiers hissed, his voice low and urgent, his gaze darting nervously between the man and the soldier. "Don't."
The man ignored the warning, his attention fixed solely on Draco with an intensity that was almost feral, his gaze burning with a possessiveness that made Draco's breath hitch. There was hunger there, yes, but also something deeper, something ancient and powerful that resonated with Draco's Veela magic in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He sees me, Draco thought, his heart pounding so violently he feared it might burst from his chest. Not just my face, not just another prisoner—he sees me, and I don't know why it matters.
The man's lips twitched, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous—a spark of recognition, of challenge, of something Draco couldn't name but felt in his very soul. And in that moment, Draco felt it too—a flicker of something old and powerful stirring between them, a connection that defied logic or reason, that terrified him even as it thrilled him to his core.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading, hope you guys enjoyed the new version! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3
Chapter 6: Chapter 2 [NEW VERSION]
Chapter Text
The rain continued its relentless assault on the internment zone, transforming the already dismal compound into a quagmire of despair where every footstep sank into the cold, clinging mud with a wet squelch that echoed the hopelessness permeating the air.
Draco stumbled forward, his body wracked with exhaustion and pain, the iron shackles around his wrists rubbing his skin raw with every forced movement, the metal biting deep enough to draw thin trails of blood that mingled with the rainwater running down his arms. His once-fine silk robes, symbols of Malfoy pride and pureblood superiority, hung in tattered ruins about his gaunt frame, the fabric so thoroughly caked with filth that its original silver-green hue was indistinguishable beneath layers of grime and mud.
The oppressive atmosphere of this alien world pressed down on him like a physical weight, its unfamiliar energies actively resisting the magic that had once flowed so freely through his veins, reducing what should have been a roaring ocean of power to little more than a feeble trickle that flickered weakly within him, as desperate and trapped as he was.
Where am I?
The question screamed through his mind with the force of a bludger to the skull, his pulse a frantic drumbeat echoing in his ears since the ritual’s violent energies had torn him from Malfoy Manor’s dungeons and deposited him in this waking nightmare. His mother’s final words lingered at the edges of his consciousness, a ghostly whisper that offered no comfort.
Find the Founder’s relic.
But here, in this hellscape of mud, chains, and towering walls that seemed to mock him with their impenetrability, her directive felt like a cruel jest, the desperate plea of a woman who had sent her son into the unknown with nothing but hope and a broken wand.
The Marleyan officer standing before him was a squat, piggish man with a face like spoiled meat and a sneer that curled his lips in a way that reminded Draco uncomfortably of his father’s most disdainful expressions, though Lucius Malfoy’s contempt had always been wrapped in velvet elegance whereas this man’s was as crude as his stubby fingers.
With a rough, impersonal motion, the officer clamped a yellow armband around Draco’s torn sleeve, the fabric stiff with dried mud and sweat, the red star emblazoned upon it glaring like an accusation in the dim light.
“Welcome to your new life, Y-7890,” the officer spat, his voice dripping with mockery that made Draco’s fingers twitch with the urge to hex him into oblivion, if only his magic would cooperate. “First rule—no real names here. You’re nothing but a number now, Eldian scum.”
The words landed like a physical blow, the unfamiliar term “Eldian” cutting through Draco’s disorientation with its venom, a slur that carried echoes of the pureblood rhetoric he’d grown up with yet was imbued with a sharper, institutional hatred. His Veela magic flickered in response to his distress, a faint golden shimmer threatening to break through the careful suppression he’d maintained since arriving, but the very air of this world seemed determined to smother it, leaving him grasping internally for the power that had always been his birthright.
I’m a Malfoy, he wanted to snarl, to declare with the haughty superiority drilled into him since childhood, but the words turned to ash in his mouth, hollow and meaningless in a place where his name carried no weight, where his lineage meant less than the mud caking his boots. His fingers tightened reflexively around the broken halves of his hawthorn wand hidden in his sleeve, the splintered wood digging into his palm, the pain a grounding reminder of his father’s final act of sacrifice and his own catastrophic failures.
A soldier, his uniform stretched tight over a barrel chest and his breath reeking of stale tobacco and cheaper liquor, grabbed a handful of Draco’s pale hair, yanking his head back with a brutality that made his scalp burn and his eyes water.
“Look at this one—skin like milk, hair like starlight,” the man leered, his hot breath puffing against Draco’s face in nauseating waves, his eyes roving over Draco’s features with a lasciviousness that made his stomach churn. “Commander Calvi will want him for the officer’s quarters. Pretty thing like this don’t belong in the pits.”
The implication sent a wave of icy terror crashing through Draco’s veins, his Veela blood recoiling with a violence that nearly made him retch, memories of Voldemort’s possessive gaze and the Dark Lord’s intentions for him flashing through his mind with horrifying clarity. His magic, always tied to his emotions, flared instinctively, a golden spark igniting in the air around him that lit the mud at his feet with an ethereal glow.
The soldier’s grip loosened in surprise, his leer twisting into something darker, more calculating, as if he’d stumbled upon something valuable and unexpected. Draco cursed himself, his breath ragged as he wrestled his magic back under control, forcing the glow to dim, but the damage was done—the soldier’s expression now held the glint of a man who saw not just a prisoner, but a prize.
The sharp thud of wood against wet concrete cut through the drumming rain like a gunshot, the sound carrying an authority that made even the raindrops seem to hesitate in their descent.
“Leave him.” the voice was low and dangerous, the kind of voice that didn’t raise but didn’t need to, carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier, denser, as if the speaker commanded not just attention but the elements themselves.
Draco turned, his vision swimming from exhaustion and pain, to see the familiar limping figure he’d glimpsed earlier.
Now closer, the man’s Marleyan uniform hanging loosely on a frame honed by hardship, the fabric frayed at the seams and faded from relentless wear, its collar bearing the tarnished insignia of a disabled veteran. His dark hair clung to his scalp in damp, uneven strands, framing a face carved sharp by time and trial, its angles more severe under the rain’s unforgiving light, a predatory edge that stirred Draco’s unease as if he were prey caught in a hunter’s sights. He leaned heavily on a weathered oak cane, its tip sinking into the mud to compensate for the absence of his left leg below the knee, yet his stance held a coiled readiness, a quiet menace that belied his physical loss.
The rain seemed to curve around the man, as if unwilling to touch the space he occupied, and the prisoners nearest him shifted uneasily, their instincts sensing a predator cloaked in the guise of a broken soldier. The nameplate on his uniform read simply:
E. Kruger
The officer scoffed, though his sneer lacked its earlier conviction, his jowly face twitching with something uncomfortably close to fear. “Back off, Kruger. Your war hero days won’t save you now.” His words were brave, but the man’s voice cracked slightly on the veteran’s name, his fingers twitching toward the pistol at his hip in a gesture that was more nervous habit than genuine threat.
Kruger’s good eye—a piercing, unnatural green that burned like cursed fire in the gloom—locked onto Draco with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs, his Veela magic surging with a wild, reckless force that made his knees tremble and his heart stutter in his chest. It wasn’t just the threat of the soldier’s grip that had roused it, but something in Kruger’s gaze—a primal recognition, a challenge that felt like a spark striking a flint, igniting a fire that Draco could neither control nor understand.
Kruger’s scarred face softened, a flicker of something almost human—curiosity, perhaps, or something darker—crossing his expression before it hardened again into unreadable steel. His fingers tightened briefly on his cane, the wood creaking under the pressure, and his head tilted ever so slightly, as if studying a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find.
Draco’s breath hitched, caught in the weight of that gaze, which seemed to see not just his bruises and tattered robes but the very core of him—the Veela, the Malfoy, the boy who was no longer sure what he was. Mother warned me, he thought, her voice a tolling bell in his mind.
Trust no one. Especially not green-eyed boys.
Yet this man was no boy, and the pull between them was a living thing, a current that thrummed in Draco’s blood, both exhilarating and terrifying, as if their meeting was a thread woven into the fabric of fate itself.
“Article 12 of the Prisoner Code,” Kruger said, his voice steady and unyielding as iron, each word enunciated with the precision of a man who knew exactly how much weight they carried. “No unsanctioned contact with unbranded Eldians.” He tapped his cane once, sharply, toward the squat surveillance building that loomed in the middle distance, its darkened windows like watching eyes. “Shall we test that?”
The question hung between them, a challenge wrapped in calm certainty, the implication clear—Kruger knew something, had seen something through those windows that the others hadn’t, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. His gaze flicked briefly back to Draco, and in that fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them—a question, a warning, a promise—before his eye returned to the officer, cold and unrelenting.
The soldier holding Draco hesitated, his grip loosening, and the officer’s sneer faded into a scowl, his piggish eyes darting between Kruger and the surveillance building as if calculating odds only he could see. Around them, the other prisoners watched in tense silence, their hollow eyes flickering with something dangerously close to hope, their postures tensed as if expecting violence to erupt at any moment.
But after a long, breathless pause, the officer stepped back with a muttered curse that was half-relief, half-defeat, and the soldier, Aiden released Draco with a rough shove that sent him stumbling forward into the mud, his shackled hands barely saving him from faceplanting into the filth.
Draco’s chest heaved, his breath ragged as he fought the urge to lash out, to let his magic flare despite its weakness, but the weight of his mother’s locket burned against his wrist. Draco scrambled to his feet, his pulse a frantic drumbeat echoing in his ears, each thud a reminder of the terror and strange allure warring within him, his eyes locked on Kruger with a mixture of wariness and something dangerously close to awe.
Who is he?
The question burned in Draco’s mind, his Veela instincts screaming that this man was no ordinary soldier, no simple prisoner playing at authority—there was something in his bearing, in the way the very air seemed to still around him, that spoke of power carefully leashed but no less potent for its restraint.
That eye held him pinned as effectively as any spell, its gaze knowing in a way that made Draco’s skin prickle with awareness. Kruger’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous—a spark of recognition, of challenge, that seemed to answer Draco’s unspoken question with one of its own: Do you feel it too?
The air between them thrummed, heavy with unspoken truths, and Draco’s heart clenched with a fear that was as much about this man as it was about the world around them.
Especially not green-eyed boys.
But this was no boy, and yet that gaze was a storm, a force of nature that threatened to sweep Draco away entirely, and for the first time since arriving in this nightmare world, he found himself wondering if being lost might not be the worst fate after all.
Aiden spat into the mud at Draco’s feet, his face twisting into a sneer as he regained his composure, though his eyes still darted nervously toward Kruger. “This one’s too pretty for the pits,” He growled, yanking the chain attached to Draco’s shackles with a jerk that sent fresh pain lancing through his wrists. “He’s headed for the branding room—Commander’s orders. They’ll mark him proper there, make sure he knows his place.”
The words carried a sinister edge, conjuring visions of a shadowed chamber, its air thick with the acrid tang of charred flesh and the clatter of cruel instruments, a ritual designed to sear away what little remained of Draco’s identity in this alien world, leaving only the mark of his servitude.
Draco’s throat tightened, panic clawing at his chest as he rasped, “What’s the branding room?” His voice was barely above a whisper, raw and trembling, the question spilling out before he could stop it, a desperate plea for clarity in a world that offered none.
Aiden’s sneer widened, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “You’ll find out soon enough, pretty boy. It’s where we burn the filth out of you—make you one of us, or break you trying.”
A fresh wave of dread coursing through Draco’s veins, his mind reeling with images of searing metal and screams, his gaze darting to Kruger, searching for any sign of intervention, any hint that this man—this enigma—might stand between him and the horrors promised by the soldier’s words.
Kruger’s eye met his again, and for a fleeting second, the veteran’s expression shifted—a tightening of the jaw, a subtle flare of the nostril—that betrayed a flicker of something fierce and protective, as if the mention of the branding room had stirred something within him too.
His mother's locket pulsed again, a silent vow that he would find the Founder’s relic, if only to escape the fate this world seemed determined to carve into his flesh.
Behind them, the steady thud of a cane against wet earth marked Kruger’s presence, his limping gait a quiet counterpoint to the rain’s relentless drumming. Draco didn’t dare turn, but he felt the veteran’s gaze like a physical weight, that single eye boring into his back with an intensity that made his magic surge unbidden, a golden thread weaving through the air as if reaching for the man despite the danger.
Kruger moved with a predator’s grace, his cane sinking into the mud with each measured step, yet his silence was louder than Aiden’s taunts, heavy with unspoken intent. The prisoners they passed shrank back, their hollow eyes avoiding Kruger’s shadowed figure, as if his very presence carried a threat they dared not name.
Draco’s heart stuttered, torn between fear of the branding room and the inexplicable pull toward this man who seemed to command the very air around him, his scarred face and tattered uniform masking a power that resonated with Draco’s own faltering magic.
He’s watching me, Draco thought, the realization both terrifying and strangely anchoring, as if Kruger’s gaze were a lifeline in the storm of his dread. The locket pulsed harder, its heat a warning or a plea, and Draco’s fingers twitched, longing to grasp it, to anchor himself to anything but the enigma trailing behind him.
The branding chamber was a suffocating tomb of concrete and iron, its windowless walls stained with generations of soot and the faint, persistent coppery tang of old blood that no amount of scrubbing could ever fully erase, the scent of burnt flesh lingering in the stagnant air like a ghost of all those who had come before him.
Draco stood rigid against the rusted metal table, the cold iron shackles biting into his wrists and ankles with every slight movement, his once-fine robes now reduced to tattered rags that hung open to expose the pale, vulnerable skin of his left forearm where the faded Dark Mark coiled like a sleeping serpent, the skull and snake that had once burned with Voldemort's malignant power now little more than a shadow of its former self, yet still a grotesque reminder of the choices he'd made and the monster he'd served before fleeing into the unknown.
His Veela magic flickered weakly within him, a golden spark struggling to ignite in this oppressive atmosphere that seemed specifically designed to suffocate any power not born of this cruel world, and Draco's chest constricted with the crushing weight of his isolation, the devastating realization that he was utterly alone settling over him like a burial shroud as the chains rattled with his trembling.
I'm alone, he thought, the words a white-hot blade twisting in his gut, Mother, Father, gone, and I'm here, in this hell, branded and broken and bereft of everything that ever mattered.
The Marleyan officer looming over him was different from the one who'd first processed him—taller, broader, with a face like weathered stone and eyes that gleamed with the kind of sadistic pleasure Draco had seen in the worst of the Death Eaters during their most depraved revels, a look that promised pain would be both delivered and enjoyed.
In his hands, he held a branding iron, its tip glowing a vicious red-orange that pulsed like an evil heart, the heat radiating from it in visible waves that distorted the air around them, the shape at its end—a star within a circle, the symbol that had been seared into his consciousness since arriving in this nightmare—already beginning to burn itself into Draco's vision every time he blinked.
"Hold still, Y-7890," the officer grunted, his voice rough with the guttural accent of this foreign land, his lips curling into a smile that showed too many yellowed teeth and not nearly enough humanity, "This'll make you one of us. An Eldian, marked for life."
The words landed with the weight of an irreversible curse, their full meaning still unclear to Draco but their terrible intent unmistakable—this was a brand of ownership, no different than the Dark Mark had been, just more visible, more vulgar, another chain to bind him in a world that already felt like a prison.
Draco's heart pounded against his ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape, his mind spiraling through half-formed plans of escape that all ended the same way—with his magic still frustratingly out of reach, a ghost of power he could sense but not grasp, as if this world itself was rejecting his very essence.
Eldian.
Marleyan.
The terms were foreign, their histories and hatreds unknown to him, but the poisonous weight behind them was achingly familiar, echoing the pureblood rhetoric he'd been raised with, the same vicious divisions just with different names, different masters, same cruel game. He wanted to fight, to summon a spell with nothing but a flick of his fingers, to watch this smug bastard crumple under a well-placed Crucio the way so many others had, but his magic remained elusive, a whisper in a world that seemed determined to silence it forever.
The officer pressed the branding iron to his forearm, directly over the faded Dark Mark, and pain exploded through Draco's nervous system with the force of a lightning strike, a white-hot agony so intense his vision whited out completely for one endless moment, a scream tearing from his throat before he could stop it, the sound raw and broken in the confined space. He bit down hard on his lower lip, the coppery tang of blood flooding his mouth, warm and metallic, as he fought to swallow any further sounds, to deny this man the satisfaction of his suffering even as tears burned tracks down his filthy cheeks.
The iron hissed against his skin, the stench of his own burning flesh rising in a sickening cloud that made his stomach heave, the star-shaped brand searing itself over the Dark Mark in a grotesque overlay, one symbol of servitude replacing another, his body becoming a canvas for the hatreds of two different worlds.
From the shadowed corner of the room, Kruger watched the proceedings with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavier, his grip on the oak cane tightening until the tendons in his hand stood out in sharp relief against his skin, his knuckles bleaching white under the strain of his restraint. His good eye, that seemed to see straight through Draco's defenses to the core of him, never wavered from the scene.
Draco felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch, a pull that went beyond mere observation, as if Kruger could see past flesh and bone straight into the wounded heart of him where his magic flickered weakly like a dying star.
The pain of the branding was nothing compared to the intensity of that scrutiny, and despite himself, Draco's magic stirred in response to that green-eyed attention, a faint golden glow breaking through his skin for just a moment before he wrestled it back under control, panic surging through him like a tidal wave at the thought of discovery.
Stop it, he thought desperately, They'll see, they'll know, they'll tear me apart to find out what makes me glow—
The guards left eventually, their laughter echoing down the corridor as they departed, the sound fading into the distance until only Kruger remained, his presence a silent, brooding weight in the room that seemed to alter the very atmosphere.
Kruger limped forward, each step measured despite the obvious pain it caused him, the thump of his cane against the concrete floor a steady counterpoint to Draco's ragged, uneven breathing. From his pocket, he produced a handkerchief, the fabric soaked in something that smelled medicinal and sharp—alcohol, perhaps, or some herbal salve from this world that Draco couldn't name—and offered it wordlessly, his expression unreadable beneath the network of scars and the shadow of his bandage.
Draco recoiled instinctively, his branded arm throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat, his pulse hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat as his eyes narrowed with suspicion that was both learned and instinctual.
Trust no one. His mother's warning rang in his ears like a mantra, the only lifeline he had left in this waking nightmare, but Kruger's presence was a storm, unsettling and magnetic in equal measure, pulling at something deep in Draco's Veela core that he didn't fully understand and couldn't begin to articulate.
"What do you want?" He snapped, his voice hoarse from screaming, the words sharper than he'd intended but no less true for their venom, his body tensed as if expecting another blow even as some part of him leaned toward this enigmatic figure against his better judgment.
"Your name," Kruger said, the words shaped by an accent Draco couldn't place but that resonated in his bones all the same, "The real one."
The demand hung between them, simple and direct, and yet laden with implications Draco couldn't begin to unravel, a question that felt like both a test and a turning point he wasn't sure he was ready to face. Draco hesitated, his instincts warring within him—the ingrained need to hide, to protect himself, to keep his secrets close battling against the inexplicable pull he felt toward man, the way his magic stirred in response to that gaze like a flower turning toward the sun.
"Draco Malfoy," He said finally, the word slipping out before he could stop it, a whisper of truth in a world built on lies, his true name offered like a fragile gift he wasn't sure wouldn't be crushed in the taking.
Kruger's visible eye darkened, the green deepening like a storm at sea, as if the name carried some significance Draco couldn't fathom, some weight in this world that he had no way of knowing. "Draco Malfoy," He repeated, rolling the syllables over his tongue as if tasting them, his voice a low rumble that sent an involuntary shiver down Draco's spine, his Veela magic responding to the timbre in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying, a reaction he couldn't control even if he'd wanted to. "You don't belong here."
The statement was simple, matter-of-fact, and yet it carried the weight of absolute certainty, a truth that resonated in Draco's bones even as it raised a thousand more questions.
Before Draco could respond—to agree, to deny, to demand answers he wasn't sure he wanted—a sound cut through the heavy air of the chamber, a roar so deep and primal it vibrated in Draco's bones, shaking the walls around them and making the single bare light bulb flicker ominously as if the very electricity feared the source.
The Titan's bellow was a wound in the fabric of the world, its hunger a vast, mindless thing that resonated in Draco's blood, calling to the wild, untamed part of him that recognized predators and prey on an instinctual level no amount of civilization could erase. His magic flared in response, golden light breaking through his skin in a reckless, instinctive reaction to the monstrous presence outside, illuminating the grim chamber with an ethereal glow that was impossible to miss, a beacon in the darkness that might as well have been a target painted on his back.
Kruger moved faster than his limp should have allowed, crossing the distance between them in two long strides that spoke of a warrior's training despite his injuries, his calloused palm clamping over Draco's wrist with a grip like iron, the contact snuffing out the golden glow as effectively as if he'd doused it in water, his touch burning in a way that had nothing to do with pain.
"Don't. Ever. Do that here." Kruger whispered, his voice a blade honed to a killing edge, his eye boring into Draco's with an intensity that left no room for argument, the proximity making Draco acutely aware of the strength hidden in that battered body, the power that lurked beneath the surface of this enigmatic man. "They'll dissect you alive."
The warning was a growl, laced with something that might have been protectiveness, might have been possession, and Draco's breath hitched in his throat, his magic singing in response despite the pain, despite the fear, despite the very real danger of discovery. Because in that moment, chained and branded in a world not his own, Draco understood one thing—Kruger was dangerous, possibly the most dangerous thing in this nightmare, and yet, inexplicably, Draco wanted to trust him.
Kruger moved, the rhythmic thud of his cane striking the rain-slicked concrete like a slow-beating drum, each impact sending tiny ripples through the shallow puddles that had formed in the uneven depressions of the prison yard. His hand lifted, not quite making contact with Draco’s shackled wrist but hovering near enough that the heat radiating from his skin sent an involuntary shiver down Draco’s spine.
“Move,” Kruger commanded, his voice a low rumble that carried beneath the drumming rain, the word less a suggestion than an inevitability, softened only by the barest hint of something that might have been protection, though Draco couldn’t be sure. “To the cells. Now.”
Draco’s body reacted before his mind could fully process the order, his legs carrying him forward in stumbling, mechanical steps, the heavy iron chains dragging against his raw ankles with every movement, the dull clank of metal against wet stone punctuating the oppressive silence that had fallen over the yard.
The other prisoners melted back into the gloom as if by some unspoken signal, their hollow-eyed gazes fixed firmly on the ground, their postures hunched with instinctive deference, their fear of Kruger so palpable it seemed to thicken the air between them.
Aiden lingered at the edges of the group, his earlier sneer now twisted into something far less certain, his bravado crumbling beneath the weight of Kruger’s unflinching stare until, with a muttered oath that was half defiance and half surrender, he too retreated into the shadows, his presence dissipating like smoke in the wind.
Draco’s pulse hammered in his throat, each frantic beat a collision of terror and something far more dangerous—something perilously close to hope, fragile and unwelcome but impossible to ignore. His magic thrummed beneath his skin in time with Kruger’s measured footsteps, as though drawn inexorably to the quiet, coiled power that radiated from the man like heat from banked embers, a presence that was at once a threat and a promise.
Who are you?
The question burned through Draco’s thoughts with renewed intensity and yet, as he followed Kruger’s broad silhouette through the downpour, the silver locket hidden beneath his sleeve pulsed against his wrist, its heat a silent counterpoint to the storm, a reminder of the mission he could not abandon.
A rough hand seized Draco’s arm, yanking him to a halt with a force that sent a jolt of pain through his already bruised shoulder. A new soldier, his face pockmarked and his eyes glinting with a cold, bureaucratic cruelty, stepped into their path, his Marleyan uniform sodden but pristine compared to Kruger’s tattered one.
“This one’s mine,” the soldier barked, his voice sharp and officious, the tone of a man who thrived on petty power. “Orders are to take him to the cells. Commander’s directive.” His grip tightened, fingers digging into Draco’s flesh like claws.
Kruger’s cane struck the ground with a sharp crack, the sound cutting through the rain like a blade, halting the soldier mid-step.
“Stand down, Varkis,” Kruger said, his voice low and lethal, each syllable laced with an authority that made the air itself seem to still. His gaze fixed on the soldier, unyielding and cold, but when it flicked to Draco, there was a fleeting softness—a glint of something that might have been a concern, or something deeper, more possessive. “He’s under my charge.”
His words were simple, but they carried a weight that made Varkis’s hand falter, his fingers loosening slightly as he glanced between Kruger and Draco, uncertainty creeping into his scowl.
Draco’s Veela magic pulsed again, a golden thread weaving toward Kruger, as if drawn to the quiet storm of his presence, and for a moment, their gazes locked—Draco’s eyes wide with fear and confusion, Kruger’s single green eye burning with an intensity that seemed to see straight through him, to the very core of his faltering magic and fractured resolve.
“You don’t have the rank for this, Kruger,” Varkis snapped, though his voice wavered, his bravado undercut by the unease in his posture. “Commander’s orders—”
“Test me,” Kruger interrupted, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, the words a promise of violence wrapped in calm certainty. He stepped closer, his cane sinking deeper into the mud, and the rain seemed to bend further away from him, as if even the storm feared his wrath. “Take him, and we’ll see who answers to the Commander.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, and Varkis’s face paled, his grip on Draco’s arm falling away entirely as he stepped back.
Draco’s chest heaved, his breath ragged as the magic flared brighter, a golden shimmer that danced across his skin before fading under the oppressive weight of the internment zone’s air. He’s protecting me, Draco thought, the realization of a spark in the dark. Kruger’s gaze returned to him, steady and unreadable, but the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed a flicker of something fierce, as if the soldier’s attempt to take Draco had stirred a deeper instinct within him.
The locket’s warmth spread through him, a fleeting comfort in the suffocating dark, and with it came another thought, one he had not dared to voice until now. Could he be an ally? The possibility was as treacherous as it was tempting, a flicker of light in the endless night of this place, but Draco knew better than to grasp at it too eagerly.
Allies were rare in the shadows, and trust was a currency more costly than gold. Yet as the heavy prison doors groaned shut behind them, sealing them inside the dripping stone corridors where the air smelled of mildew and old blood, Draco couldn’t help but watch the set of Kruger’s shoulders, the way the dim torchlight caught on the scars that mapped his skin like a history written in pain.
There were stories there, Draco was certain. Stories of violence and survival, of battles fought in the dark. And if there was one thing Draco had learned in his short, brutal life, it was that stories had power. Perhaps even enough to change his fate.
The prison yard stretched before them like a living nightmare, a vast expanse of churned mud and despair where the rain fell in relentless sheets, transforming the ground into a sucking quagmire that clung to boots and dragged at every step as if the earth itself sought to swallow them whole.
Kruger moved through the chaos, his limp exaggerated just enough to be convincing, the rhythmic thump of his cane against the sodden ground a carefully calculated performance designed to lull the watching guards into underestimating him, each measured step a mask that hid the predator beneath.
Draco stumbled alongside him, his wrists chafed raw from the iron shackles that bound him, the fresh brand on his forearm pulsing with a heat that rivaled the Dark Mark's remembered pain, the Eldian armband scratching against the seared flesh like a cruel joke. His mind churned with unanswered questions that swirled like the rain-lashed puddles around their feet.
Who was this enigmatic man leading him through hell, why had he intervened when all others turned away, what game was being played that Draco couldn't yet see?
As they picked their way through the squalid yard, Draco's sharpened senses—honed by years of pureblood politics and Death Eater survival—noticed three crucial details that painted a very different picture of the man beside him.
The other prisoners gave Kruger a wide berth, their hollow eyes darting away the moment he came near, their gaunt faces tightening with something that wasn't quite fear but wasn't respect either, a wary recognition that spoke of unspoken dangers and whispered rumors, their hurried steps creating an invisible perimeter around him as if he carried some contagious curse they dared not catch.
Kruger's injured leg, the one he favored so heavily with each theatrical step of his cane, occasionally bore his full weight with perfect ease when he thought no one was looking, the subtle shift in his gait so minute that only someone watching closely would catch the discrepancy, the way his shoulders didn't quite compensate for the supposed injury, the too-smooth transfer of weight that betrayed the limp as nothing more than an elaborate charade for their captors' benefit.
Most telling of all was the iron grip Kruger maintained on Draco's elbow, fingers digging in with a strength that belied his gaunt frame and bandaged eye, the pressure just shy of painful but undeniably possessive, a silent declaration that spoke volumes about the true power hidden beneath the facade of a broken veteran—this was no cripple, no helpless prisoner, but a wolf in sheep's clothing who had claimed Draco for reasons yet unknown.
"You're not really a cripple," Draco muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the drumming rain, his eyes narrowing as he tested the waters, watching Kruger's reaction from his periphery even as he kept his own expression carefully neutral.
The cane in the man's hand struck a loose stone with deliberate force, sending it skittering across the mud toward the electrified fence that ringed the compound, the resulting spark and buzz drawing a shouted curse from a nearby guard who turned to investigate the disturbance.
In that split-second of distraction, Kruger moved with startling speed, yanking Draco into the shadowed alcove of a supply shed with a strength that left no doubt about his true physical capabilities, the bandage over his right eye slipping just enough to reveal what should have been a ruined socket was in fact a perfectly healthy eye, its twin to the first, blazing with an intensity that stole Draco's breath.
The jagged scars remained, twisting Kruger's face into its permanent grimace, but the man before him now was no broken veteran—he was young, vital, dangerous in a way that made Draco's pulse race with equal parts fear and exhilaration.
"And you're not really human," Kruger countered, his voice dropping to a low growl that vibrated through Draco's bones.
Those twin gteen eyes pinning him in place like a butterfly to a specimen board, the words a blade that cut straight through Draco's carefully constructed defenses. His magic flared in response, a golden spark that lit the alcove with an ethereal glow before he could suppress it, the betrayal of his true nature hanging between them like a confession.
He knows. Fear and fascination twisting together in Draco's gut as he stared into those fathomless eyes that saw too much, understood too much, promised too much. Kruger's gaze was a storm, and Draco felt himself being pulled into its eye, the connection between them undeniable and terrifying in its intensity, a bond forming that neither could escape even if they wanted to.
The heavy door groaned as Kruger forced Draco into the cramped storage closet that served as his cell, its rusted iron walls weeping beads of condensation that traced slow, glistening paths down the pockmarked metal, collecting in grimy pools on the uneven concrete floor. The air hung thick with the musty stench of mildew and something darker, something metallic and stale that clung to the back of Draco's throat with each shuddering breath he took.
When the door slammed shut behind him, the lock's sharp click resonated through the tiny space like the cocking of a pistol, the sound final and inescapable, sealing him in this dripping, lightless tomb where the shadows seemed to breathe.
Draco staggered forward, his boots scraping against the rough concrete as he struggled to keep his balance, his muscles trembling with exhaustion and the lingering ache of his wounds. The branded star on his forearm burned beneath his torn sleeve, its raised edges an angry red against his pale skin, a fresh mark of ownership layered over the faded ghost of another life's shame. His robes now hung in tattered strips from his shoulders, the fabric stiff with dried rain and sweat, chafing against his skin with every movement.
Outside the cell, Kruger's cane struck the concrete with measured precision, each dull thud a punctuation mark in the suffocating silence. He lingered in the doorway, his gaunt frame blocking what little light filtered in from the corridor beyond, his silhouette sharp against the flickering bulb that swung lazily from the ceiling, casting long, wavering shadows that slithered across the walls like living things. The bandages covering his eye were frayed at the edges, the fabric stained with old blood and grime, and the scars that carved jagged paths across his jaw and throat gleamed pale in the dim light, a map of violence written in flesh.
But Draco had seen past the performance now—the limp was too careful, the scars too precise, and that single green eye burned with an intensity that made the air between them hum with something unspoken.
"Pista brings food at 7," Kruger said, the words clipped as though each one cost him effort. He didn't look at Draco as he spoke, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the cell, as if he were already distancing himself from what came next. "Don't make noise."
The command was firm, but beneath the steel of his tone was something else, something that made Draco's breath hitch—a hesitation, a fracture in the mask, so slight it might have been imagined.
Draco's hand shot out before he could stop himself, his fingers closing around the coarse fabric of Kruger's sleeve, the material rough against his skin. His grip was unsteady, his fingers trembling with exhaustion and something desperate. "Why help me?"
Kruger stilled, his cane pausing mid-tap against the concrete. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant drip of water somewhere in the corridor, the faint creak of the prison settling around them. Then, slowly, he turned his head, his single eye meeting Draco's with a weight that made the air between them thicken. He didn't answer. Not with words. But the look he gave Draco was answer enough—a silent acknowledgment, a challenge, a promise.
The moment hung suspended between them, fragile as glass, as Kruger's carefully constructed facade fractured—just for an instant—revealing something raw and unguarded beneath. His green eye, usually so sharp and calculating, softened as his gaze dropped to Draco's lips, lingering there with an intensity that made the air between them hum with unspoken tension.
"Your eyes," He murmured, the words rough and uneven, as though dragged from some deep place within him that he rarely acknowledged. "They're... impossible." His confession hovered in the damp cell air, vulnerable and dangerous all at once, sending an electric current through Draco's core that set his magic singing in response, a reckless melody building in his chest that threatened to spill over into golden light.
Draco's breath caught in his throat, his pulse hammering wildly as he struggled between the instinct to recoil from this dangerous intimacy and the undeniable pull drawing him closer. Impossible. The word resonated through him, echoing in the hollow spaces of his chest, mirroring exactly how Kruger's gaze made him feel—truly seen for the first time since arriving in this wretched world, desired in a way that went beyond physical attraction, and terrifyingly exposed.
He wanted to demand answers, to understand why his eyes mattered, what secret Kruger saw reflected in their silver depths, but the intensity of that single eye held him captive, rendering him speechless, a prisoner not just of this cell but of the inexplicable connection thrumming between them.
Kruger's hand twitched at his side, fingers flexing as if fighting the urge to reach out and touch, but the sudden shout from the corridor shattered the moment like a stone through glass. The guttural voice of an approaching guard snapped Kruger's posture back into its familiar hunched position, his shoulders rounding, his weight shifting onto the cane with practiced ease, the "crippled soldier" persona reassembling itself in an instant.
But not before Draco caught it—a flicker of something otherworldly in those green irises, a pulse of power that resonated through the cell with an almost physical pressure, something that wasn't human, wasn't magical in any way Draco recognized, but something older, deeper, more fundamental.
The Founding Titan.
The knowledge came to him unbidden, as if whispered on the currents of this world's strange magic, and his Veela soul trembled in response, recognizing a force that mirrored its own wild energy, a connection that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. The locket burned against his wrist, its heat a warning, a tether to reality, but Draco found himself powerless to look away from those eyes that now held galaxies of unspoken truths.
"You don't belong here," Kruger said as he stepped closer, the rhythmic thump of his cane against concrete underscoring each word like a drumbeat. His gaze swept over Draco's battered form with unsettling focus, lingering on the fresh bruises mottling his pale skin, the dried blood crusting his split lip from the branding iron's cruel kiss. "This world will break you, Draco. It breaks everyone."
It should have been a warning, but something in Kruger's tone transformed them into something else entirely—a vow, dark and possessive, that made Draco's magic surge in response, the golden energy swirling just beneath his skin in a reckless, intoxicating dance.
He's mine.
The echo of a claim he didn't understand but couldn't deny, and he hated how it thrilled him, how it set his blood singing even as it warred with every lesson in self-preservation he'd ever learned.
"Why?" Draco's voice cracked as his fingers twisted tighter in Kruger's sleeve, his eyes blazing with a mixture of defiance and desperate need for answers. "Why do you care? You don't know me."
Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, to retreat behind walls of suspicion and cold rationality, but Kruger's presence was a force of nature, a storm that had already pulled Draco into its eye, and there was no escaping the gravitational pull of that gaze, of the unspoken promise in those words. He's dangerous, Draco's mind supplied even as his traitorous heart countered, but he saved me. He sees me. The contradiction twisted in his chest, tightening with each frantic heartbeat until he could barely breathe around it.
Kruger's jaw worked silently for a long moment, tension radiating through his scarred frame, and just when Draco thought he would turn away without answering, he leaned in so close his breath ghosted warm against Draco's ear. "Because you're different," He whispered, each word weighted with layers of meaning Draco couldn't begin to unravel. "Because I felt it the moment I saw you. Something... more."
When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto Draco's with hypnotic intensity, and that flicker of otherworldly power pulsed again in his iris, a silent call that resonated deep in Draco's magical core, a call and response that set his veins alight with energy he couldn't control.
"Stay alive, Draco. That's all I'm asking for now."
The approaching footsteps grew louder, boots striking concrete with military precision, and like a shadow retreating before dawn, Kruger's mask slid back into place completely—shoulders hunching, posture wilting, the cane suddenly bearing weight again.
"Stay quiet," He ordered, his voice all business once more, every trace of their shared moment carefully erased. "Pista will bring food. Don't draw attention."
With that, he turned with exaggerated difficulty, the limp pronounced as he shuffled toward the door, leaving Draco standing frozen in the center of the cell, his entire body thrumming with residual energy, his mind reeling.
As the door clanged shut behind Kruger, Draco's legs gave out, sending him sliding down the rusted wall to the damp concrete floor, his branded arm throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.
What did Kruger see when he looked at him? What did he want? The questions twisted together with fear and something dangerously close to hope, forming a knot in Draco's chest that tightened with each breath. Kruger's gaze, his words, the undeniable power lurking beneath his carefully constructed facade—they were a puzzle Draco desperately wanted to solve, a danger he couldn't resist, a pull he wasn't sure he wanted to escape.
His fingers found the locket almost unconsciously, the chain pressing into his wrist as his thumb traced the cracked surface, the warmth beneath his touch the only comfort in this cold, foreign world. The cell walls seemed to press closer with each passing minute, the rusted metal mocking his confusion, his weakness, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden sting of frustrated tears.
I'm not enough, the old doubt whispered, familiar and cruel, but beneath it now ran a counterpoint—Kruger's command, Stay alive, simple and direct, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Draco clung to those words even as his Veela magic stirred restlessly within him, responding to some unseen call, some connection he couldn't begin to understand but couldn't deny either.
Mother, I'm alone.
His chest constricted painfully, his breath hitching as eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. The cell around him was more than just a prison; it was a grotesque parody of the dungeons beneath Malfoy Manor, the familiar aristocratic cruelty replaced by something far more visceral, more indifferent in its brutality. Rusted iron walls stretched upward, their surfaces pitted and scarred with age, etched with the desperate markings of previous occupants—names scratched in shaky letters, prayers to forgotten gods, curses spat at unseen tormentors, all layered over each other in a palimpsest of suffering.
A single bulb flickered weakly overhead, its sickly yellow light doing little to dispel the shadows that pooled in the corners like spilled ink, shifting and twisting at the edges of his vision as if alive.
In the far corner sat a battered tin bucket, its contents giving off a pungent odor that made Draco's nose wrinkle in disgust, while nearby lay a moldering blanket, its fabric stiff with age and damp, edges frayed like the nerves scraping raw beneath his skin. His fingers tightened reflexively around the broken halves of his hawthorn wand, the splinters biting into his palm with each movement, the sharp pain a grounding counterpoint to the surreal nightmare his life had become.
I'm a Malfoy, he thought, the old mantra that had once filled him with pride now ringing hollow in the silence, the weight of his name meaning nothing in this world where magic was either nonexistent or so different as to be unrecognizable.
Desperation clawed at him as he reached inward, grasping for the golden tide of his Veela magic that had once flooded his veins with warmth and power on his sixteenth birthday, that night when his world had both expanded and shrunk simultaneously. Closing his eyes, he conjured the memory—the way his skin had glowed with an otherworldly light, how the air had hummed with a wild, wordless song that resonated in his very bones.
But here, in this damp, iron-walled cell, the magic responded sluggishly, its usual brilliance muted to a faint pulse, as if smothered beneath layers of this world's oppressive reality.
“Why won't it work?” His question burned through him, frustration and fear tangling together in his chest until his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Pressing his back against the cold iron wall, he focused harder, clinging to the sound of his mother's voice in his memory, the way her fingers had gripped his chin with bruising intensity as she whispered, You are my heart, my dragon. And there—just for a moment—a faint golden shimmer flickered across his skin, weak as a guttering candle but undeniably present, a fragile spark of hope in the overwhelming dark. His fingers trailed absently over the scratches marking the wall beside him, rust flaking away beneath his touch like dried blood, wondering about the hands that had carved them—who they had belonged to, what horrors they had endured before their stories ended in this grim place.
The fragmented words he'd heard since arriving— Eldian, Marleyan, Titans —swirled in his mind, pieces of a puzzle he lacked the context to solve, yet knew he must understand if he hoped to survive this nightmare. His thoughts drifted inevitably back to Kruger—the way his eye had held galaxies of secrets, the scars mapping his jawline like a battle standard, the carefully performed limp that Draco now recognized as artifice.
Your eyes. They're impossible.
The man’s words echoed in his mind, sending an involuntary shiver through his core, awakening that strange, wild melody that made his heart stutter against his ribs.
Why did he say that?
Drawing the locket from beneath his tattered sleeve, he let the chain bite into his skin as he turned the cracked Black family crest over in his bloodied palm. The serpentine S, inlaid with emeralds that still caught the dim light despite their damaged setting, was the last tangible piece of home he possessed, its weight both comfort and burden.
What is the Founder's relic? A mystery wrapped in his mother's final instructions, and as his fingers traced the locket's damaged surface, he felt his resolve harden like cooling steel. She believed in me. I have to try.
A distant, guttural roar shook the very foundations of the cell, vibrating through the iron walls and rattling Draco's teeth in his skull. His mind conjured the horrific image he'd glimpsed earlier—the Titan's skinless form, muscles glistening red and raw beneath the sunlight, steam curling from its massive frame like some grotesque parody of dragon's breath, jagged teeth bared in a rictus of mindless hunger.
The vision sent his magic flaring uncontrollably, a golden spark leaping from his fingertips before he could suppress it, and he cursed himself silently even as he wrestled the magic back under his skin.
They'll dissect you alive. Kruger's warning slithered through his thoughts like a blade between the ribs, and Draco's breath came faster as he fought to calm his racing heart.
Pacing the confined space—three measured steps to the opposite wall, three back again—his boots scraped against the rough concrete, the sound grating against his already frayed nerves. I need to understand this place, he thought, forcing himself to analyze rather than panic.
The way the other prisoners had shrunk from Kruger's presence, the barely concealed hesitation in the soldiers' eyes when they addressed him, even the bone-shaking roar of the Titan—they were all pieces of a puzzle he needed to solve if he hoped to survive.
I'm not a hero, the doubt whispered, its claws sinking deep, but another voice, quieter but growing stronger, countered, But I'm not nothing.
From somewhere beyond his cell, the metallic clang of boots on concrete echoed down the corridor, growing steadily louder, and Draco tensed, his body thrumming with wary anticipation. Pista brings food at 7. Kruger's words returned to him, and despite himself, Draco felt a spark of something dangerously close to hope flicker in his chest. The promise of food, of contact with another living soul, no matter how brief or hostile, was a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.
For Mother, he reminded himself, fingers tightening around the locket. For me. The words were a vow, a promise to the woman who had sacrificed everything and to the boy he had been, the man he might yet become in this strange, brutal world.
Draco’s body finally succumbed to exhaustion, his limbs growing heavy as he slumped onto the thin, creaking cot in the cell, the locket’s chain wound tightly around his fingers like the last tether to a world that no longer existed. The coarse blanket scratched against his legs, the chill of the iron walls radiating through the thin mattress as the flickering bulb overhead cast erratic shadows that danced across his closed eyelids, the darkness behind them swirling with fragmented images of the waking nightmare he now inhabited.
Sleep came not as a reprieve but as another battlefield, his dreams a chaotic tapestry woven from blood-red runes that pulsed with his mother’s fading magic, the echoing chant of her forbidden ritual still clinging to the edges of his consciousness, and the grotesque, grinning visage of the Titan—its exposed musculature glistening like fresh butchered meat, plumes of steam rising from its monstrous form in mocking imitation of the dragons from Malfoy family tapestries, those jagged teeth large enough to crush a man whole, the hollow pits of its eyes burning with a hunger that was neither animal nor human but something far more terrifying in its emptiness.
Yet beneath this horror, cutting through the nightmare like a blade of green fire, were Kruger’s eyes, that impossible shade that seemed to hold entire worlds within its depths, pulling at the very core of his Veela being with an irresistible gravity that followed him even into unconsciousness.
A sharp whisper sliced through the thick veil of sleep, its urgency like cold water dashed across Draco’s face, jolting him awake with a start that sent pain lancing through his stiff muscles. His eyes flew open, instantly alert despite the lingering fog of exhaustion, pupils dilating in the cell’s oppressive darkness as his Veela instincts surged to life, that treacherous golden glow flickering across his skin like sunlight on water before he wrestled it back under control, his breath coming in shallow, silent pulls through parted lips.
The voices came from Just beyond the rusted door, distorted by the concrete corridor’s echoes but clear enough to set his pulse racing—who was out there at this hour, and what secrets were they trading in the prison’s dead of night? His fingers curled into fists against the cold floor, nails biting into his palms as he strained to make out the words, every fiber of his being focused on that sliver of light beneath the door.
“—Zeke’s team returns at dawn,” came a man’s voice, sharp with barely contained frustration, the name sending an inexplicable chill down Draco’s spine though he couldn’t place why it felt significant. “We can’t keep hiding him, Eren. This isn’t some stray dog you found in the woods—this is an Eldian with no records, no papers, and eyes that glow like goddamned lanterns when he’s scared.”
The accusation hung in the air, heavy with implications Draco couldn’t begin to unpack, but it was the name—Eren—that struck him like a physical blow, slotting into place with sudden, terrifying clarity.
Kruger.
Eren Kruger.
The pieces connected with an almost audible click in his mind, his magic surging in response to the revelation, that wild melody swelling until he could feel it humming in his teeth, vibrating along his bones. He pressed himself harder against the wall, as if he could melt into the cold iron, his breath held as he focused every ounce of his attention on the conversation unfolding just beyond his prison.
The response was a low, guttural sound that shouldn’t have been human, vibrating through the concrete floor and up Draco’s spine like the warning growl of some great predator.
“Then we move forward the attack on Liberio.” Eren’s words were measured, each one weighted with a quiet intensity that made the hair on Draco’s arms stand on end. “The War Hammer’s location is confirmed. We take it tomorrow night, before Zeke arrives to complicate things.”
The other man made a sound of pure disbelief, the scuff of his boots against concrete loud in the tense silence. “You’d throw away years of careful planning for some pretty boy who fell out of the sky? After everything we’ve sacrificed for the Coordinate? After all the lives lost to get you this close to the Founder’s power?” His voice cracked on the last word, and Draco’s breath caught at the term.
Founder.
It couldn’t be coincidence, not when his mother’s last words had been to seek the Founder’s relic. The locket against his wrist pulsed as if in confirmation, its heat sudden and insistent against his skin. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on, stretching until Draco thought his lungs might burst from holding his breath.
Then—
“He’s mine.”
Two words, spoken with such absolute conviction, such primal possessiveness, that Draco’s magic flared uncontrollably, golden light bursting from his fingertips to illuminate the cell in a brief, brilliant flash before he clamped down on it with sheer force of will, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird.
Mine.
The word echoed through him, resonating in some deep, forgotten part of his soul, awakening instincts he didn’t fully understand. It should have terrified him—this claim from a man who was clearly dangerous, clearly more than human—but instead, it sent a thrill of something dangerously close to recognition through his veins, his magic singing in response to that voice as if it had been waiting for it all his life.
Moving on silent feet, Draco crept to the door, every muscle taut with tension, his boots making no sound against the concrete as he pressed his eye to the narrow gap where metal met frame. The corridor outside was dimly lit by flickering sconces, their uneven light casting long shadows that made it difficult to make out details, but the figure standing there was unmistakable—Eren, but not as Draco had seen him before.
Gone was the hunched posture, the exaggerated limp, the bandages that had concealed half his face. He stood tall, shoulders broad beneath the simple fabric of his Marleyan uniform, his jaw set in a hard line that spoke of barely leashed power. The faint scars Draco had noticed before were more visible now, pale lines against tanned skin, but what stole his breath were the eyes—both uncovered now, that impossible green blazing with an intensity that made Draco’s magic surge again in response, a silent call and answer between them.
The other soldier stood beside him, lean with close-cropped dark hair and a permanent scowl etched into his features, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared up at Eren.
“You’re risking everything we’ve worked for,” He hissed, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. “The entire restoration of Eldia rests on the Coordinate, Eren. You’ve spent three years building Kruger’s reputation, making them trust you, and now you’d burn it all because some stranger has pretty eyes?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles standing out white against his skin. “Tell me why. Make me understand.”
Eren’s head turned slightly, just enough that Draco could see the way his jaw worked, the tension in his neck as he seemed to war with himself. When he spoke, his voice was lower, quieter, but no less intense. “He’s not from here. Not from this world.”
Draco’s fingers tightening around the locket.
“I felt it the moment I saw him—his energy is different. Wrong. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.” Eren’s hand lifted, fingers flexing as if he could grasp the air itself. “The Founder… it responds to him. When he’s near, I can feel it stirring in ways I don’t understand.” His gaze shifted then, those eyes locking onto the crack in the door where Draco watched, as if he’d known all along he was there. “He’s awake.”
Draco's breath hitched sharply, his body going rigid as those eyes pinned him in place even through the barrier of the door. There was no point in hiding now—Eren knew. Heart pounding, he forced himself to speak, his voice rough from disuse but steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside him. “What do you want from me?” His tone loaded with all the fear and confusion and reluctant fascination that had been building since the moment they’d met.
Eren stepped closer, his movements fluid and predatory, until he stood just outside the door, close enough that Draco could see the way the dim light caught on the gold flecks in his green irises, the way his pupils dilated slightly at the sound of Draco’s voice.
“I want you to live,” Eren said, the words simple but weighted with something that made Draco’s chest tighten. “This world…” He paused, his expression darkening. “It’s built to destroy anything different, anything that doesn’t fit into Marley’s neat little boxes. But you…” His hand lifted, fingers hovering just shy of the door as if he could reach through the metal to touch Draco. “You’re something else entirely. And I won’t let them take you apart to see what makes you work.”
The possessiveness in his tone should have set off every alarm in Draco’s mind, should have sent him scrambling back into the farthest corner of his cell. Instead, it called to something deep in his Veela nature, that primal part of him that recognized power and wanted to answer it in kind. The locket burned against his wrist, his mother’s warning echoing in his mind, but louder still was the pull of those eyes, the promise in them, the danger.
The other soldier’s voice cut through the moment, sharp with urgency. “Eren, the guard rotation starts in five minutes. If they find you here—”
“I know.” Eren didn’t look away from the door, from the sliver of Draco’s face, he could see through the crack. “Stay quiet,” He murmured, the command softened by something that might have been concern. “Pista will bring you food. And tomorrow…” He hesitated, then leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper Draco felt more than heard. “Tomorrow, we change everything.”
Eren turned, his silhouette merging with the shadows of the corridor, leaving Draco standing there, his fingers pressed against the cold metal of the door, his entire body thrumming with the echo of those words. The sound of retreating footsteps faded into the oppressive silence of the prison corridor, leaving Draco slumped against the cold iron wall of his cell, his body drained of strength yet thrumming with nervous energy. His mind spun with the implications of what he’d just overheard.
The Founder.
The Coordinate.
Eren’s inexplicable knowledge that Draco came from another world. The dangerous intensity with which he’d claimed Draco as his own. The weight of these revelations pressed down on him like the walls of the cell itself, yet amidst the suffocating uncertainty, a fragile thread of hope wound its way through his thoughts. For the first time since being torn from his world, he wasn’t completely alone.
The sudden sound of approaching footsteps and the distinctive tap of a cane jolted Draco from his turbulent thoughts. His eyes snapping toward the door as it groaned open with a protest of rusted hinges.
Eren stood framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking much of the flickering torchlight from the corridor, his imposing silhouette carrying an air of quiet authority. Under one arm, he carried a small bundle—folded clean clothing, a thin pillow, and a rough-woven blanket that looked almost luxurious.
“Take these,” Eren said, his deep voice carrying that same quiet command that had cowed Aiden earlier, yet softened now by something that seemed at odds with the dangerous energy that radiated from him.
Draco found himself rising to his feet almost without conscious thought, the chains around his ankles clinking against the cold floor as he moved. “Why?” His voice was rough with exhaustion and suspicion.
The clean clothes—a simple linen shirt and trousers, worn but free of the blood and grime that stained his current robes—seemed like artifacts from another life, the pillow and blanket offering comforts he hadn’t known since his chambers at Malfoy Manor. They represented a humanity he hadn’t expected to find in this place, and that unsettled him almost as much as it drew him in.
Eren’s stare remained locked with Draco’s, unwavering and intense. “Because you’re not like them,” He answered, his voice clipped yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, as if each word came at some personal cost. “You don’t belong in their filth.” He took a step forward, setting the bundle down just inside the cell carefully. “Keep your strength—you’ll need it.”
The tap of his cane against the floor punctuated the statement with finality, the sound echoing in the damp air of the cell. There was something protective in the gesture, something that spoke of care despite the guarded expression Eren wore, the slight tightening of his jaw the only betrayal of whatever emotions warred beneath the surface.
Draco hesitated. But slowly, almost against his will, he reached for the bundle, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric, the faint scent of soap and earth rising from it—simple, mundane things that felt like treasures in this place. The clothes were rough by wizarding standards, but clean, and the blanket, while not soft, promised warmth against the cell’s perpetual chill.
Eren’s gaze remained fixed on Draco as he took the items, his posture rigid yet radiating that same coiled readiness Draco had come to recognize—a predator standing guard over something precious. For a long moment, neither spoke, the silence between them charged with unspoken questions and possibilities. Then Eren shifted slightly, his voice dropping to a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the cell.
“Rest,” He murmured, the single word carrying more weight than an entire speech. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”
With that, Eren turned, his silhouette merging seamlessly with the shadows of the corridor, the rhythmic tap of his cane fading into the distance as the heavy door groaned shut once more, leaving Draco alone with the bundle of simple comforts and the weight of Eren’s words.
In the sudden silence of the cell, Draco stood motionless, the blanket clutched in his hands, his mind racing to process everything that had just occurred. The clothes, the blanket, the pillow—they were small things, insignificant in the grand scheme, yet they represented something far greater. A choice. A connection. A promise of something beyond mere survival.
Tomorrow would bring answers, or more questions, or perhaps both. But for tonight, in this small, dark cell, he had been seen. And that, perhaps, was enough.
Chapter 7: Chapter 3 [NEW VERSION]
Notes:
This chapter is from Eren’s POV, showing the moment he first interact with Draco in previous chapter.
This fic will mostly follow Draco’s POV, but I’ll be sprinkling in Eren’s POV (and maybe even Zeke’s or others) here and there as the story goes on.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eren moved beneath that grim shroud, his frame curled into the hunched silhouette of Kruger, the false identity he wore like armor. Every tap of his cane against the waterlogged pavement echoed with grim intent, not weakness—an orchestrated rhythm that punctuated the performance of a broken man. Yet behind the droop of his shoulders and the dullness in his visible eye, Eren’s mind cut through the scene, cataloguing every detail of the cruel procession.
Ahead, Alden pulled the boy along by his arm, gripping it tightly in a practiced hold. Mud clung to his feet. His posture was strained, but not crumbling. Every movement was laden with tension. Eren kept his distance, trailing just far enough behind to remain unnoticed. His gaze was locked on the boy's subtle defiance—the way his chin lifted despite the grime and the flicker of resistance behind his pale eyes. They were heading toward the armband station, that bureaucratic altar where identities were sealed and futures were quietly sentenced. Eren said nothing. He did nothing. But he counted each step, each twitch, and each flicker of hesitation. He watched not just the boy but also the system coiling around him like a noose.
The Marleyan officer was round and flushed from overindulgence. He reeked of rot and liquor; his presence was as foul as his treatment. His stubby, damp fingers glistening with rain shoved a yellow armband with careless force around the pale boy’s thin arm, the fabric biting into skin too refined and unweathered to belong among laborers.
"Welcome to your new life, Y-7890," he sneered, spitting out the designation as if it were poison. His voice was seasoned by years of dismantling dignity. "First rule—no real names here. You’re nothing but a number now, Eldian scum.”
The insult was routine, but Eren noticed the way the boy recoiled—not from the words themselves, but from the contact. His fingers twitched with a futile instinct as if he were reaching for something sharp that had long been taken away. Pride clung to him by a thread, a tattered banner draped across the ruins of a fallen legacy.
With a vicious gleam in his eyes, the officer seized the boy’s hair and yanked his head backward. It was such a forceful gesture that it would have shattered a weaker frame. "Look at this one—skin like milk, hair like starlight. Commander Calvi will want him for the officer’s quarters.” His eyes grazed over the boy’s delicate features with sick hunger as he declared, "Pretty things like this don't belong in the pits."
Even dulled by grime and rain, the glow of his skin painted him as something rare and coveted. Eren’s grip on his cane tightened until the wood groaned under the pressure as thoughts raced through the ramifications of that announcement. The officer’s quarters were no sanctuary; they were gilded cages built for destruction. The trembling, cornered boy was no match for what waited beyond the threshold. The storm inside him intensified when he saw the boy’s panic spreading outward, evident in each shallow breath and tremor of his thin frame.
And then it happened. A sudden burst of golden light flared across the boy’s skin—a brief but blinding shimmer against the gloom; a pulse that split the rain like fire sparking in the dark.
Eren’s reaction was instant and internal. Fool. The word echoed coldly in his mind: You’ve given yourself away. Any hope of anonymity was gone now. The officer’s leer shifted to greedy triumph. His fingers tightened with newfound purpose as he realized that the boy wasn’t a prisoner; he was a discovery—maybe even a weapon. But before anyone else could move, Eren struck. The sharp crack of his cane against the concrete echoed with finality, slicing through the rain-drenched tension like a gunshot.
"Leave him," Eren said in a low, unyielding voice thick with authority earned in bloodier places.
The command froze the group in place. Prisoners parted instinctively before him as he approached, dragging one leg with the convincing weight of injury. His presence redefined the air around him, making it colder and heavier. Only his piercing green eyes, too vivid to be forgotten, betrayed the force coiled beneath the disguise.
The officer stammered, bravado thinning with every step Eren took. “Back off, Kruger! Your war hero days won’t save you now.” But his voice wavered, cracking under the pressure of Eren’s silence.
Eren ignored him. His entire focus was trained on the boy—on the quiet pull of energy that reached out from his chest, golden and tentative, a thread drawn toward something familiar. It was magic, raw and reactive, stirred not by command but by proximity. And in the boy’s eyes, wide and gleaming beneath strands of wet hair, Eren saw something else: a warning. A memory. Green-eyed boys… The expression that flickered across his face was not just fear—it was recognition, laced with unease and half-formed prophecy.
Now Eren was truly intrigued.
Interesting, the thought whispered through him, curling into the cold corners of his psyche like smoke seeking kindling. This boy was no ordinary inmate. And Eren was going to unravel exactly what he was—and why fate had chosen to throw him into this cage just as the pieces were beginning to shift.
"Article 12 of the Prisoner Code," Eren stated, each word precise, heavy. "No unsanctioned contact with unbranded Eldians." A tap of the cane towards the surveillance building. "Shall we test that?” He said slowly, letting the threat linger in the space between them, his knowledge of their previous violations hanging like an executioner's blade over their heads.
His gaze flickered back to the boy for the briefest moment, a silent command passing between them—Stay still. Play along.—before returning to the officer with icy finality, the green of his visible eye was sharp enough to cut glass. For one suspended heartbeat, the boy held his gaze, silver eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning comprehension, some unspoken current of understanding passing between them despite the charade of captor and captive.
Then the moment shattered as the officer, face flushing with impotent rage, backed down with a muttered curse, his authority crumbling beneath Eren's unshakable presence. Unwilling to concede completely, he shoved the boy forward with enough force to send him sprawling face-first into the churned mud, the impact sending up a spray of filthy water.
Eren watched dispassionately as the boy scrambled to his knees, his once-pristine features now streaked with grime, those luminous silver eyes locking onto Eren's face with an expression that was equal parts wary awe and utter confusion.
Who are you? The boy's gaze seemed to scream, his lips parted around unvoiced questions. The corner of Eren's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something darker, more primal, the barest acknowledgment of prey that had somehow managed to intrigue the predator. Do you feel it too? He wondered silently, the strange pull between them undeniable.
Aiden spat into the muck at the boy’s feet, his sneer curling back into place as he pulled himself together, though the uneasy flicker in his gaze betrayed lingering nerves whenever it strayed toward Kruger. “This one’s too pretty for the pits,” He snarled, giving the shackles a savage tug that sent a fresh jolt of pain shooting up the boy’s arms. “He’s headed for the branding room—Commander’s orders. They’ll mark him proper there, make sure he knows his place.”
The boy froze, his breath caught like broken glass in his throat. “What’s the branding room?” He echoed, his voice hoarse and trembling, too refined for the crude accents of the internment zone—foreign and frightened.
Aiden's sneer widened, relishing the opportunity to explain. "You’ll find out soon enough, pretty boy. It’s where we burn the filth out of you—make you one of us, or break you trying," He said, the words dripping with venomous delight.
Eren saw the boy's gaze dart to him again, a silent plea for—what? Intervention? Reassurance? He met those silver eyes for a fraction of a second, allowing the barest flicker of something fierce—protective, possessive, something too dangerous to name—to tighten his jaw before Kruger's carefully constructed mask of indifference slammed back into place.
Endure, he willed silently, the command as much for himself as for the boy. There would be time later, when the watchful eyes of Marley weren't recording their every move. But for now, the game had to be played.
And Eren had always been patient.
The stench of the branding room assaulted Eren's senses long before he stepped fully inside, a nauseating cocktail of seared flesh, harsh antiseptic, and the cloying metallic tang of blood that clung to every surface like a second skin. He lingered near the doorway, allowing the shadows to swallow his presence as he leaned heavily on his cane, the picture of a broken war hero observing routine procedure with detached indifference. His single visible eye tracked the movements of the taller officer—a man whose too-wide smile and gleaming eyes betrayed the sick pleasure he took in his work—as he approached the chained figure on the rusted metal table.
The boy's hair was darkened with sweat, plastered to his forehead in damp strands, his too-pale skin standing out starkly against the grime-streaked surface beneath him. Eren's gaze zeroed in on the faded mark coiled like a venomous serpent on the boy's left forearm, the intricate design standing out even amidst the bruises and dirt—a brand from another life, another monster, a grotesque echo of the fresh violation about to be inflicted.
The officer hefted the branding iron, the metal glowing a vicious orange-red at its tip, the heat radiating outward in visible waves that distorted the air around it. "Hold still, Y-7890," He grunted, his yellowed teeth bared in something that couldn't be called a smile, the numbers rolling off his tongue with practiced cruelty. "This'll make you one of us. An Eldian, marked for life."
Eren watched the boy's throat work as he swallowed convulsively, the rapid flutter of his pulse visible even from across the room, the way his fingers twitched against the restraints as if some part of him still believed he could summon his magic despite the chains and the fear and the overwhelming reality of his powerlessness. He understands servitude, Eren realized with a cold twist of something almost like recognition. Too well.
The moment the searing metal made contact—pressed sadistically over the existing mark as if to overwrite one brand of ownership with another—the boy's back arched violently against the table, a raw, broken scream tearing from his throat with enough force to make the veins in his neck stand out like cords. The scent of burning flesh filled the room, thick and cloying, as the boy's face contorted in white-hot agony, his teeth clenched so tightly Eren half-expected to hear them crack. His own grip on the cane tightened until the wood creaked ominously in protest, his knuckles bleaching white under the strain, every tendon in his hand standing out in stark relief against his skin.
Restraint had never been this physically painful before—not when he had to watch his comrades die, not when he had to bite his tongue through Marley's endless propaganda—but something about this moment, about this boy's silent, shuddering resistance even as tears carved clean tracks through the grime on his face, made the urge to intervene almost unbearable.
Eren saw the exact moment the boy's eyes snapped open, silver irises blazing with something beyond pain—something sharp and defiant and utterly, devastatingly aware of the violation being inflicted upon him. It wasn't just the physical agony, though that was bad enough; it was the humiliation, the stripping away of whatever fragile dignity he'd managed to cling to, the knowledge that this mark would brand him just as thoroughly as the last one had.
And yet, even through the tears and the tremors wracking his too-thin frame, that defiance remained, a spark in the depths of his gaze that refused to be extinguished. Eren found himself cataloging every detail—the way the boy's breath hitched between clenched teeth, the way his fingers spasmed against the restraints, the single, traitorous tear that escaped despite his obvious efforts to suppress it—and something dangerously close to admiration curled in his chest. This one was different. This one might just be worth keeping.
The heavy door clanged shut behind the departing guards, their cruel laughter echoing down the corridor as they left the branding chamber, their work done. Eren remained motionless in the shadows for a long moment, watching the boy as he trembled against the cold metal table, his breathing ragged and uneven, his skin slick with sweat that caught the dim overhead lights. The scent of burnt flesh still hung thick in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of antiseptic and the metallic bite of blood from where the restraints had bitten into the boy's wrists during his struggles.
Slowly, Eren limped forward, the rhythmic thump of his cane against the concrete floor the only sound in the oppressive silence. From the depths of his coat pocket, he withdrew a folded handkerchief soaked in a pungent, herbal salve, its sharp medicinal odor cutting through the stench of the room as he extended it toward the boy without a word.
The boy flinched violently at the movement, his silver eyes—still bright with pain and the lingering haze of shock—snapping up to meet Eren's with sudden, wary focus. The suspicion in his gaze was palpable, a cornered animal's instinctive distrust. "What do you want?" He snapped, voice frayed and ragged with remnants of his earlier screams. The venom in his tone was unmistakable, but Eren sensed it wasn’t pure malice—no, it was survival. Pain. The kind that lashes out before it can be cornered.
Eren didn't flinch at the hostility. Instead, he held the boy's gaze steadily, his own expression unreadable behind Kruger's carefully constructed mask of weary indifference. "Your name," He said. "The real one."
The silence stretched between them, thick with hesitation and unspoken fear, the only sound the ragged hitch of the boy's breathing as he weighed the risk of answering against the danger of refusal.
Then, so quiet Eren had to strain to hear it, the fragile whisper of surrender, "Draco Malfoy."
"Draco Malfoy," Eren repeated, rolling the name across his tongue, testing its weight, its unfamiliar cadence. There was something undeniably foreign about it, a name that didn't belong in this world, and the certainty that followed the thought was absolute. "You don’t belong here." He stated simply, matter-of-fact, as though Eren had known the truth long before the boy had spoken it aloud.
Before Draco could muster a response—whether a question, a denial, or something else entirely—the world around them shuddered violently, the deep, primal roar of a Titan vibrating through the concrete walls with enough force to send fine cracks spiderwebbing across the ceiling. The sound seemed to shatter what little control Draco had left; his breath caught in his throat, his body tensing instinctively, and then— light.
Golden radiance erupted from his skin in a sudden, blinding burst, flooding the grim chamber with an ethereal glow that chased away every shadow, illuminating the rusted instruments and bloodstained floor with unnatural clarity.
Idiot! Eren thought with sharp, instinctive panic—not for himself, but for the beacon Draco had just become, a signal fire in the darkness that would draw every predator within miles. He moved faster than Kruger's battered body should have been capable of, crossing the space between them in two long strides fueled by Warrior-trained reflexes, his calloused hand clamping around Draco's wrist with bruising force.
The contact sent a jolt of something electric through them both, a surge of energy that made the hair on Eren's arms stand on end, and just like that, the glow snuffed out, leaving them in sudden, suffocating darkness once more.
Eren leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of Draco's ear as he spoke, his voice a deadly whisper laced with genuine urgency. "Don’t. Ever. Do that here." He pulled back just enough to meet Draco's wide, terrified gaze, letting the raw weight of his warning sink in, his grip unrelenting. "They’ll dissect you alive." His command cut through the moment like tempered steel, both a declaration and a barrier carved from the reality they were forced to navigate. He felt the subtle tremor that rippled through Draco’s frame at the threat, the untamed magic beneath his skin still pulsing—alive and volatile—even now.
It responded to Eren, resonating with his proximity in a way that defied logic, yet refused to be dismissed. The feeling that sparked in response was sharp, unsettling. Possessiveness. A threat he hadn’t anticipated—unwanted, inconvenient, dangerous. Yet it settled inside him with stubborn weight, low and steady in his chest, a quiet claim that defied his better judgment.
Mine to protect. For now.
Eren moved with quiet intention, the measured thud of his cane tapping out a slow rhythm against the rain-slicked concrete. Shallow puddles trembled in response, their surfaces shivering beneath the weight of his presence. He reached out, his hand lifting with deliberate restraint. It didn’t quite touch the boy’s shackled wrist, but the air between them grew charged, laced with the heat of proximity. Eren felt it—that twitch beneath Draco’s skin, an involuntary response, the faint shiver that betrayed something primal: fear, recognition, or perhaps something far more volatile.
The boy’s magic buzzed just beneath the surface, reacting to him again, drawn to him in spite of its chains.
"Move," He commanded, his voice pitched low but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority that brooked no argument. “To the cells. Now.”
Draco stumbled forward obediently, the heavy chains around his wrists clanking with each unsteady step, his silver hair plastered dark against his forehead by the rain. The other prisoners scattered instinctively from their path, their fear of Kruger—of the broken war hero with the unnerving green eye—a tangible force that Eren wielded without conscious thought, as natural as breathing. Aiden hesitated at the periphery of the group, his usual sneer faltering under the weight of Eren's unwavering stare before he too melted into the storm's gloom, his retreat as silent as it was telling.
Then Varkis appeared, his bulky form materializing from the rain like some specter of bureaucratic cruelty, his officious demeanor undercut by the sadistic gleam in his eyes. "This one's mine," He declared, his voice dripping with self-importance as he seized Draco's arm with unnecessary force, his fingers digging into the already bruised flesh. "Orders are to take him to the cells. Commander's directive."
Eren's cane struck the ground with a sharp, percussive crack that seemed to reverberate through the air, the sound cutting through Varkis's bluster like a knife. "Stand down, Varkis." Eren's voice dropped to something lethally quiet, the authority in it so absolute it seemed to bend the rain itself around them, the droplets curving away from the sheer intensity of his presence. "He's under my charge."
For the briefest of moments, his gaze flicked to Draco—an unplanned, fleeting glance where something fierce and protective bled through Kruger's carefully constructed mask—before snapping back to Varkis coldly.
"You don’t have the rank for this, Kruger!" Varkis blustered, though the uncertainty creeping into his voice betrayed his wavering confidence. His grip on Draco loosened slightly, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Eren's unshakable resolve. “Commander’s orders—”
"Test me," Eren whispered, taking a step forward, the rain seeming to part around him as if repelled by the sheer force of his will. "Take him, and we'll see who answers to the Commander." The promise in those words was unmistakable—a vow of unflinching violence, of consequences that would be paid in blood if Varkis dared to push further.
The color drained from Varkis's face, his grip falling away entirely as he took an involuntary step back, his retreat as much an admission of defeat as it was a surrender to the unspoken threat hanging between them. Eren saw the faint golden shimmer flare across Draco's skin again in that moment—a brief, instinctive reaction to the surge of adrenaline, to the realization dawning in those wide, silver eyes: He's protecting me.
The thought sent an unexpected spark through Eren's chest, a dangerous warmth that had no place in the cold calculus of his mission. Too noticeable, he reminded himself sharply, the warning as much for himself as for Draco. This boy was a liability, an anomaly that could unravel everything if he wasn't careful. And yet, as the rain continued to fall around them, Eren found himself stepping closer, his hand closing around Draco's arm—not with the bruising force of Varkis's grip, but with a possessiveness that was no less absolute.
The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with dangers neither of them could yet foresee, but one thing was clear: in this moment, at least, they were bound together—by circumstance, by necessity, and by something else, something far more perilous than either of them dared to name.
The rain had become a shield—its relentless descent cloaking the yard in shimmering veils of silver, hiding them from Marley’s ever-watchful gaze. Eren moved with practiced precision, each step calibrated to mimic Kruger’s habitual limp, the cane tapping rhythmically against slick concrete. Yet behind the disguise, his thoughts were anything but measured. His focus was fixed on Draco—on the way the boy’s eyes flicked across the landscape, drinking in details with unsettling speed.
Dangerous. Clever. The kind of mind that made mistakes lethal.
Then came the whisper. Barely audible over the rain, but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
“You’re not really a cripple.”
Eren didn’t falter. But the corner of his mind twisted with a wary sort of respect. The boy saw more than most. Without missing a beat, Eren adjusted his grip and struck the cane against a jagged stone near the perimeter fence. It skidded across the soaked ground, hit the electrified wire, and erupted in a brief spark of chaos. A startled shout rang out from the nearest guard. He seized the moment, dropping the act. One fluid movement—too fast for Kruger’s battered shell—and Draco was pulled into the shadows beside him, hidden behind the supply shed's rusting bulk.
The bandage slipped, exposing what was never meant to be seen: the unmarred green iris of his right eye, gleaming with too much clarity to belong to a scarred relic.
Draco’s intake of breath was sharp, involuntary. His expression mirrored the moment a puzzle piece fell into place—the realization that what stood before him was no hobbled soldier. Eren met that gaze with quiet intensity, feeling the storm in the space between them shift.
“And you’re not really human,” He replied, letting Kruger’s cadence melt away, voice sharpening into his own—dangerous and cutting close to the truth. His twin green eyes bore into Draco’s, catching the flicker of gold that leapt from his fingertips.
Magic. Uncontrolled, unhidden. The boy’s fear didn’t lie—it was in the way he trembled, in the way his secret tried to escape.
He knows, Eren thought. Good. Let the rules be clear.
The door groaned under his grip as Eren shoved Draco inside the cramped closet that passed for a cell. Rust bled down the iron walls, each rivulet glinting dimly before pooling in stagnant puddles across cracked concrete. The air was thick with mildew, metallic rot clinging to the boy’s breaths like a warning. The lock snapped shut behind him with a finality Eren knew well—clean, decisive, like a blade drawn across throat. He stood still for a beat, listening to the scrape of Draco’s boots as he stumbled forward, exhaustion knotting his limbs. The boy was fraying at the edges—wounds reopened, robes torn to ruin, magic simmering just beneath the skin.
Eren rested the cane’s tip on the floor, its rhythm echoing in the hollow silence. He lingered in the doorway, silhouette framed by the sputtering hallway light that twisted his shadow into jagged shapes. He felt it again—that prickle beneath his skin whenever the boy was near. Magic and instinct humming dangerously close. He didn’t let himself react. Didn’t let the tension show. Just one clipped sentence, “Pista brings food at 7.” His voice carried the weight it was meant to—authority without warmth, instruction without invitation. “Don’t make noise.”
But Draco’s reaction didn’t follow the script. Fingers caught his sleeve—desperate, shaking, reckless. Eren tensed, gaze flicking down at the trembling grip. Not fear alone. Something sharper. Need. The boy was already calculating, already reaching toward him, even if he didn’t fully understand why.
“Why help me?” He asked.
Eren froze, the rhythmic tap of his cane halting mid-motion as Draco's question hung between them, suspended in the damp, oppressive air of the cell. The weight of those words—simple yet loaded with a vulnerability that cut through Eren's carefully constructed defenses—seemed to fracture something within him, the mask of Kruger slipping just enough to reveal the man beneath. He turned slowly, his body tense with the effort of maintaining control even as something raw and unguarded surfaced in his expression.
His gaze swept over Draco—the bruises mottling his too-pale skin, the fresh brand seared over the faded dark mark, the way his defiance warred with bone-deep exhaustion—and for a fleeting moment, Eren's resolve wavered. His attention dropped to Draco's lips, lingering there for a heartbeat too long, drawn by an unfamiliar pull he couldn't—wouldn't—name, before snapping back up to meet those impossible silver eyes with a sharp inhale.
"Your eyes," Eren heard himself murmur, rough rasp giving way to something softer, almost reverent, the words dragged from some hidden depth he rarely acknowledged. Vulnerability. "They're... impossible." The confession left his lips before he could stop it, and the instant regret that followed was sharp enough to make his jaw tighten. He saw the shock ripple through Draco, saw the answering flicker of golden magic in his gaze, the connection between them suddenly magnetic and terrifying in its intensity.
Dangerous.
A guttural shout from a passing guard echoed down the corridor—both salvation and interruption—and instinct took over. Kruger reassembled himself in an instant, shoulders rounding, weight shifting heavily onto the cane, the limp pronounced once more. But it was too late. Draco had seen it—the brief, unguarded moment of truth—and worse, Eren had felt it: the dormant power of the Founder stirring reflexively in his own gaze, a pulse of ancient energy responding to the alien magic thrumming beneath Draco's skin, to the raw, inexplicable connection that had flared between them.
He felt it.
Eren faced Draco fully now, the Kruger mask firmly back in place, yet the words that left his lips carried a gravity that transcended the persona. "You don’t belong here." His gaze swept over Draco’s battered form, lingering on the fresh brand, the chains, the way his body trembled with exhaustion and pain. "This world will break you, Draco." He paused, the truth of the statement settling heavily between them. "It breaks everyone."
The warning was clear, yes, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of something darker, something possessive—a claim on this impossible spark of light in the suffocating gloom of Marley's cruelty.
"Why?" Draco’s voice cracked, his fingers twisting tighter in Eren’s sleeve, the desperation in his grip belying the defiance in his eyes. "Why do you care? You don’t know me."
Because you’re a light in this abyss.
Because the Titan recognizes a different kind of wildness.
Because you’re the first impossible thing I’ve seen in years.
The thoughts were chaos, a storm of contradictions Eren couldn't—wouldn't—voice aloud. Instead, he leaned in, closing the distance between them until his breath ghosted warm against Draco’s ear, the proximity a calculated risk that felt perilously, dangerously personal.
"Because you’re different," He whispered, the words layered, heavy with unspoken meaning. "Because I felt it the moment I saw you." He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Draco’s gaze, letting the power in his own eyes pulse once more—a silent, dangerous acknowledgment of the truth neither of them could deny. "Something... more."
The air between them crackled with tension, with possibility, with the unspoken understanding that whatever this was—this connection, this pull—it defied explanation. The heavy footfalls of approaching guards grew louder, their voices carrying through the damp stone corridors with the casual cruelty of men who had long since stopped seeing prisoners as human. Eren felt the shift happen in real time, the exact moment when Kruger's persona solidified completely, the mask snapping back into place with the precision of a soldier falling into formation.
"Stay alive, Draco," He said, the command stripped bare of pretense, simple and stark in its urgency, the only promise he could afford to make in this place where even breathing felt like a gamble. Then, he severed the fragile intimacy of the moment, his voice flattening into the brusque tones of a jailer giving orders. "Stay quiet. Pista will bring food. Don't draw attention."
The transformation was complete, every trace of the man beneath the disguise carefully locked away as he turned with Kruger's exaggerated, painful limp, the cane thudding against the wet stone floor in perfect rhythm with his retreat. The heavy door groaned shut behind him, its final, echoing clang sealing Draco away in darkness, the sound reverberating through Eren's bones like a funeral knell.
For one unguarded moment, Eren stood motionless in the dim corridor, the cane hanging silent in his grip, his breathing unnaturally even despite the storm of thoughts raging beneath the surface. The relentless drumming of rain against the prison's high windows was the only sound in the oppressive stillness, a steady percussion that did nothing to quiet the turmoil churning within him. Beneath the layers of bandages and carefully applied scars, beneath the crushing weight of his mission and the deep, soul-wearying exhaustion of his endless war, something unfamiliar and unsettling stirred—a current he couldn't name, couldn't control, and most dangerously, couldn't bring himself to fully suppress.
Draco Malfoy was a complication in every sense of the word, a vortex of alien magic and aristocratic fragility that threatened to unravel the careful calculus of Eren's plans. Protecting him was strategic, of course—the boy was clearly tied to the Paths in ways Eren didn't yet understand, a puzzle piece that might prove invaluable when the time came. Understanding him felt necessary, a tactical imperative.
But the possessive pull he felt, the raw, instinctive response to Draco's magic and his defiance... that was something else entirely. A weakness. A vulnerability. One he couldn't afford, not here in the belly of the beast, not with the walls still standing between him and his ultimate goal. With deliberate effort, Eren forced Kruger's limp back into his step, the familiar ache in his leg a welcome anchor to reality as he vanished into the prison's shifting shadows.
Yet even as he disappeared into the role he had played for so long, the image of impossible silver eyes burned in his mind, brighter than any brand, a spark that refused to be extinguished no matter how hard he tried.
The rain continued its endless assault against the stone walls, the sound like a thousand whispering voices, and Eren knew that this—whatever this was—would not be so easily dismissed. Not when every instinct in him, both human and Titan, recognized Draco Malfoy for what he was: something rare, something valuable, something that might just change everything. The thought should have terrified him.
Instead, it settled in his chest with the weight of inevitability, a truth he couldn't outrun no matter how fast or far he walked into the darkness.
Rainwater dripped from the rusted metal eaves of the barracks, each drop striking the perpetually damp concrete with a sound like a tiny, melancholy clock, a rhythm Eren unconsciously matched with the heavy thump-tap of his worn wooden cane as he limped away from the oppressive silence of Cellblock C.
The image seared onto his mind, far brighter and more disturbing than the grey gloom surrounding him, was of the new prisoner secured within that cell: Draco Malfoy, unnaturally pale against the rough stone, bound in chains that seemed absurdly inadequate, yet radiating an unsettling aura of defiance, a sharp, almost luminous energy that felt utterly alien and profoundly wrong within these walls built for despair.
He shouldn't be here, not like this, not trapped within this cage of hatred and fear, Eren thought, the familiar, immense weight of the Founding Titan’s power shifting restlessly beneath his skin like a slumbering beast disturbed, its ancient resonance vibrating in response to the potent, crackling foreign energy emanating from behind the thick cell door, an energy that felt simultaneously fragile and dangerously volatile.
This brutal world, forged in centuries of Eldian suffering and Marleyan vengeance, will consume him whole, grind that defiant light into dust without a second thought.
He had just secured the heavy iron cell door, the final, echoing clang of the lock mechanism feeling like a sentence passed, when a lean figure detached itself from the deeper shadows pooled near the ration depot's corrugated metal walls.
Pista.
The man moved quietly, his frame tense beneath the worn fabric of his Marleyan uniform, shoulders hunched defensively against the insistent cold rain that plastered thin strands of his hair flat against his forehead. Falling into step beside Eren without a word, his dark eyes, sharp and perpetually watchful, missed nothing, scanning the empty yard and the darkened barracks windows as their boots made thick, sucking sounds in the churned mud of the pathway.
"You look," Pista muttered after a moment, his voice pitched low, barely rising above the steady drumming of the downpour on the rooftops and the squelch of their footsteps, "like you just wrestled a full-grown Titan bare-handed in the mud and came off distinctly the worse for wear, Kruger." He adjusted his stride subtly to match Eren's carefully calibrated limp, a subtle tension radiating from him. "That new prisoner, the one with hair like stolen moonlight. What exactly," He pressed, his gaze finally fixing intently on Eren's rain-streaked profile, "is your play with him?”
Eren maintained his limping pace, refusing to slow or turn his head, his single uncovered eye locked onto the distant, wavering beacon of the flickering lantern that marked the relative sanctuary of the administrative block entrance, its light struggling against the pervasive gloom like a drowning man’s final gasp. "Play?" His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a practiced monotone honed by years of deception in the belly of the beast. "There is no 'play’, Pista. He’s Eldian scum, just like every other wretch penned inside these walls. I processed him according to standard procedure. That’s the beginning and the end of the story."
The lie clung to his tongue like a thick coating of rancid oil, its bitterness intensified by the low, insistent hum vibrating deep within his bones, the Founder’s power resonating like a plucked bass string, a constant, unsettling thrum that swelled into a palpable pressure whenever he drew near the oppressive stone bulk of Cellblock C, forming a silent, dissonant counterpoint to the unseen, crackling energy leaking from Draco Malfoy’s cell.
Pista let out a sharp, derisive snort, a harsh, guttural sound of pure disbelief that cut through the rhythmic patter of the rain. "Spare me the tired act, Kruger, and don’t insult my intelligence while you’re at it," He hissed, his breath misting briefly in the chill air. "I saw the look on your face when you first laid eyes on him, a look that had nothing to do with processing scum. It was the predatory focus of a hawk that spotted a wounded songbird fluttering helplessly on the ground, a look that promised dissection, not dismissal. And that unnatural glow that surrounded him earlier in the yard? Right after the Titan roared and startled everyone? That wasn’t swamp gas ignited by lightning or some trick of the rain-slicked stones. The guards saw it too, clear as day against the mud and misery, and they’re already whispering like frightened children huddled around a campfire. ‘Ghost-light’, they’re calling it, a bad omen. It won’t take long for those whispers to crawl up the chain of command straight to Calvi’s ear. He will hear about it."
Eren stopped dead in his tracks near the massive, rusted iron skeleton of an old water tank, its surface weeping streaks of oxidized red-brown tears that mingled with the rainwater cascading down its sides, the sudden cessation of movement jarring. He turned slowly to face Pista fully. The relentless downpour streamed in rivulets down the map of scars etched across his face, tracing the deep grooves and valleys of old pain like liquid sorrow.
In the deep, watery gloom of the internment zone, his uncovered eye held a dangerous, almost feral intensity, a banked fire threatening to erupt.
"What do you want me to say, Pista?" Eren demanded, his voice low but carrying an edge like scraped flint. "Fine. He’s an anomaly. A statistical outlier in the grim dataset of Eldian suffering. That’s the entire truth of it. Unpredictable. Volatile. He requires closer observation than the usual fodder, nothing more. He needs watching."
"Watching?" Pista echoed, the word dripping with incredulous scorn. He took a decisive step closer, closing the distance until the brim of his soaked cap almost brushed Eren’s shoulder, his voice dropping to a venomous, intimate whisper barely audible over the drumming rain. "Is that what you call practically shoving Corporal Varkis face-first into that filthy puddle when he merely tried to take custody of the prisoner for routine transfer? Is that vigilant observation? You invoked the fucking Prisoner Code! Since when does the Owl, the master strategist who bends regulations like they’re made of wet paper, suddenly become a stickler for the rulebook unless those rules serve your hidden, inscrutable purpose? This reeks of something personal, Eren. It stinks of a dangerous, uncharacteristic recklessness. And we," He emphasized, jabbing a finger towards Eren’s chest, "cannot afford recklessness, not now, not ever, but especially not with Zeke due back at first light." He spat the Beast Titan holder’s name like it was a mouthful of poison, his expression twisting with visceral distaste. "That smug, calculating bastard sniffs out weakness and deviation like a starved bloodhound on a fresh trail. If he catches even a whiff of this… this glowing liability you’re suddenly guarding like some prized, exotic hen, if he senses anything out of the ordinary that you haven’t meticulously controlled… the consequences won’t just fall on you. They’ll engulf everything we’ve built, everything we’re trying to achieve."
The unspoken threat hung heavy and cold in the rain-slicked air, thicker than the Marleyan fog that sometimes rolled in from the sea, a suffocating blanket of dread woven from the mere mention of Zeke Yeager’s imminent return. That event alone complicated the already perilous tapestry of their existence exponentially, introducing a variable of pure, calculating malice into an equation balanced on a knife's edge.
Zeke’s particular brand of cruelty, cold and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, coupled with his warped, genocidal vision for Eldia’s future—a vision Eren Kruger was grimly determined to excise from the world like the cancerous growth it was—meant every move, every breath, had to be measured against the unforgiving countdown to dawn.
And now, Draco Malfoy, this bewildering, luminous anomaly chained in Cellblock C, was a wild card thrown onto the table, a supernova of unknown potential and danger that had plummeted out of nowhere into the center of their meticulously laid, fragile plans, threatening to ignite the whole precarious structure.
"He’s just one man, Pista," Eren countered, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly growl that resonated with a forced semblance of Kruger’s weary cynicism, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the effort. "A single, frightened, clearly injured man who fell out of the sky, or wherever he came from, straight into this particular circle of hell. What conceivable threat could he possibly pose to the grand machinery of Marley, or to us, beyond the immediate strangeness of his arrival?"
"The threat isn't him, you stubborn fool, the threat is you, Eren!" Pista hissed back, the words escaping like steam under pressure, and he jabbed a finger hard against Eren’s rain-soaked shirt, right over his sternum. "The threat is you losing your goddamn focus! Risking everything we’ve bled for, everything we’ve endured, by throwing away three long, agonizing years of meticulously playing Kruger, the broken, compliant war hero, all because some ethereally pretty stranger with haunted silver eyes and an impossible aura makes your precious Founder power resonate inside your skull like a struck tuning fork! Don’t deny it. I saw it happen! That energy crackling around him earlier… it’s profoundly wrong. It doesn’t feel like the raw, brute force of a Titan shifter, and it sure as hell doesn’t feel purely human. It’s something else entirely, something alien and unsettling that vibrates on a frequency this world wasn’t meant to hold. And wrong, Eren, especially wrong that shines like a beacon in the mud, attracts attention—the worst kind of attention—attention we absolutely cannot afford to draw, not with Zeke breathing down our necks!"
Eren flinched internally, a minute tightening around his uncovered eye the only outward sign that Pista’s words had struck a nerve far deeper than the physical jab. The man was infuriatingly, dangerously observant. The Founder’s power did react to Draco Malfoy’s presence, not merely with passive awareness, but with an active, almost gravitational pull.
It wasn't just an attraction. It was a deep, resonant vibration, a harmonic disturbance echoing through the very fabric of the Paths that connected all Subjects of Ymir across time and space, reacting violently to the intrusion of an entirely foreign, dissonant frequency. This resonance unsettled Eren to his core, a primal unease warring with a dangerous, consuming fascination that threatened to unravel his control, an undeniable force that drew him towards the cell with an intensity that frightened him precisely because it felt beyond his will.
But Pista, damn him, was fundamentally right about the external danger, the catastrophic risk of exposure. With a conscious effort that felt like forcing a rusted portcullis shut, Eren willed Kruger’s characteristic weary stoop back into his posture, the slump of shoulders and the careful favoring of his leg reasserting themselves like a familiar, burdensome cloak.
"Fine," He conceded, the word clipped, his voice regaining some of Kruger’s brittle resignation. "You want concrete answers instead of shadows and suspicion? Let’s go find out who he really is, or at least, who Marley thinks he is. If he’s merely some lost, traumatized Eldian washed up on our shores, his arrival records, however sparse, should be buried somewhere in the administrative archives. Then," He added, turning back towards the flickering lantern light of the administrative block, "maybe you’ll stop jumping at phantoms and seeing conspiracies in every raindrop, Pista."
It was a deflection, a practical suggestion offered to placate immediate suspicion, but the path to the archives felt like walking deeper into the labyrinth, not escaping it.
The records office felt less like a functional workspace and more like a neglected tomb dedicated to the suffocating weight of bureaucracy, a low-ceilinged, windowless chamber buried deep within the damp, stone foundations beneath the commandant’s quarters. Stale, frigid air hung thick and unmoving, saturated with the cloying scent of mildew feasting on the walls and the pervasive, acrid perfume of decaying parchment emanating from countless stacks of paper that seemed to multiply in the gloom.
A single, fly-specked bulb, dangling precariously from a frayed cord, cast a sickly yellow light that fought a losing battle against the encroaching shadows, transforming the towering piles of overflowing ledgers and the rows of ancient, overburdened filing cabinets into monstrous, dancing silhouettes that appeared to shift and groan under the immense physical and symbolic weight of Marley’s meticulously cataloged oppression, a suffocating monument to the empire’s relentless control over every facet of Eldian existence.
Private Hessler, a painfully young Eldian conscript whose perpetually ink-stained fingers and perpetually furrowed brow spoke of long hours spent drowning in this sea of enforced documentation, practically levitated off his rickety stool as the heavy door groaned open and the imposing figures of Kruger and Pista filled the cramped entrance. His eyes, wide with a mixture of ingrained fear and startled respect, fixed instantly on Kruger—a man who occupied a unique, uneasy space in the compound’s hierarchy, simultaneously pitied for his visible wounds and crippling cane, and deeply feared for the unsettling aura of contained power and his rumored, direct line to the Commandant.
"K-Kruger, sir? Pista?" Hessler stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he scrambled to wipe his blackened fingers hastily on the already grimy fabric of his regulation trousers, a nervous tic making his left eyelid flutter rapidly. "C-Can I… help you gentlemen with something? Is there a particular file you require?"
"Need to verify the intake logs," Eren rasped, leaning heavily onto his cane, exaggerating the tremor in his grip and the weary slump of his shoulders, embodying the image of the broken veteran burdened by duty. "New prisoner processed earlier today, around dawn. Designation Y-7890. Name’s Draco Malfoy. Distinctive features: unusually pale hair, almost white, and striking silver eyes. Reportedly came in with the group netted during the southern checkpoint sweep operation this afternoon." He kept his uncovered eye fixed on Hessler, projecting an air of mundane administrative necessity.
Pista, meanwhile, leaned his weight against a rickety table threatening to collapse under the weight of unsorted reports, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, radiating an aura of skeptical impatience that filled the small room. "We require his full detainee record," He stated flatly, his gaze boring into the nervous conscript. "Background investigation notes if any exist, listed family connections, point of origin, which internment camp he was initially processed into before transfer here—absolutely everything the Marleyan bureaucracy has seen fit to document about this particular piece of Eldian scum." His tone left no room for ambiguity or delay.
Hessler practically tripped over his own boots in his haste to comply, scurrying towards a truly massive ledger resting on a stand in the corner, its cover bound in cracked, faded leather that looked centuries old. With trembling hands, he flipped through thick, densely packed pages, each one a testament to suffering meticulously recorded in cramped, uniform handwriting—endless columns of names reduced to numbers, dates of internment that marked the end of freedom, assigned work details that mapped out lives of drudgery.
The silence of the basement tomb was broken only by the frantic scratch of Hessler’s pen as he located the correct section, the dry, rasping whisper of fragile pages being carefully turned, and the frantic pounding of his own heart. Eren watched the process unfold, his own pulse a slow, heavy drumbeat echoing in his ears. Here, buried under stone and mountains of paper, the restless hum of the Founder’s power within him felt distant, muffled, like thunder heard through thick walls. Yet, the memory of Draco’s energy—that bright, crackling, utterly alien presence—lingered vividly in his mind’s eye, a stark, unsettling contrast to the dead weight of history surrounding them.
Minutes stretched into an eternity within the paper-choked tomb, each second marked by the frantic rustling of pages and the increasingly agitated mutterings of Private Hessler. His ink-stained finger moved with jerky precision down column after dense column of cramped script, flipped back to earlier entries with growing desperation, checked and double-checked alphanumeric designations against the scrawled notes on his scrap paper.
A deep frown of professional bewilderment creased his youthful brow, etching lines of confusion far too old for his face. He abandoned the first colossal ledger with a thump that disturbed a cloud of dust motes dancing in the weak light, pulled another equally imposing volume bound in cracked, dark leather from a nearby stack, then yet another, cross-referencing prisoner numbers, intake dates, and transfer manifests with mounting anxiety.
"Draco Malfoy… Draco Malfoy…" Hessler muttered, the repetition becoming a nervous mantra, his voice losing its initial deference and filling instead with palpable puzzlement. "Sir… Kruger, sir… this is… highly irregular." He finally looked up, his expression a mask of genuine confusion bordering on distress, his eyes darting between Eren’s impassive gaze and Pista’s hardening stare. “There’s no full record. No camp history, no family trace, not even a note of prior registration.” He hesitated, finger hovering over the page as though the absence might shift under scrutiny. "Origin camp: blank. Lineage: blank. Background: nothing. It’s as if the system generated the name but forgot the man. As though Draco Malfoy… doesn’t exist.”
Pista shoved himself violently off the rickety table, his earlier skeptical impatience instantly replaced by a sharp, cold wave of suspicion that seemed to lower the temperature in the damp room. He closed the distance in two quick strides, his boots crunching on scattered papers as he loomed over Hessler’s shoulder, eyes narrowing on the damningly sparse ledger entry.
"Blank?" He hissed, voice dropping into a dangerous rasp. "That’s not merely irregular, Hessler—that’s functionally impossible. Every Eldian, whether they’re born in the internment zones of Marley, the wilderness of Paradis, or some remote territory under our reach… their existence is documented. Tracked. Filed. The system does not forget, does not misplace, and certainly does not leave entire records void. Every breath they take, every step they make—it’s accounted for." He leaned closer, disbelief sharpening into something colder. "And yet… this Draco Malfoy? Nothing. That’s not an oversight. That’s a crack in the wall!”
Hessler flinched visibly under the verbal lash and the proximity of Pista’s simmering anger, but years of ingrained obedience to authority figures within the compound hierarchy propelled him into frantic action. He scrambled, pulling out more massive ledgers from groaning shelves, shuffling through thick folders stuffed with yellowing transfer manifests, his movements becoming increasingly desperate.
The search expanded wildly: he checked comprehensive lists from the Liberio internment zone, from the harsh northern territories known for their brutal work camps, from the crumbling ghettos in recently occupied lands. He painstakingly cross-referenced the designation Draco Malfoy against grim lists of recent Titan test subject casualties, against bulletins detailing escapees from other facilities, even against the rolls of the deceased from major camp epidemics.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing yielded a trace. Draco Malfoy, Prisoner Y-7890, existed solely as a number, a physical description, and an intake stamp on a single page within this damp basement. He possessed no past, no connections, no paper trail leading anywhere. He was, by the meticulously cruel standards of Marley’s record-keeping, a phantom, a ghost haunting the very system designed to erase individuality.
"It’s… it’s truly not here, Pista," Hessler finally whispered, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and dawning terror, his face ashen beneath the grime and the flickering bulb’s sickly glow. He gestured helplessly at the chaotic sprawl of open ledgers and scattered files surrounding him, a monument to fruitless searching. "No birth certificate in any district archive. No residency permit ever issued, not even in the most remote ghetto. No history of assignment to any internment camp, primary or secondary, across the entire Marleyan territory. No record of his parents, siblings, or even distant kin. Nothing.”
The silence that descended upon the records office was profound and suffocating, thick enough to coat the tongue and constrict the throat, a tangible void where only the frantic beating of Hessler’s terrified heart and the faint, frantic dance of dust motes swirling in the weak, jaundiced light of the single bulb dared to intrude. Pista turned slowly, almost a painful movement of a man confronting an abyss, his gaze locking onto Eren’s impassive face. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide now, pupils dilated not just by the gloom but by a dawning, visceral horror that stripped away his usual cynicism.
Without a word, Eren began limping out of the records office, his cane striking the grimy floor with a rhythmic, hollow thud that echoed down the corridor like the ticking of a distant, ominous clock. He didn't glance back, didn’t speak; just moved forward with the quiet certainty of a man following something unseen.
Pista blinked, momentarily stunned, then followed at a brisk pace—more out of disbelief than urgency. “Kruger!” He called out. "Where do you think you're going?"
Eren’s gait remained steady, the cane guiding him like a silent metronome. The winding path led them through dim, damp corridors until they arrived at Cellblock C. They halted outside a single cell. Eren’s gloved hand rested briefly on the iron bars—not for balance, but as if acknowledging the significance of what lay beyond.
Inside, Draco lay asleep on the narrow cot. His body was curled slightly, one arm draped carelessly across his chest, the other hanging near the floor. The dim bulb overhead bathed him in a jaundiced light, catching strands of hair so pale they seemed to shimmer against the gloom. Despite the stillness, his brows were faintly drawn, as though even unconscious he resisted the world around him. Eren didn’t speak. Didn’t knock or stir the silence. His gaze lingered, searching, calculating—but he let the boy sleep. Whatever answers Eren sought weren’t in words yet spoken, but in the uncanny void surrounding Draco’s very existence.
Pista shifted beside him, his voice thick with the lingering horror from the records room. "You see?" He breathed, the words barely audible yet carrying the crushing weight of an undeniable accusation that seemed to press down on the dusty air itself. "No records. No papers. Not a single trace in the entire machinery built to catalogue our misery. He fell out of the fucking sky, Eren! Literally appeared from nowhere! And those eyes… Ymir’s bones, they glow in the dark! What… what in the name of our cursed Founder is he? And why, for the love of all that’s left worth saving, are you gambling three years of sacrifice, the entire future of Eldia, on this… this impossible, glowing ghost?"
Eren met Pista’s desperate gaze head-on, his own expression carefully schooled into the weary mask of Kruger, a fortress of practiced stoicism. Inside, however, the immense power of the Founder stirred once more, not with the sharp jolt of alarm Pista might have expected, but with a chilling, absolute certainty that resonated through the core of his being, deeper than bone, deeper than blood.
The blankness in the ledgers, the utter void where a past should have been meticulously recorded by Marley’s obsessive bureaucracy, wasn't a flaw in the system or an administrative error; it was stark, irrefutable confirmation of what the Founder’s power had already sensed vibrating within Draco Malfoy’s fragile human frame. The chaotic, luminous energy Pista dismissed as terrifyingly "wrong" was proof positive—proof of origin beyond the comprehension of Titans, beyond the boundaries of this brutal world.
The profound resonance Eren felt thrumming in his own veins, echoing through the timeless, interconnected space of the Paths that bound all Subjects of Ymir, was not merely recognition; it was a fundamental connection humming across unimaginable gulfs, a bridge spanning realities. He saw the raw, undisguised fear in Draco’s eyes within the damp stone cell, the fierce, aristocratic defiance sparking beneath the surface of that terror like a diamond under pressure, the terrifying vulnerability radiating from the uncontrolled surges of his alien magic, a power as dangerous to its wielder as to those around him.
He saw not just an anomaly or a threat, but something profoundly precious, utterly unique, a singularity of existence that had, against all cosmic odds, fallen into his grasp, into his world. A possessive urge, primal and fierce, surged within him, intertwined inseparably with the ancient, commanding will of the Founding Titan, a deep, resonant certainty that whispered: This one belongs to me.
"He’s dangerous," Pista pressed, the words escaping in a tight, urgent hiss that seemed to vibrate against the oppressive stillness of the paper tomb, his voice rising slightly with the force of suppressed panic threatening to boil over. "An unknown variable dropped right into the heart of our most critical operation! We cannot afford this distraction, this glowing liability that screams for attention! We need to contain him immediately, report his existence and his impossible nature directly to Commandant Calvi, let the Marleyan scientists with their cold scalpels and colder curiosity pick him apart molecule by molecule before he does something catastrophic, before his very presence unravels everything!"
"No." Eren’s voice cut through the damp, dust-laden air like a shard of obsidian, low in register but resonating with an undeniable, chilling authority.
It wasn't the familiar, world-weary rasp of Kruger the crippled veteran. This was the hard, uncompromising command of Eren Yeager, the inheritor of Titans, the architect of a desperate future. The worn wooden cane in his hand suddenly felt like nothing more than a ridiculous prop, a flimsy shield utterly inadequate for the immense, coiled power radiating from the man who gripped it.
Pista stared, his eyes widening further, shock momentarily eclipsing his fury as he registered the seismic shift in the man before him, the carefully constructed persona of Kruger dissolving like mist. "Eren…" He breathed. “Zeke’s team will be back by dawn.” Pista’s voice cut through the silence frustratingly, but Eren barely flinched. “We can’t keep hiding him, Eren. This isn’t some stray dog you found in the woods—this is an Eldian with no records, no papers, and eyes that glow like goddamned lanterns when he’s scared.”
"Then we move forward the attack on Liberio," Eren stated, his voice now terrifyingly measured, each word dropping with heavy finality into the tense silence like stones sinking into a stagnant pool. He held Pista’s stunned gaze unflinchingly, the intense green of his eyes seeming to deepen, to absorb the flickering, inadequate lamplight and hold within it the immeasurable weight of centuries of Eldian suffering, Titan inheritance, and grim determination. "The War Hammer’s location is confirmed. We take it tomorrow night, before Zeke arrives to complicate things.”
Pista’s jaw literally dropped open, slack with utter disbelief. He sputtered, incoherent sounds escaping him as outrage warred violently with a profound sense of betrayal twisting his features. "You’d throw away years of careful planning for some pretty boy who fell out of the sky?” He choked out, his voice cracking, raw with the sting of perceived treachery. "After everything we’ve sacrificed for the Coordinate? After all the lives lost to get you this close to the Founder’s power?”
Eren didn’t look away, didn’t flinch from the raw anguish and fury in Pista’s eyes. He could feel Draco’s presence, a distant, tense awareness humming faintly through the layers of stone and steel separating them, a subtle vibration in the air itself. He knew, with the unnerving certainty granted by the Paths, that the boy was awake in his cell, listening, straining to perceive the currents of power and tension swirling above him. He let the silence stretch, thick and viscous with the weight of all the unspoken truths—the crackling, otherworldly energy emanating from the cellblock, the Founder’s resonant pull, the stark, screaming blankness of the records that declared Draco Malfoy an impossibility.
He let Pista’s furious, betrayed words hang, heavy and accusatory, in the mildewed air.
Then, with a terrifying, utter conviction that bypassed reason and strategy, the words ripped from a place deeper than the struggle for Eldia, deeper than the Paths, a dark wellspring where the ancient, possessive instinct of the Titan intertwined inextricably with a man’s inexplicable, consuming fascination.
"He’s mine."
The declaration hung in the damp, paper-choked air, absolute and primal, resonating with a finality that admitted no argument or explanation. It wasn't a justification born of logic or a calculated risk. It was the raw articulation of a fundamental, possessive truth. A claim staked not on land or ideology, but on the essence of an impossible being. And in that charged instant, Eren felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible answering surge of that unique, golden energy emanating from the direction of Cellblock C, a bright, defiant flicker against his heightened senses, there and then abruptly, forcefully suppressed.
He heard.
The connection, undeniable and terrifyingly intimate, had been acknowledged.
Pista recoiled as if physically struck by the words. His face drained of all color, leaving a stark, ashen pallor, before a furious, almost apoplectic flush surged upward from his neck, mottling his skin with blotches of angry red. “You’re risking everything we’ve worked for. The entire restoration of Eldia rests on the Coordinate, Eren. You’ve spent three years building Kruger’s reputation, making them trust you, and now you’d burn it all because some stranger has pretty eyes?” He choked out. “Tell me why. Make me understand.” He demanded.
"He’s not from here," Eren stated. "Not from this world.”
He saw Pista’s eyes widen further still, the pupils shrinking to pinpricks of confusion battling against the dawning, gut-wrenching horror inspired by Eren’s unwavering conviction.
"I felt it the moment I saw him," Eren continued, his voice a low, compelling thrum that seemed to vibrate in the very stones, his gaze locked onto the narrow crack where the heavy cell door met its frame, knowing with primal certainty that silver eyes watched him intently from the impenetrable darkness within. "His energy… is different. Wrong. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.” He lifted his hand slightly, fingers curling slowly as if trying to grasp the intangible, strange resonance humming faintly in the damp air between him and the cell. “The Founder… it responds to him. When he’s near, I can feel it stirring in ways I don’t understand.” He paused, the silence thickening unbearably, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet loaded with a terrifying, intimate certainty that silenced even Pista’s ragged breathing. “He’s awake."
Silence. Profound, suffocating silence, broken only by Pista’s shallow, disbelieving breaths. Then, shattering the tension like glass, rough but unnervingly clear, cutting through the oppressive gloom from behind the heavy, cold iron door, came the voice, laced with fear yet underpinned by a core of defiant aristocracy.
"What do you want from me?"
Eren moved instantly, fluidly, the pretense of infirmity utterly discarded. He closed the distance to Draco’s cell in two long, powerful strides that spoke of coiled strength and predatory focus, stopping directly before the scarred metal surface. He stood so close his breath might have fogged the cold iron, close enough to discern through the narrow gap the faintest sliver of unnaturally pale skin, a fleeting glimpse of wide, wary, luminous silver eyes staring back from the shadows.
The sudden, extreme proximity sent a fresh, potent wave of that unique, resonant energy washing over him, a tangible force prickling against his skin. Deep within, the Founder’s power hummed in response, a complex, unfamiliar chord resonating through the Paths, a harmonic vibration acknowledging the impossible presence mere inches away.
"I want you to live," Eren stated, the profound simplicity of the words belying the immense, unyielding depth of the vow they carried, a promise forged in the crucible of his own relentless will. He saw, through the narrow aperture in the heavy iron door, the faintest tremble disturb the deeper shadow within, a subtle ripple of movement betraying the listener behind the barrier. "This world…" His expression darkened, the brutal, crushing reality of Marley’s systemic oppression settling over his features like a shroud, etching lines of grim understanding around his uncovered eye. “It’s built to destroy anything different, anything that doesn’t fit into Marley’s neat little boxes. But you…” His hand lifted again, mirroring the earlier gesture, hovering mere inches from the cold, scarred metal surface of the cell door, a silent echo of the connection he felt thrumming through the air. “You’re something else entirely. And I won’t let them take you apart to see what makes you work.”
The possessiveness radiating from him was undeniable now, a tangible force pressing against the damp air, thick as the scent of mildew and decay. He detected no flinch of retreat from the intense stillness within the darkness beyond the door, only that profound, listening silence, a silver-eyed awareness focused entirely on him. Deep within his core, the immense power of the Founder surged, not in opposition or alarm, but in perfect, resonant alignment with this primal, unbreakable claim he had staked.
"Eren," Pista’s voice cut in abruptly, pulling him back from the intense communion with the figure behind the door, laced with urgent practicality. "The guard rotation starts in five minutes. If they find you here—”
"I know," Eren replied, the words clipped, still not turning his gaze from Draco’s presence visible through the gap, the connection momentarily straining but unbroken. He consciously forced the familiar, world-weary rasp of Kruger back into his voice, a thin mask attempting to contain the tempest of determination and possession swirling beneath the surface. "Stay quiet," He murmured, the command softened unexpectedly by an unfamiliar thread of genuine concern directed solely at the unseen prisoner. "Don’t draw attention. Pista will bring you food. And tomorrow…" He hesitated, the crushing weight of the coming hours pressing down upon him, the precipice of tomorrow looming large and terrifying. Leaning infinitesimally closer, his lips almost brushing the cold iron, his next words were a whisper meant only for Draco. "Tomorrow, we change everything."
He turned abruptly then, the shift back to Kruger’s hunched posture and pronounced limp executed with an actor's precision, almost seamless in its practiced deception. As he pivoted, he caught the full force of Pista’s livid, utterly bewildered expression—a volatile mixture of simmering fury, deep-seated fear for their precarious position, and complete, paralyzing incomprehension at the path Eren had chosen.
Without uttering another word, without acknowledging the storm brewing in his comrade’s eyes, Eren limped past him, the deliberate, echoing thump-tap of his worn wooden cane against the wet concrete corridor striking a note of chilling finality in the tense silence. Pista lingered for a heartbeat, casting one last, deeply frustrated, almost despairing glance at the silent, enigmatic cell door, the source of all this dangerous upheaval, before turning to follow, his own footsteps heavy with the leaden weight of disapproval and dread.
They walked in a silence stretched taut as a wire, the rhythmic drumming of rain on the corrugated metal roof overhead the only sound, a monotonous counterpoint to the unspoken tension vibrating between them like static before a storm. Eren led the way not towards the relative anonymity of the barracks, but instead turned down a narrower, darker passage that led towards the quartermaster’s stores, the damp air growing colder as they moved away from the main thoroughfares.
Pista stopped him abruptly, his hand shooting out to grasp Eren’s rain-slicked sleeve with urgent pressure. "Eren, what in Ymir’s name are you doing now?" He hissed, his voice tight with a mixture of confusion and rising alarm. "We need to debrief, to plan for tomorrow night, to figure out how the hell we execute the Liberio attack with this… this complication breathing down our necks! This detour is—"
"Supplies," Eren stated flatly, the single word devoid of explanation as he firmly shrugged off Pista’s restraining grip. He pushed open the heavy, unmarked door to the quartermaster’s stores, the scent of pervasive mildew, stale dust, and the coarse, sour tang of cheap, unwashed linen immediately flooding his nostrils, thick and cloying in the confined space.
Ignoring Pista’s incredulous stare boring into his back, Eren moved through the narrow, shadowed aisles crammed floor to ceiling with drab piles of identical prisoner uniforms, stacks of thin, scratchy blankets, and shelves burdened with utilitarian, poorly crafted wooden bowls and spoons. His gaze swept over the meager offerings, selecting: a set of clean, albeit roughly woven, off-white linen shirt and trousers devoid of patches or stains, a thin pillow filled with something that crunched unpleasantly like dry straw, and a single grey woolen blanket, noticeably thicker and less threadbare than the pitiful rags typically issued to those confined within the cells.
He folded these items into a neat, compact bundle, the coarse fabric rough against his palms.
"You’re coddling him," Pista accused, the words dripping with bitter scorn as he stepped into the narrow space near the exit, blocking Eren’s path, his posture rigid with disapproval. "Handing out comforts? To a phantom who materialized from nowhere? To a walking, glowing risk that could unravel years of work and see every single one of us fed screaming to the Titans in the testing grounds before dawn breaks?"
Eren simply shouldered past him, the bundled supplies held firmly and protectively under one arm, pressed against his side. "He’s not a phantom," He said as he strode back into the corridor without a backward glance. "And he’s cold." He headed unerringly straight back towards the imposing bulk of Cellblock C.
Pista trailed several paces behind, a dark shadow muttering a low, furious stream of curses and imprecations under his breath, the sound swallowed by the downpour.
Back at Draco’s cell door, Eren didn’t hesitate for a heartbeat. He retrieved the heavy key, the cold metal biting into his fingers, and unlocked the mechanism. The door swung inward with a tortured groan of ancient, rusty hinges, the sound echoing sharply in the stone corridor.
Draco sat rigidly pressed against the wall, the heavy chains pooled loosely around his bare, mud-streaked ankles, his unnaturally pale face stark in the gloom. But the moment his wide, luminous silver eyes caught sight of Eren Kruger entering the cellblock, he stood. His posture remained tense, wary—too proud to cower, too drained to truly defend. The core of aristocratic defiance still burned within those eyes, fierce and bright.
But Eren saw it all: the deep exhaustion etched into the boy’s face, the tremor that betrayed the effort behind each movement, the unnatural pallor of someone shaken to the foundations. Draco’s hands remained clenched at his sides, knuckles white, his slender frame taut with fatigue and something deeper—something unresolved and afraid to be named. And still, he stood. The sight triggered an unfamiliar, unwelcome tightening deep within Eren’s chest, a constriction that felt perilously close to pity. He stepped inside, his imposing frame immediately dominating the cramped, damp stone space, the air thickening with the proximity and the strange resonance emanating from the pale figure.
"Take these," Eren commanded, his voice carrying the accustomed authority, yet softened, almost imperceptibly, by an undercurrent of something else—a gentleness that felt alien, unsettling, even to himself. He held out the bundle towards the chained figure against the wall.
Draco didn’t move.
Eren stood just beyond the bars, watching him carefully, noting the conflict etched into every line of his frame. Suspicion flickered hard behind those silver eyes—an instinct sharpened by recent trauma—and yet something softer tugged at the edges. A craving. Not for escape, but for comfort. The bundle still rested in Eren’s arms, and Draco’s gaze kept drifting toward it like a moth circling light but refusing to land.
When he finally spoke, the word came rough and raw. “Why?”
The immense power of the Founder stirred within him, resonating faintly, harmonically, with the chaotic, untamed potential he sensed coiled deep beneath Draco’s fragile human exterior, a hidden wellspring of power that felt both ancient and startlingly new. He saw beyond the aristocratic posture, registering the streaks of grime marring the unnaturally pale skin, the livid bruises blossoming like dark flowers on his wrists from the shackles, the proud bearing visibly crushed by circumstance yet somehow stubbornly refusing to be extinguished, a defiant ember glowing in ash.
He saw something intrinsically precious, something that did not belong amidst the soul-crushing filth of Marley’s making.
"Because you’re not like them," Eren answered. He took a single step forward, the space between them charged with that strange resonance, and placed the bundle carefully, almost reverently, on the cold floor just inside the cell’s threshold. "You don’t belong in their filth." He straightened, his imposing frame filling the doorway, his gaze never once wavering from Draco’s face. "Keep your strength." He punctuated the command by tapping his cane once, sharply. "You’ll need it."
He saw the subtle flicker then, deep within Draco’s wide, wary eyes—a ripple of confusion momentarily eclipsing the suspicion, followed by a dawning, hesitant realization that this gesture, however small, defied the logic of this place, perhaps even the faintest, most reluctant sliver of gratitude, fiercely suppressed but undeniably present.
Slowly, as if his limbs were fighting against his own volition, betraying a vulnerability he desperately wished to conceal, Draco edged forward, the chains scraping softly against the stone. His long, elegant fingers, despite their tremor, hovered tentatively over the clean linen of the shirt, the texture alone a stark, shocking contrast to the filthy rags he wore, a tactile promise of respite.
Eren watched as Draco finally, cautiously gathered the bundle into his arms, clutching it against his chest almost defensively. The simple act of acceptance, of reaching across the chasm of fear and distrust to take this offered comfort, felt monumental, like the fragile, trembling construction of a bridge spanning a fathomless abyss, built wordlessly over impossible odds.
"Rest," Eren murmured, the single syllable weighted down with the crushing enormity of the approaching dawn. "Tomorrow will be a long day." He turned without another word, the movement decisive, pulling the immense, groaning iron door shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the corridor like a tomb sealing. The heavy, metallic clunk of the lock engaging was a sound of utter separation.
Pista stood waiting a few paces away, shrouded in the shifting, uncertain light of a guttering wall torch, his expression an unreadable mask carved from shadows and suppressed emotion—anger, fear, resignation all warring beneath the surface. Eren offered no explanation, no glance of acknowledgement. He simply began walking, the familiar rhythmic of his cane against the concrete echoing not just his physical infirmity now, but the relentless, pounding cadence of his unwavering resolve.
Behind the locked iron door, he left a stolen star from a distant sky, momentarily wrapped in rough-spun linen, a claim irrevocably staked in the silence, and the profound, deafening quiet that inevitably descends just before the unleashing of a world-altering storm. Within him, the vast, ancient power of the Founder settled, no longer merely humming with passive awareness, but actively resonating, a deep, pervasive thrum harmonizing with the faint, impossibly distant echo of an alien magic radiating from the cell.
Mine, the primordial will of the Titan purred with possessive satisfaction, its voice merging with Eren’s own fierce determination. Ours.
Tomorrow, they would tear the existing order asunder. And Draco Malfoy, the impossible catalyst, the luminous anomaly, would stand irrevocably at the heart of the cataclysm.
Notes:
I'm so invested in rewriting this fic that every chapter ends up being over 10k words 😅
Thank you so much for reading! Hope you guys enjoyed it. Kudos, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated<3
Chapter 8: Chapter 4 [NEW VERSION]
Chapter Text
The heavy iron door clanged shut behind Kruger, the finality of the lock's snick echoing in the cramped cell. Draco stood frozen, the coarse fabric of the clean blanket clutched in his hands like a lifeline thrown from a sinking ship. The lingering warmth from Eren’s—Kruger’s—presence seemed to vibrate in the damp air, a stark contrast to the pervasive chill of the stone and iron. Mine. The word, uttered with such primal conviction, echoed in the silence, warring with his mother’s warning. Trust no one. Especially not green-eyed boys. Yet, this man, this enigma who wore pain like a cloak and power like a hidden blade, had just offered him humanity in a bundle of linen.
He sank onto the thin cot, the straw-filled mattress crackling beneath him. The clean clothes felt alien against his grime-caked skin, a cruel reminder of the world he’d lost. He traced the serpentine 'S' of the Black family locket, its cracked emeralds cold against his thumb. Find the Founder’s relic. The directive felt impossibly distant, buried under layers of mud, chains, and the suffocating reality of this nightmare. Kruger’s words slithered back: "The Founder... it responds to him." Was that the connection? Was the relic somehow tied to whatever power pulsed within Kruger, the power that resonated with his own flickering Veela magic?
The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant drip of water and the frantic drumming of his own heart. He replayed the overheard conversation – Zeke’s return, the attack on Liberio, the War Hammer Titan. Kruger—Eren—was accelerating a war for him. The sheer audacity, the terrifying scale of it, stole his breath. Was he a pawn? A prize? Or something else Kruger saw in his "impossible" eyes?
Hours bled into one another, measured by the slow crawl of shadows cast by the flickering bulb overhead. Exhaustion warred with hyper-alertness. Every distant footstep, every clang of metal, sent adrenaline spiking through him. Was it guards? Was it Kruger returning? Was it the monstrous roar of a Titan breaching the walls? He picked at the rough bread left earlier, its taste like ash, his stomach too knotted with anxiety to accept much.
Just as the oppressive stillness threatened to swallow him whole, a new sound pierced the gloom—not the heavy tread of guards, but a lighter, almost jaunty step accompanied by a tuneless, off-key whistle. It stopped directly outside his cell. A key scraped in the lock.
The door groaned open, revealing not Kruger’s imposing silhouette, but a leaner figure silhouetted by the corridor’s dim light. The man stepped in, holding a dented metal tray. He was younger than Kruger, perhaps in his late twenties, with sandy hair plastered to his forehead by the ever-present damp and sharp, intelligent eyes that swept over Draco with unnerving thoroughness. A sardonic half-smile played on his lips. He wore the standard Marleyan guard uniform, but without the usual rigid bearing; there was a loose-limbed casualness about him that felt out of place in the prison’s grim atmosphere.
"Evening, Starlight," the man announced, his voice surprisingly light, laced with a dry, mocking humour. He kicked the door shut behind him with his boot heel, the casualness of the gesture almost shocking. "Brought you the culinary highlight of your day. Or night. Hard to tell down here in the luxury suites, isn't it?" He placed the tray unceremoniously on the floor near Draco’s cot. It held a bowl of thin, greyish gruel, a hunk of dark bread harder than the cell walls, and a chipped mug of water.
Draco eyed him warily, drawing the clean blanket tighter around his shoulders like armour. His Veela magic lay dormant but watchful, coiled beneath his skin. This wasn’t the brutish Aiden or the officious Varkis. This man radiated a different kind of danger—sharp, observant, unpredictable.
The guard leaned back against the damp wall, crossing his arms. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. "Name’s Pista," He offered, the sardonic smile widening slightly. "Official title: Glorified Errand Boy and Keeper of Lost Causes. Unofficial title: The Guy Who Draws the Short Straw When Kruger Wants Favors Done." He nodded towards the tray. "He insisted on the ‘fresh’ bread. Hope you appreciate the extravagance. Nearly had to fight a rat for it."
Draco remained silent, his silver eyes fixed on Pista, assessing. The flippancy was a mask, he sensed. Underneath lay keen observation and a thread of something else... suspicion? Curiosity? It wasn’t the open hostility of the other guards.
"Cat got your tongue, Starlight?" Pista prodded, his head tilting. "Or just overwhelmed by the stimulating conversation? Don’t blame you. Most of the chatter down here is either sobbing, screaming, or the fascinating symphony of bodily functions. Me? I aim for higher intellectual pursuits. Like pondering why the gruel always tastes faintly of despair and old boots." He pushed off the wall and took a step closer, his gaze sharpening, losing some of its mocking edge. "Or pondering, say… where exactly you dropped in from. Because trust me, sunshine, you don’t blend."
Draco stiffened. So, this was the core of it. The scrutiny he’d felt since arrival, now personified in this sharp-tongued guard. He knows something. Or suspects. He kept his voice carefully neutral, a trick honed in Slytherin common rooms. "I was processed. Y-7890. Like the others."
Pista barked a short, humorless laugh. "Y-7890? Please. Spare the official drivel. I saw the intake log. Blank. Big, fat, glorious nothing. No origin camp. No family register. No history. Not even a lousy childhood disease noted." He crouched down, bringing himself closer to Draco’s eye level, his expression turning serious despite the lingering sarcasm in his tone. "You’re a ghost, Starlight. An Eldian-shaped question mark that fell right into Kruger’s lap. And let me tell you, our dear, limping war hero? He doesn’t do coincidences. Or charity cases. Yet here he is, playing nursemaid with clean linens and ‘fresh’ bread." He gestured dismissively at the tray. "So, colour me intensely, morbidly curious. What’s your deal? And what’s his angle with you?"
The confirmation that his lack of records was known, and clearly troubling, sent a fresh wave of cold dread through Draco. Pista was far more informed than he’d appeared. He chose his words carefully, weaving threads of truth into a plausible, if incomplete, tapestry. "I’m... displaced," He admitted, the word tasting bitter. "Things happened. Violence. I ran. Ended up here. I don’t know your camps, your systems. Kruger..." He hesitated, thinking of the fierce protectiveness, the unsettling claim. "He found me. Saw I wasn't a threat. Just lost."
"‘Displaced’," Pista echoed, rolling the word around his tongue like a dubious sweet. "That’s one word for falling off the edge of the known world. And ‘not a threat’?" He snorted, his eyes flicking pointedly to Draco’s left wrist, hidden under the blanket but undoubtedly bandaged. "That little light show earlier when the Titan got chatty? The one that made Private Jens nearly wet himself? That wasn’t swamp gas either, was it? Looked distinctly... glowy. And glowy, around here?" He lowered his voice conspiratorially, though the humour didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Glowy gets you dissected by men in white coats who ask very pointed questions while you’re wide awake. Or gets you volunteered for Titan target practice. Just friendly neighbourhood advice."
Draco’s blood ran cold. Dissected alive. Kruger’s warning hadn’t been hyperbole. Pista was confirming the very real, gruesome danger his magic posed. He instinctively pulled the blanket tighter over his branded arm. "It... it was fear. A reaction. I can’t control it," He whispered, the admission torn from him. Vulnerability was dangerous, but perhaps a sliver of truth would appease this sharp-eyed observer. "It’s not... of this place."
Pista studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching, probing. The sardonic mask slipped further, revealing a glimmer of something harder to define—not pity, but perhaps a weary understanding of survival in a brutal system. "‘Not of this place’," He murmured, echoing Draco’s words. "Yeah. That tracks. You reek of ‘elsewhere’. Like ozone after a storm that blew in from nowhere." He straightened up, his casual posture returning, but the intensity remained in his eyes. "Look, Starlight. Here’s the thing. I don’t know what you are, or where you crawled out from. Frankly, it gives me a headache trying to figure it out. And Kruger?" He shook his head, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features. "Kruger’s a locked box welded shut and dropped in the ocean. Always has been. Plays the broken soldier like a maestro, but there’s... something else. Something cold and hard underneath the limp and the bandages. He watches everything. Calculates. Plans moves five steps ahead of everyone else. He’s got his own war going on, one the rest of us aren't cleared to know about."
He paced a small circle in the cramped space.
"So, seeing him fixate on you? A ghost who glows when Titans burp? It’s... unsettling. Makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Is he protecting you? Or is he protecting some plan that involves you? Saving you? Or just... keeping you intact for something worse?" He stopped pacing and looked directly at Draco, his expression serious. "I’m not here to threaten you. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually enjoy watching people get fed to Titans or taken apart by bored scientists. Marley’s got plenty of volunteers for that kind of fun. But I am here to tell you this: Kruger is dangerous. Not just to Marleyans, but to anyone who gets tangled in his web, Eldian or otherwise. He burns bridges without blinking. Sacrifices pawns. He’s got a vision, Starlight, and it’s bigger, darker, and bloodier than anything you can probably imagine. And you?" Pista gestured at Draco with his chin. "You’re a shiny new piece on his board. Question is, what kind of move is he planning to make with you?"
Draco felt the weight of Pista’s words settle on him, heavier than the iron shackles. They confirmed his own deepest fears about Kruger’s hidden depths, his ruthlessness. The bundle of clean clothes suddenly felt less like kindness and more like... preparation. Keeping you intact for something worse. The thought sent a fresh shiver down his spine. "Why tell me this?" Draco asked, his voice hoarse. "If he’s as dangerous as you say, why risk warning me?"
Pista shrugged, the sardonic smile flickering back. "Call it professional curiosity. Or maybe I just dislike unexplained variables. Or," his gaze sharpened again, "maybe I’ve seen too many wide-eyed idiots walk into Kruger’s shadow and never walk out again. Figured you deserved a heads-up before the axe falls. Consider it a public service announcement from your friendly neighbourhood cynic." He nudged the tray with his boot. "Eat the gruel. It’s terrible, but it’s calories. You’ll need your strength, Starlight." He repeated Kruger’s phrase with a pointed emphasis, his eyebrow arched. "Big day tomorrow, apparently. Kruger’s words, not mine. Whatever that means, in Kruger-speak, it usually involves explosions, screaming, and a high probability of messy death. Sleep tight."
With another casual kick, Pista pushed the cell door open. He paused on the threshold, looking back at Draco, the flickering corridor light casting half his face in shadow. The sardonic glint was back, but beneath it lay a final, stark warning. "And seriously, Starlight? Keep the glowstick act under wraps. Curiosity here is one thing. Marley’s official curiosity? That’s a one-way ticket to the bone-saw brigade. Play the scared, silent ghost. It’s the only role that keeps you breathing in this charming establishment."
He stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. The lock clicked once more, a sound that now felt less like imprisonment and more like the closing of a brief, unsettling window into the complexities of his captors. Draco was alone again, but the silence was different now. Pista’s words swirled in his head like vipers: Locked box... something cold and hard... burns bridges... sacrifices pawns... shiny new piece... something worse.
He looked down at the tray of unappetizing food, then at the clean clothes folded beside him. Kruger’s gesture, now reframed by Pista’s cynical insight. Was it kindness? Or cold calculation? Preparation for an unknown role in a violent game? The bundle felt tainted, a symbol of a dangerous entanglement he couldn’t escape. He’s got his own war going on. And Draco was undeniably part of it now, a claimed piece on Kruger’s board, whatever that meant. The Founder’s relic felt further away than ever, overshadowed by the immediate, terrifying enigma of Eren Kruger and the bloody future Pista had hinted at.
The gruel was cold and tasted exactly as Pista had described—despair and old boots. Draco forced it down, each swallow a mechanical act. Keep your strength. You’ll need it. Kruger’s command, echoed by Pista. For what? Liberation? Or a sacrifice? The weight of the locket against his wrist was his only anchor to a past life, to a mother’s desperate hope. Find the Founder’s relic. But first, he had to survive Kruger’s war. And as Pista’s final warning echoed in the silence, Draco knew survival would mean navigating a treacherous path between a possessive, dangerous protector and a world eager to dissect his secrets.
The flickering bulb overhead seemed to pulse like a dying star, illuminating a cell that felt less like a prison and more like the antechamber to an inevitable storm. He wrapped the clean blanket tighter, seeking warmth that wouldn’t come, and waited for the long day Kruger had promised.
The mess hall of the Marleyan internment zone was a cavernous space that reeked of despair and decay, its high ceilings lost in shadows where the flickering lantern light couldn't reach.
The air hung thick with the cloying stench of spoiled meat and unwashed humanity, mingling with the damp earth smell that seeped through the cracked concrete floors. Rusted iron walls bore silent witness to generations of suffering, their pitted surfaces etched with the desperate scratch marks of prisoners past—names carved with shaking fingers, curses scrawled in anger, prayers whispered in vain hope.
Draco sat hunched at one of the long, splintered wooden tables, his once-proud posture broken by exhaustion and hunger, his wrists raw and inflamed from the constant chafing of iron shackles that had only been removed for this meager meal. His left forearm throbbed with a dull, persistent ache where the Eldian star had been branded over the faded Dark Mark, the two symbols of shame overlapping in a cruel joke of fate that bound him to two worlds where he'd never truly belonged.
He stared down at the dented tin bowl before him with undisguised revulsion, its contents a congealed gray sludge that gave off a rancid odor of spoiled meat and damp earth, the surface shimmering with an unnatural oily sheen in the dim lantern light. His stomach twisted violently at the sight, conjuring unbidden memories of Hogwarts' Great Hall during the autumn feasts—platters heaped with golden roast beef and crispy potatoes, steaming tureens of rich soups, treacle tarts dusted with powdered sugar, goblets overflowing with chilled pumpkin juice that sparkled in the candlelight.
The contrast between those lavish spreads and the putrid gruel before him was so stark it bordered on cruel mockery. Around him, the other prisoners ate with mechanical efficiency, their gaunt faces hollowed by hunger and resignation, their spoons scraping against tin with a rhythmic monotony that filled the cavernous space with eerie metallic echoes.
Across the table, Pista slurped his portion with disturbing enthusiasm, his patched Marleyan uniform marking him as both prisoner and enforcer in this twisted hierarchy. His sharp, calculating eyes flicked up to study Draco with unsettling intensity, his lips curling into a mocking grin that revealed his missing tooth as he watched his reaction to the meal.
"Eat up, pretty boy," Pista taunted, voice edged with dark amusement as he clattered his spoon against the bowl for emphasis. "That slop's gonna be your dinner for the next five years if you're lucky enough to last that long." His grin widened, deepening the weathered creases in his face, but his eyes remained cold and assessing, the eyes of a soldier evaluating whether he was a threat to be neutralized or an asset to be exploited. "Best get used to the taste now before the maggots start showing up in it come summer."
Draco's upper lip curled in instinctive disgust as a glob of the foul gruel dripped from his spoon and splattered onto the table with a wet plop. "This is worse than Hogwarts' pumpkin soup after Peeves cursed the kitchens," He muttered under his breath before he could stop himself, slipping out in a reflexive display of his old Slytherin arrogance.
The name Hogwarts felt alien and dangerous in this place, a shard of his past that didn't belong here, and his heart stuttered with sudden panic at having let it slip, his fingers tightening around the spoon until his knuckles turned white.
Pista's spoon froze halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows knitting together as his sharp ears caught the unfamiliar word. "Hog—what?" He demanded, leaning forward with sudden interest, his breath reeking of the gruel's foul stench as it washed over Draco's face. "You talk like you fell out of a damn storybook, Y-7890."
The serial number they'd assigned him rolled off his tongue, stripping him of identity just as effectively as the prison uniform had.
"Where the hell did they drag you in from anyway? Some fancy Marleyan estate where they teach you to speak all proper-like?" Pista’s tone was teasing, but the calculating glint in his eyes betrayed the soldier beneath the rough exterior, his instincts sensing something unusual about this pale, delicate-featured prisoner who carried himself like nobility despite Draco’s tattered state. He leaned in closer still, his elbow knocking against the table as he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that carried just far enough for Draco to hear. "Come on, spill it. What's your real story, pretty boy? Are you some officer's runaway pet or something?"
Draco's pulse quickened, his magic flaring in response to the sudden threat of exposure, sending a faint golden shimmer dancing across his skin before he managed to wrestle it back under control, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
Careful, he reminded himself sharply, the memory of Kruger's warning echoing in his mind. They'll dissect you alive if they find out what you are.
"It's nothing," Draco said curtly, shoving the bowl away with enough force to send it scraping across the table, the harsh sound drawing curious stares from nearby prisoners. Their hollow, sunken eyes tracked the movement with a mix of hunger and suspicion, marking him once again as an outsider, his pale hair and aristocratic features standing out starkly among their weathered faces.
The faint shimmer of his suppressed magic only made him more conspicuous, like a lone candle flame in a sea of darkness, and he cursed internally at the attention it drew. Just like in his world, his appearance made him a target—for Voldemort's possessive hunger, for the Death Eaters' expectations, for the Dark Lord's cruel games.
I’m a Malfoy, the thought came automatically, but it no longer meant anything at this moment.
The sudden thunk of something solid hitting the table snapped Draco from his spiraling thoughts. A perfect red apple, its glossy skin gleaming under the flickering lantern light, rolled to a stop beside his discarded bowl, its crisp, sweet aroma cutting through the mess hall's oppressive stench like a knife. The vibrant splash of color against the drab surroundings was so jarring that for a moment Draco simply stared, uncomprehending, before his gaze snapped up to track its source.
Kruger was limping past their table, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the concrete floor, his Marleyan uniform hanging loosely on his frame. The bandaged eye and network of scars gave him the appearance of a broken veteran, but Draco knew better now—the limp was carefully calculated, the scars a mask, and the single visible eye burned with an intensity that had stirred Draco's magic in the yard, awakening something wild and reckless in his core that he couldn't seem to quiet.
Now, as Kruger passed, that piercing gaze flicked to Draco for just a moment, brief but weighted, a silent communication that sent his heart racing. The other prisoners showed no reaction to the appearance of the apple, continuing to shovel gruel into their mouths with dull routine, as though fresh fruit appearing at their meals was an everyday occurrence.
Pista, however, let out a low, appreciative whistle, his sharp eyes darting between the gleaming fruit and Kruger's retreating back. "Well, damn," He murmured, leaning in closer to Draco with renewed interest. "Old Man Kruger never shares his rations. Not for extra bread, not for favors, not for nothing." His grin turned sly and knowing as his gaze raked over Draco's delicate features, lingering on the pale hair that still held a faint magical shimmer despite his efforts to suppress it. "What'd you do to catch his eye like that, pretty boy? Flash those fancy looks of yours? Whisper some sweet promises in his ear? Or maybe you suck—"
"Finish that sentence," Draco hissed, his eyes flashing with dangerous intensity as he cut Pista off mid-insinuation, "and I'll vanish every last one of those rotting teeth from your head." His magic sparked at his fingertips in response to his anger, sending a brief golden shimmer dancing across his skin that made the lantern above their table flicker erratically, casting jagged, leaping shadows across the mess hall walls.
The prisoners at nearby tables froze, their spoons pausing halfway to their mouths as they sensed the sudden shift in atmosphere, and Draco cursed himself internally for the lapse in control, forcing the magic back down with an effort that left him lightheaded. Not here. Not now. The locket pulsed hotly against his wrist, its chain biting into his skin, a silent warning he couldn't afford to ignore.
Pista's grin didn't falter; if anything, it widened a fraction, a spark of dark amusement lighting his sharp eyes. He didn't reach for a weapon, but leaned back slightly, as if appreciating a show he'd been expecting. "Careful there, pretty boy," He said, his voice dropping to a low purr. "That little spark of yours might be enough to impress old Kruger, but it'll get you tossed in the isolation cells faster than you can blink if the wrong people see it." He leaned back slightly, though his posture remained tense, ready to react at the slightest provocation. "Might want to keep your fancy tricks to yourself unless you want to end up on some Marleyan scientist's dissection table."
Before Draco could respond, before he could even begin to process the full implications of his warning, Kruger's voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a whip crack, sharp and commanding from where he stood several tables away.
"Enough, Pista." although he remained leaning on his cane, his posture rigid with the appearance of infirmity, there was no mistaking the authority in his tone or the dangerous glint in his visible eye as it locked onto the other soldier.
The illusion of a broken veteran faltered for a moment, exposing the predator underneath—tense power wound through his body, movements honed and exact, and a steely resolve that had clearly secured him respect in even the darkest corners of this place.
"Leave him be," Kruger added, the words coming out as little more than a growl, laced with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down Draco's spine and made his magic stir in response, that wild, reckless melody swelling in his chest despite his best efforts to suppress it.
Pista raised his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender, though the smirk never left his face, his soldier's discipline clearly warring with his natural insubordination. "Just making conversation, boss," He said lightly, though his sharp eyes still held a calculating gleam as they darted between Draco and Kruger. "Didn't realize the new pet came with a 'do not touch' sign."
Kruger's expression darkened, but before he could respond, a soldier's shout of "Lights out in ten!" echoed through the mess hall, breaking the tension as prisoners began shuffling to their feet, tin bowls clattering as they were collected.
Draco remained seated for a moment longer, his fingers closing cautiously around the apple, its smooth, cool surface a stark contrast to the rough, splintered wood of the table. The simple gift—the second act of genuine kindness he'd encountered in this world—burned in his hand like a question he couldn't answer.
Why? His mother’s warning to trust no one clashed with the unexpected warmth blooming in his chest—sparked by Kruger’s protective gesture, by the piercing focus of that lone green eye that seemed to see straight through him. The locket pressed hot against his wrist, a steady reminder of her sacrifice and her final command. Yet Kruger’s gaze held a gravity he couldn’t resist, pulling him in despite everything.
As the prisoners began filing out of the mess hall under the watchful eyes of the guards, Draco finally rose to his feet, the apple clutched tightly in his hand, its weight both comforting and confounding. He's dangerous, he reminded himself firmly, his heart pounding against his ribs as he caught one last glimpse of Kruger's broad silhouette moving through the crowd.
But he's keeping me alive. And in this brutal world where survival was far from guaranteed, that simple fact might be the only spark of hope he had to cling to.
The bathhouse was a cavern of oppressive heat and despair, its cracked ceramic tiles slick with decades of accumulated grime, the air so thick with steam that every breath felt like swallowing liquid fire. Draco stood beneath a rusted showerhead that sputtered weakly, the lukewarm water barely more than a trickle as it ran in thin, uneven streams down his body, doing little to wash away the layers of mud and dried blood that had caked onto his skin during his time in the internment zone.
His branded forearm burned fiercely as he scrubbed at the Eldian star with a coarse rag, the harsh lye soap stinging the raw, inflamed flesh where the mark had been seared into him, but no amount of scrubbing could erase the symbol any more than it could remove the faded Dark Mark beneath, its serpent and skull a ghostly reminder of the past he could never truly escape.
The clothes lay in a sodden heap on the wet floor, replaced by a threadbare towel that clung precariously to his hips, offering no real modesty and even less protection against the chill that seeped into his bones despite the steam-filled air. The communal showers were packed with gaunt, hollow-eyed Eldian men moving through their ablutions, their scarred and malnourished bodies bearing the marks of years of hardship and violence in this world.
Their stares lingered on Draco with unsettling intensity, drawn inexorably to his pale hair that still carried a faint, ethereal shimmer despite his best efforts to suppress his magic, the attention an uncomfortable weight that transported him abruptly back to Hogwarts' corridors where his beauty had been both weapon and curse, drawing equal parts admiration, envy, and the Dark Lord's terrifying hunger.
I don't belong here, he thought desperately, his heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to escape his chest, the locket pulsing hotly against his wrist in what felt like agreement. His fingers tightened convulsively around the rough washcloth, scrubbing at his skin with near-violent intensity as though he could scour away not just the grime but the brands, the stares, the entire wrongness of this world that wasn't his own.
A lanky teenager with matted brown hair and eyes too wide with naive curiosity edged closer through the steam, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Draco's distinctive hair.
"Never seen a Veela before?" Draco snapped before he could stop himself, the foreign term slipping out with all the sharp defensiveness of his old Slytherin pride.
He cursed himself instantly, his stomach dropping as he realized his mistake—the word was a beacon, a flashing sign pointing directly to his otherness in this world where such things shouldn't exist, and his pulse skyrocketed with the sudden, paralyzing fear of exposure and what it might mean in this place that already saw him as something to be used or destroyed.
The boy merely grinned, either oblivious to or unconcerned by Draco's tone, his hand actually reaching out toward the shimmering silver strands with childish fascination. "A what? Is that real silver or just—"
"Touch him and lose the hand."
The words sliced through the steam, low and guttural and dripping with such primal menace that the air in the bathhouse seemed to still in response. Eren stood framed in the doorway, shirtless and imposing, his right leg bearing his full weight, the cane at his side more a formality than a crutch, his gaze flat and unreadable.
The teenager froze as if struck, his hand dropping back to his side like a marionette with its strings cut, before he scrambled backward into the safety of the steam, disappearing among the other prisoners who had all suddenly found something very interesting to look at on the floor or walls, their postures tense with the instinctive wariness of prey animals that had just sensed a predator in their midst.
Draco's breath caught in his throat, his magic stirring restlessly beneath his skin as Eren moved to the showerhead beside him, the water cascading over his lean, scarred frame in glistening rivulets that highlighted every ridge of muscle and every pale line of old wounds.
Up close, the scars told stories more vivid than any words could—a jagged knife wound stretching diagonally across his ribs, an old burn marring the skin of his left forearm, and most intriguingly, a bite mark on the curve of his shoulder that was too precise, too deliberate in its placement to be anything but intentional, the indentations clearly human and raising questions Draco wasn't sure he wanted answered.
"You're staring, Malfoy," Eren observed, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he began methodically soaping his arms, the muscles flexing with a strength and fluidity that completely belied his carefully constructed persona of the broken, crippled veteran.
His gaze was sharp and assessing as it lingered on Draco, carrying a possessiveness that made Draco's heart stutter even as it sent his Veela core humming with that same reckless, intoxicating melody he'd been trying so hard to suppress.
Draco felt heat rise in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the steam. "Your injuries," He said, forcing his gaze away from the intriguing bite mark with an effort, the locket pulsing steadily against his wrist in time with his racing heartbeat. "They're... inconsistent with artillery fire."
The observation was a classic Slytherin probe, testing for weaknesses or information, but his voice trembled slightly, betraying the unwelcome warmth that Eren's proximity ignited in his veins.
Eren's smirk widened fractionally, his movements slow and deliberate as he rinsed the soap from his arms, the water streaming over the hard planes of his chest and the fascinating topography of his scars, his body close enough now that Draco could feel the heat radiating from his skin even through the steam.
"Astute," Eren acknowledged. "You're also inconsistent, Draco." He emphasized the name, drawing it out like a challenge, stepping closer still until the steam curled around them like a living thing, isolating them in their own private world.
His hand moved with deliberate intent, his thumb brushing feather-light against the sensitive skin of Draco's inner wrist where the Dark Mark lay hidden beneath the Eldian brand, the contact sending an electric jolt up Draco's spine that made his breath catch and his magic flare in response.
"No calluses," Eren murmured, his thumb pressing more firmly against Draco's pulse point as if to feel the rapid flutter beneath the skin. "No sunspots. Skin like you've never worked a day in your life." His fingers tightened slightly, the grip just shy of painful, his voice dropping to a whisper that was nearly lost in the hiss of the showers. "And this... this isn't Marleyan ink."
Draco's breath hitched audibly, his heart hammering as his magic surge in response to Eren's proximity and the dangerous knowledge in his words, a golden shimmer flickering across his skin before he could suppress it. He yanked his wrist back instinctively, but Eren's fingers only tightened further, holding him in place with a grip that was both unyielding and oddly gentle.
"You don't know anything about me," Draco snapped, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to steady it, his body betraying him by leaning infinitesimally closer to Eren's heat even as his mind screamed at him to pull away.
Eren's gaze darkened, the smirk fading into something fiercer and more primal, his entire posture radiating a possessiveness that should have been terrifying but instead sent that same traitorous warmth pooling low in Draco's stomach. "I know enough," He said, his body crowding closer until the water from his hair dripped onto Draco's shoulder, each drop like a brand against his skin. "I saw that boy reaching for you. I saw the way Pista looks at you, the guards, everyone in this damn place." His fingers slid up Draco's arm in a possessive caress that left trails of fire in its wake, his voice dropping to a whisper that was barely audible over the shower's spray. "No one touches what's mine, Draco. Not them. Not anyone."
His words were a vow, laced with a jealousy so fierce it stole Draco's breath, and his core responded with a surge of golden magic that lit his veins like liquid sunlight. The steam seemed to thicken around them, the rest of the bathhouse fading into an indistinct haze as if the world had narrowed to just this space between their bodies, the silence broken only by the steady drip of water and the too-loud sound of Draco's own breathing.
The man's hand lingered at his wrist, his thumb brushing once more over the hidden Dark Mark in a gesture that was surprisingly tender given the ferocity of his words, before he finally stepped back under the spray, the water glistening on his skin like liquid silver in the dim light.
"Keep your secrets," Eren said, the words carrying a weight that suggested this wasn't over, that this conversation—this dance between them—was merely paused rather than concluded.
With that, he turned with the same fluid grace that characterized all his movements, disappearing into the steam as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving Draco standing frozen beneath the weak spray, his heart pounding, his wrist still tingling from Eren's touch, and his Veela core humming with a melody he feared he would never be able to silence again.
The prison courtyard stretched before Draco—a cracked slab of concrete no larger than the Slytherin common room he had once ruled with a sneer and a well-placed hex. The space felt both claustrophobic and impossibly vast, hemmed in by towering electrified fences that buzzed with a constant, threatening hum.
Beyond them, guard towers stabbed upward into the bruised afternoon sky, their silhouettes jagged and uneven like the teeth of some primordial beast waiting to devour the condemned. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of rust and the sour tang of unwashed bodies, undercut by the faint brine of the nearby Marleyan port—a cruel reminder of the sea just out of reach, of freedom that might as well have been an ocean away.
Draco angled his face toward the faint sunlight, the first trace of warmth he’d known since the day he was cast into this prison. The light barely touched the cold buried in his bones, but he held onto it anyway, desperate for even the illusion of comfort. It was a temporary thing, this sunlight—just like the life he used to have.
The life where he’d been Draco Malfoy, heir to an ancient name, a prince of Slytherin, a wizard. Now, he was nothing. Just another Eldian prisoner, marked by the red star on his armband, his magic as useless as a broken quill without his wand.
He stood apart from the others, his pale hair catching the light like a beacon amidst the grime. Around him, the other inmates moved like shadows—gaunt men with hollow eyes and hunched shoulders, their shuffling steps kicking up little clouds of dust that hung in the air before settling again. Some muttered to themselves, others stared blankly at nothing, their expressions slack with resignation. They were ghosts already, their hope carved out of them long before Draco had arrived.
His own hope was a fragile thing, a dying ember buried deep beneath layers of bitterness and pride. He wasn’t foolish enough to fan it into flame, but he wasn’t ready to let it gutter out completely either.
Pista materialized at his elbow like a specter, chewing on something that might have been jerky or might have been the sole of a boot. The man was all sharp edges—sharp cheekbones, sharper grin, dark eyes that glittered with the kind of cunning that didn’t just survive in places like this—it thrived. “Ten minutes of yard time,” He muttered. “Make ‘em count, pretty boy.”
Draco spared him a glance, his lips curling into a sneer out of habit more than malice. “Why do they even bother with this charade?” He asked, gesturing at the yard with a flick of his fingers.
The prisoners moved in slow, listless circles, some kicking at pebbles, others staring blankly at the sky as if waiting for divine intervention. It wasn’t freedom. It was a mockery of it—a cruel little game orchestrated by their Marleyan captors to remind them of what they’d lost.
Pista spat a gristly bit of whatever he’d been chewing onto the ground. “Keep them from rioting,” He said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Also let the officers pick their favorites.” He jerked his chin toward the catwalk above, where a cluster of guards lounged against the railing, their rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders. Their gazes swept the yard like vultures circling carrion, lingering here and there on prisoners who caught their interest—or their disdain.
Draco followed Pista’s gaze just as three Marleyan soldiers swaggered into the yard, their boots kicking up dust that shimmered in the fading golden light. The leader was a hulking brute with a nose that had been broken one too many times and a mouth twisted into a permanent sneer. His uniform strained against his broad shoulders, the fabric pulling taut over muscles built for violence. His two companions flanked him like jackals, their rifles slung casually but their eyes sharp with malice.
The prisoners nearest them scattered like roaches exposed to light, their movements quick and furtive. But Draco held his ground, his jaw tightening. He’d faced worse than bullies in his life—Voldemort’s cold, reptilian stare, Bellatrix’s manic laughter, the Cruciatus Curse twisting his nerves into knots. He told himself this was nothing.
And yet.
There was something about the brute’s predatory grin that set his nerves alight, something in the way the man’s gaze locked onto him with the single-minded focus of a shark scenting blood.
The soldier stopped inches from Draco, close enough that he could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. “New meat’s gotta learn the rules,” He growled, his voice thick with the rough Marleyan accent that grated on Draco’s ears like sandpaper. He grabbed Draco’s armband, twisting the fabric until it bit into his skin, the red star crumpling under his fingers. “First lesson—Eldian trash don’t stare at their betters.”
Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides, his magic sparked beneath his skin like trapped lightning, a useless surge of power with no wand to channel it. The sensation burned through his veins, mingling with the restless stirring of his Veela blood—that dangerous allure which had once made Hogwarts girls sigh into their textbooks and left boys stumbling over their words in the corridors. He could feel it rising now, an instinctive response to threat, his presence becoming sharper, more intoxicating. His mother's voice whispered through his memory, cool and precise.
Your beauty is a weapon, Draco. Wield it.
So he did.
Slowly, Draco forced his lips into the smirk that had once sent first-years scattering like frightened mice, letting his eyes glint with just enough aristocratic disdain to be provoking but not enough to be outright insubordination. "My mistake," He drawled, his voice smooth as the silk sheets he'd once taken for granted in Malfoy Manor. He tilted his head, just slightly, letting the weak sunlight catch the sharp angles of his face. "I mistook you for the help."
The guard's face purpled like an overripe plum, his thick neck bulging as his meaty hands clenched into fists. "You little—"
Thunk.
The sound of a cane striking concrete cut through the tension like a knife.
"Second lesson," came a voice, deceptively mild but threaded with steel.
Kruger limped into the confrontation, his bandaged eye and tattered coat making him look every inch the broken veteran he pretended to be. He leaned heavily on his oak cane, the picture of infirmity, but Draco noticed the white-knuckled grip on the staff, the subtle shift of weight that freed his dominant side—the stance of a man who could pivot from "crippled old soldier" to "lethal threat" in a heartbeat.
"Disabled veterans file weekly reports with Commander Magath," Kruger continued, his tone conversational, but laced with enough quiet threat to raise the hairs on Draco’s arms. "About everything."
A beat of silence stretched taut across the yard. The guards exchanged glances, their bravado faltering like a house of cards in a stiff breeze.
Broken Nose sneered, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his beady eyes now, a hesitation that hadn't been there a moment ago. "You threatening us, old man?"
Kruger's bandaged eye twitched, a movement so subtle Draco doubted anyone else noticed. "Just sharing regulations," Kruger said, his smile all teeth, sharp and predatory. "Article 14, subsection B: Harassment of Eldian POWs by non-commissioned personnel punishable by demotion to Titan fodder."
The guards paled, their bravado crumbling like the cracked concrete beneath their boots.
Titan fodder.
The phrase hung in the air, a grim specter of the fate that awaited those who crossed Marley's military machine. The stories were whispered in the cells at night—soldiers and prisoners alike dragged to the internment zone walls, transformed into mindless Titans, their humanity stripped away to serve as weapons in Marley's endless wars.
Pista let out a low whistle, breaking the tension. "Damn, Kruger. Pulling out the real scary shit."
The leader spat at Draco's feet, his eyes promising retribution. "This ain't over, silver-spoon." He jerked his head, and his companions followed him as they stalked back to the catwalk, their boots kicking up little clouds of dust that hung in the air like the unspoken threats lingering between them.
Draco exhaled shakily, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from the unnatural heat that had flared where Kruger's shoulder had brushed against his. His magic was awake now, singing in his blood, reacting to something in Kruger that wasn't entirely human. He glanced at the older man, searching for answers in the hard lines of his face, but Kruger avoided his gaze, his expression carefully blank.
Pista waited until the guards had retreated fully up the metal stairs to the catwalks before collapsing into wheezing laughter that shook his entire body. "Mercy's tits!" He crowed, slapping his thigh with a sound like wet leather as tears streamed down his cheeks. "Did you see their faces? Like they'd pissed themselves and didn't know whether to be ashamed or proud of the puddle!" He clapped Draco hard enough on the shoulder to make him stagger, his bony fingers digging in with surprising strength. "You're evil, old man." He said to Kruger, who remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon with unsettling intensity.
Draco followed Kruger's line of sight to the western wall where ominous plumes of smoke rose in thick, roiling columns that blotted out the fading sunlight. The wind carried more than just the scent of burning coal now—there was something sharper underneath, something that made the hairs on Draco's neck stand on end. Gunpowder, certainly, but also that peculiar acrid tang he'd come to associate with Titan steam during his time in this nightmare world. His stomach twisted violently, his instincts screaming warnings of danger beyond what his rational mind could comprehend.
"Marley's port," Kruger said abruptly, cutting through Draco's spiraling thoughts. His words carried too much weight, too much knowledge. "They're loading the next Titan candidate shipment."
There was something in his tone that didn't match his frail appearance—an anticipation that made Draco's skin prickle with unease. He studied Kruger's profile, noting how the weak sunlight carved shadows into the sharp planes of his face, how his single visible eye gleamed with a fire that belonged to a much younger man.
"You sound almost... excited," Draco said before he could stop himself, the observation slipping out with more accusation than he'd intended.
Kruger's visible eye darkened like a storm cloud swallowing the sun, his expression shifting into something dangerous and knowing. "War's coming," He said, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated through Draco's bones. "You'd best pick a side before the choice is made for you."
The words struck Draco with the force of a well-aimed curse. A side. As if it were that simple. He'd spent his entire life choosing sides—Slytherin over Gryffindor, pureblood over Muggle-born, his father's ambitions over his own conscience, Voldemort over Dumbledore when the Dark Lord's wand had been at his mother's throat—and every single choice had led him here, to this prison where his name meant less than the dirt beneath his boots and his magic lay shackled within him like a caged beast.
He opened his mouth to retort, to spit some scathing remark about the futility of choices in a world determined to crush them all, when a new sound split the air—a roar deeper than thunder, more primal than any magical creature he'd ever heard, shaking the ground beneath their feet with terrifying force.
Pista froze mid-laugh, the half-chewed jerky falling from his mouth to land in the dust with a soft thud. "Shit," He whispered, his usual bravado evaporating as all color drained from his face. "That's no training exercise."
The prison yard erupted into chaos as panicked murmurs spread through the gathered prisoners, their voices overlapping in a rising tide of terror.
Draco's heart pounded, his instincts screaming at him to run, to hide, to transform and take flight though his wings had been clipped long before he ever came to this world. He'd heard the stories of Titans—those monstrous beings born from Eldian blood and Marleyan cruelty, their hunger insatiable, their power beyond human comprehension. But they were supposed to be outside the walls, safely contained beyond the boundaries of civilization, not here in the heart of Marley's most secure internment zone.
Kruger's cane cracked against the concrete with a sound like a gunshot, instantly silencing the rising panic in the yard. "Eyes forward," He barked.
The prisoners straightened instinctively, their murmurs dying as if someone had cast a silencing charm over the entire yard.
Draco stared at Kruger, his mind racing to reconcile the image of the broken veteran with the man now standing before them. This was no crippled soldier waiting out his final days in disgrace. The way Kruger stood—spine straight despite his supposed injuries, weight perfectly balanced for combat despite the cane—the absolute command in his voice, the way his single eye burned with terrifying purpose... it was all wrong, all too familiar.
A memory surfaced abruptly in Draco's mind. Voldemort's visions, forced into his skull during those final, desperate months of the war. A boy with green eyes and a savage grin, standing atop a mountain of corpses, his body wreathed in steam as the world burned around him.
The Attack Titan.
Draco's breath hitched. He knew that stance, that fire. He'd seen it before, in visions that didn't belong to him, in a war that wasn't his own.
The realization must have shown on his face, because Kruger moved with startling speed, gripping Draco's wrist and yanking him close enough that their noses nearly touched. Draco could smell gunpowder and pine and something else underneath—something wild and ancient that had no place on human skin.
"Stop looking at me like that," Kruger rumbled.
Draco's magic surged in response to the contact, a golden shimmer racing up his arm where their skin touched in visible defiance of the magic-suppressing drugs in the prison food. The sensation was electric, intoxicating, and utterly wrong—Kruger's touch burned hotter than any human should, as if his blood carried the unnatural heat of a Titan's core.
Kruger—no, Eren, Draco's mind supplied—inhaled sharply through his nose, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remained around black voids, as if he too felt the unnatural connection between them.
Before Draco could voice the accusations crowding his tongue, before he could demand answers to questions he wasn't sure how to ask, the prison sirens wailed to life with a piercing scream that shattered the fragile calm of the yard. The sound cut through the air like a physical blow, setting Draco's teeth on edge and sending the prisoners into renewed panic. Somewhere beyond the walls, something enormous was coming.
The prison yard fell into an eerie, breathless silence in those final moments before disaster struck—a stillness so profound it seemed even time itself had paused, the air thick with unspoken tension like the charged atmosphere before a lightning strike. Every man in that desolate space, hardened by years of brutal captivity under Marley's iron-fisted rule, felt an instinctive dread crawling up their spines, their bodies tensing with primal awareness before their minds could comprehend why. The scorched earth beneath their worn boots seemed to tremble with suppressed energy, the stones whispering warnings of approaching calamity through vibrations that traveled up through the soles of their feet and settled deep in their bones.
Then the world shattered.
Not with a sound, but with a sensation—a deep, resonating tremor that originated from somewhere beyond the massive western gate, pulsing through the ground like the heartbeat of some waking leviathan. The vibration grew steadily, rattling teeth in skulls and shaking dust from crumbling walls, until with apocalyptic force the gate exploded inward in a storm of twisted metal and pulverized stone. The shockwave ripped through the yard with merciless intensity, hurling bodies like ragdolls across the bloodstained dirt, their screams drowned beneath the deafening roar of destruction. A thick cloud of debris billowed outward, choking the air with powdered stone and the acrid stench of burning timber.
From this maelstrom of smoke and ruin emerged a nightmare given form. The fifteen-meter Titan moved with terrifying speed, its exposed musculature glistening wetly in the fading light, steam curling from its joints like the breath of some infernal engine. Unlike the mindless aberrations that typically plagued the battlefield, this creature's gaze swept the chaos with chilling intelligence, its too-sharp eyes methodically scanning the scattering prisoners until they locked onto Draco.
Draco felt the weight of that gaze like a physical blow. His Veela magic recoiled violently within him, the golden energy that normally shimmered just beneath his skin retreating deep into his core as if seeking shelter from an ancient predator. His breath came in short, panicked gasps as some primal part of his brain recognized the abomination before him—not just as a threat, but as something fundamentally wrong, a violation of natural law given flesh and hunger.
Before he could react, Pista's body collided with him, driving the air from his lungs as they crashed behind a precarious stack of supply crates. The impact sent splinters flying, the rotting wood groaning in protest.
"Stay down unless you want to be Titan shit!" Pista snarled, his grip like iron around Draco's wrist, his battle-honed reflexes keeping them both low as another explosion rocked the compound. Dust rained down around them, coating their hair and clothes in fine gray powder, the taste of pulverized stone bitter on their tongues.
Through the gaps between the crates, Draco watched in horrified fascination as the Titan moved with impossible grace for its size, each footfall shaking the earth as it advanced deeper into the prison complex. Its head tilted at an almost curious angle, steam curling from its nostrils as it sniffed the air—hunting, searching. For him. The realization sent ice water flooding through his veins. Whatever this creature was, it hadn't come for indiscriminate slaughter. It had come with purpose.
And somehow, impossibly, Draco was its target.
In the midst of the screaming chaos, one of the guards managed to steady his rifle against the onslaught, squeezing off a shot that cracked through the air with sharp finality. The bullet tore through the Titan's cheek in a grotesque spray of inky black blood that splattered across the dirt like spilled ink, but the monstrous creature barely registered the impact. With terrifying speed, its massive hand lashed out and closed around the guard's torso with a sickening crunch of breaking bones and rending flesh that echoed across the compound.
The sound lodged itself in Draco's mind with visceral clarity—that wet, splintering noise of a human body being reduced to its component parts in an instant. The guard didn't even have time to scream before he came apart in the Titan's grip, his legs tumbling to the ground first in a macabre ballet of dismemberment, followed by the rest of his body in a crimson rain of gore that showered across the prison yard.
Warm droplets splattered across Draco's face, the coppery tang of blood flooding his mouth and nose as his stomach heaved violently. His magic surged in blind panic, the incantation for a protective shield forming on his lips, but the spell fizzled into nothing more than a few pathetic golden sparks before dissipating entirely—his powers as useless as a child's toy against the overwhelming terror of the situation.
Nearby, Eren's cane clattered to the blood-slicked ground, the sound swallowed by the cacophony of screams and the Titan's earth-shaking bellow that seemed to vibrate through the prison. Draco caught a glimpse of Eren's face contorting in some internal struggle, his pupils dilating until his irises became pools of endless black, as though something ancient and terrible stirred beneath his skin, fighting to break free.
For one breathless moment, Eren's entire body went rigid with tension, veins standing out along his neck like cables under immense strain, his breathing coming in sharp, controlled bursts as if he were wrestling with forces beyond human comprehension. Then the moment passed, and Eren's hand shot out with unexpected strength, seizing Draco by the collar of his prison garb and hauling him upright with a force that belied his usual limp.
"This is our way out," Eren growled, his voice rough with an undercurrent of something not entirely human, the words carrying a weight of command that brooked no argument. “Run.”
The Titan's massive head swiveled with predatory focus, its flaring nostrils catching the scent of Draco's blood in the air, drawn to the faint golden shimmer of his Veela magic like a shark to blood in water. While the other prisoners scattered in blind panic, the creature ignored them all, its singular focus locked onto Draco. Eren moved before Draco could react, shoving him backward with enough force to send him stumbling several paces, positioning himself squarely between the boy and the advancing monster.
As armed guards poured into the yard, their rifles barking uselessly at the Titan, Eren reached up, the bandages around his head unraveling as he tore away the eyepatch to reveal two glowing green eyes that burned with primordial power. The air around them seemed to hum with gathering energy as Eren's gaze locked onto the Titan with unnatural intensity.
"Draco," He warned, his voice dropping into a register that resonated with barely-leashed violence, "when I tell you to run, you run like hell itself is on your heels.”
Pista's fingers dug into Draco's arm like steel talons, the sheer force of his grip threatening to leave permanent bruises as he physically hauled the resisting wizard toward the relative safety of the east tunnel. "Move your damn feet now!" He roared, the veins in his neck standing out in stark relief against his sweat-slicked skin.
Draco fought against the pull, his body twisting as he desperately kept his gaze locked on Eren's solitary figure standing defiant before the monstrous Titan. His mind rebelled at the thought of retreating, every fiber of his being screaming that abandoning Eren now would be an unforgivable betrayal. "We can't just leave him behind!" Draco's protest tore from his throat, thick with desperation and something dangerously close to panic.
Pista's grip tightening to the point of pain as he wrenched Draco backward with surprising strength. His words carried the weight of absolute certainty, each one landing like a hammer blow to Draco's chest. "That's no man facing that Titan, Draco. Whatever he is, he's not human. Now move unless you want to die here today!"
The truth in Pista's declaration struck Draco like a physical blow, momentarily stunning him into compliance. His resistance faltered as the implications sank in, allowing Pista to drag him several stumbling steps backward, though his eyes remained glued to the unfolding confrontation, unable to look away despite the danger.
Eren stood motionless before the advancing Titan, his posture radiating an eerie calm that bordered on madness. Gone was the limping, broken prisoner who had shuffled through the prison corridors leaning heavily on his cane. In his place stood a warrior of terrifying capability, his body coiled with lethal potential, every movement speaking of battles fought in shadows Draco couldn't begin to imagine. The Titan's massive hand descended in a crushing arc that should have pulverized any normal man, but Eren moved with preternatural grace, rolling beneath the blow with the fluid precision of a seasoned combatant. He came up at the creature's flank with his lips peeled back in a feral snarl that showed too many teeth, his expression more predator than man.
For one suspended heartbeat, Draco thought he saw something flicker at the edges of Eren's mouth—not quite electricity, but something equally primal, a raw power that made the air vibrate with gathering energy. The hairs on Draco's arms stood on end as the atmosphere grew thick with potential, the world seeming to hold its breath in anticipation of what was coming. Then Eren did the unthinkable—he brought his own hand to his mouth and bit down with savage force, his teeth tearing through flesh with a brutality that made Draco's stomach lurch.
Blood welled between Eren's fingers in a dark, steady stream, the droplets hanging suspended in the air momentarily before gravity reclaimed them. The tension in the air swelled to an almost unbearable crescendo, the energy surrounding Eren crackling with the electric intensity of a storm on the verge of breaking, as though the atmosphere held its breath in anticipation of a cataclysmic release. Then, an absurd, utterly incongruous sound shattered the charged moment, slicing through the chaos with jarring clarity.
A sharp, resounding CRACK reverberated across the yard, the sound of a stone striking flesh with impossible force, followed by the sickening crunch of splintering bone that seemed to echo in the hollows of the listeners’ chests. The Titan’s leg buckled violently as the jagged projectile smashed into its knee with devastating power, sending the colossal creature crashing sideways, its massive form toppling with an earth-shaking thud that sent tremors through the cracked earth, its enraged bellow rising like a primal roar, shaking loose clouds of dust from the prison’s weathered walls.
The gathering energy around Eren dissipated instantly, the potential storm fizzling into nothingness like a candle extinguished by a sudden gust.
Draco's head snapped toward the guard tower, his eyes scanning frantically through the haze of smoke and debris until they locked onto the figure standing silhouetted against the fading light. The man's glasses caught the dim glow, flashing briefly as he lowered his throwing arm, his posture radiating casual confidence. Their gazes met across the chaotic battlefield, and the stranger's lips curled into a smirk that sent an inexplicable jolt of recognition down Draco's spine.
"Tch. Sentimental as always, little brother," the man said, his voice carrying clearly despite the distance and din.
Before Draco could process the words or the strange familiarity they evoked, the figure melted back into the smoke as though he'd never been there at all, leaving behind only the echo of his voice and a lingering sense of unfinished business hanging heavy in the air.
The prison yard erupted into fresh chaos as an earsplitting metallic shriek tore through the air, the sound of reinforced steel buckling under unimaginable pressure. The western gate, already weakened from the initial assault, convulsed violently before detonating inward in a catastrophic explosion of twisted metal and shattered stone, sending a rolling wave of dust and debris flooding across the compound like a toxic tide. The thick cloud of particulate matter swallowed everything in its path, reducing visibility to mere inches and filling lungs with the acrid taste of pulverized concrete and scorched earth.
Pista's normally ruddy complexion turned ashen as comprehension dawned, his lips moving soundlessly for a moment before he managed to force out a horrified whisper. "They wouldn't... not inside the perimeter walls..." His voice carried the stunned disbelief of a man witnessing the unthinkable, the violation of some fundamental law of warfare.
Before he could finish the thought, Eren was upon them, his expression twisted into something dark and foreboding. His hands closed around both their arms with a grip that bordered on pain, his fingers digging into flesh with the unyielding pressure of steel manacles as he bodily hauled them toward an open sewer grate half-hidden in the shadows.
"Zeke's back ahead of schedule," Eren growled. "And he knows." Final syllables landed heavy, their meaning evident in the set of his jaw as he all but hurled them toward the gaping tunnel entrance, the shove hard enough to send both men stumbling. "Move. Now." His hand clamped around Draco's wrist with bruising force, grip so tight it threatened to cut off circulation, raw possession in the hold sparking a shiver through Draco’s body—a confusing mix of fear and something far less simple. Eren leaned in, breath grazing Draco’s ear, his voice dropping low. “You don’t stop running. You don’t turn back for anything. And you stay with me every step, no matter what happens or what you see."
With those final words tolling in their ears, the three men plunged into the suffocating darkness of the tunnel system. Behind them, chaos raged—agonized screams of the dying, the earth-shaking roars of Titans, the relentless thunder of a prison complex collapsing into ruin. All of it dimmed, swallowed by the black as they pressed deeper inside.
Chapter 9: Chapter 5
Chapter Text
The old sewer grate protested as Eren's boot connected with its rusted hinges, the impact reverberating through the corroded metal with a shudder that seemed to shake the foundations of the street above. Years of neglect had left the iron bars brittle and weak, yet they resisted momentarily before finally surrendering with a drawn-out, mournful groan that echoed through the empty alleyways like the dying breath of some forgotten guardian.
Though Eren typically carried himself with the ruthless efficiency of a man who had spent a lifetime forcing the world to bend to his will, his movements underwent a subtle transformation as he turned to assist Draco, his large hands encircling the other man's slender wrist with unexpected gentleness, the calloused fingers applying just enough pressure to steady without restraining, to guide without commanding.
Eren's voice cut through the silence of the tunnel, sharpened by years of hardship and honed by the unforgiving winds that howled across the tundras of his homeland. "Pista, you'll take the front," He commanded, leaving no room for negotiation or hesitation. "And understand this clearly—should you even think of betrayal, you'll find yourself pleading for the mercy of Titans before I'm finished with you." His eyes, dark and unreadable in the faint light that filtered down from the street above, locked onto Pista's with an intensity that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to the soul beneath, a silent promise of suffering that needed no elaboration.
Pista, for his part, displayed neither fear nor surprise at the threat, his features settling into the weary resignation of a man who had long ago accepted his role as the expendable one in every equation, though his lips twisted into a grimace that might have passed for amusement under different circumstances. "Message received, boss," He drawled, brushing the dust from his face with exaggerated care. "Human shield duty it is, then—some things never change." With that, he turned and allowed himself to be swallowed by the tunnel's insatiable darkness, his form dissolving into the gloom like a ghost returning to the underworld, his fading footsteps marking the beginning of their perilous journey.
As the sound of Pista's footsteps grew distant, swallowed by the tunnel's endless appetite for sound and light, Eren's attention returned to Draco with a shift in demeanor so complete it might have suggested two entirely different men inhabited the same body. Where before there had been only cold command and implicit threat, now there was something approaching gentleness as he extended a hand in silent offer, his posture relaxing minutely in a way that spoke of concern rather than control.
"These stones have been worn smooth by centuries of flowing water," Eren murmured, each word carefully measured to provide warning without inciting panic. "One misstep, one moment of inattention, and you could find yourself plunging into whatever unspeakable horrors make their home in these depths." His words served dual purpose—both caution and comfort, grounding Draco in the present moment even as they highlighted the very real dangers that surrounded them.
A scream of pure terror ripped through the winding underground passages, its shrill pitch slicing through the stale air like a blade through flesh, the sound reverberating off the damp stone walls in a grotesque echo that seemed to come from all directions at once. Draco recoiled as if struck, his entire body jerking violently at the sudden intrusion of sound, his wide, pale eyes darting wildly toward the blackness from which the scream had originated, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps that fogged the cold air before him.
“That sound," He stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear as his fingers twisted desperately in the sodden fabric of his clothes, clutching at the material like a drowning man might cling to driftwood in a stormy sea, "it's too close, far too close, we need to move, we need to—"
Before the panic could fully take root, Eren was there, his broad shoulders and solid frame positioning himself between Draco and the unseen threat with the unshakable certainty of a fortress wall standing against the tide.
"It can't navigate these passages," He stated, his voice low and steady, a calm center in the growing storm of Draco's fear, though the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes continuously scanned the darkness betrayed his own vigilance. One large hand came to rest lightly against the small of Draco's back, the warmth of it seeping through the layers of damp clothing, a grounding presence that was both protective and restrained, offering comfort without confinement. "And if it tries," He continued, his tone dropping into something darker, more dangerous, the words carrying the weight of an oath sworn in blood, "I'll tear it apart with my bare hands before it so much as looks at you."
The absolute conviction in Eren’s voice, the complete absence of doubt, acted as an anchor for Draco's spiraling terror, tethering him to the present moment even as the scream's echoes continued to haunt the tunnel around them, their unseen source still lurking somewhere in the labyrinth's depths. Draco's breathing grew increasingly erratic, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow bursts, his fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt as though the fabric had suddenly become a noose tightening around his throat.
Eren reacted instantly, his rough, calloused hands coming up to frame Draco's face gently that stood in stark contrast to the violence he had promised mere moments before, his thumbs brushing in slow, rhythmic strokes across sweat-slicked temples, the steady pressure a counterpoint to Draco's escalating panic. "Look only at me," He commanded, his voice firm yet softened at the edges, his eyes holding Draco's gaze with an intensity that burned away the encroaching darkness. "Let everything else fade to nothing. There's only my voice, only this moment. The walls don't exist. The darkness doesn't exist. Nothing exists but right here, right now."
Draco's breath hitched, a small, wounded sound escaping his throat as long-buried fears clawed their way to the surface. "I can't," He admitted, a fragile confession that seemed to cost him dearly. "I'm not strong enough for this, not like you, I don't—I don't know how to keep going."
Eren's grip tightened almost imperceptibly, his expression hardening into something fierce, his eyes burning with a conviction that brooked no argument as he cut through Draco's doubt. "You are enough," He stated sharply, his words hammering against the walls of Draco's uncertainty. "You don't need to be like me. You only need to focus on my voice, to match your steps to mine. We move together, or not at all." He leaned closer then, his forehead nearly brushing against Draco's, his breath warm against chilled skin as he demonstrated slow, measured breaths, the rise and fall of his chest a visible guide in the dim light. "In," He murmured, the word a quiet command, "and out. Just like that. Again. In, and out."
Pista's voice floated back to them through the darkness, his words laced with that characteristic teasing edge that somehow managed to cut through the lingering intensity of the moment. "What's next on the agenda, boss?" He called over his shoulder, the playful lilt in his voice belying the sharpness of his gaze as it continued scanning the tunnel ahead. "Gonna start braiding his hair to keep him calm? Maybe sing him a lullaby while you're at it?" His words were clearly meant to provoke, yet there was an undercurrent of genuine curiosity beneath the sarcasm, as if Pista was testing boundaries even as he lightened the mood.
Eren's eyes flicked toward the sound of Pista's voice, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—not quite amusement, but something closer to appreciation for the attempt at normalcy in their otherwise dire circumstances. "Keep your focus where it belongs, Pista," He replied, his voice calm but carrying that particular weight of command that made it clear this was not a suggestion. "Right now, we need your eyes sharp and your mind clear, not your wit."
Pista chuckled softly, the sound echoing strangely against the damp walls as he shook his head in mock defeat. "Fair enough, boss," He conceded, rolling his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug before his posture subtly shifted, the joking demeanor giving way to something more alert and focused. "Eyes peeled, mouth shut. Got it." He turned his attention fully back to the path ahead.
The tunnel narrowed abruptly, the walls pressing in until they were forced to navigate single file around the grim remains of some unfortunate soul who had met their end in this lightless place long ago. The bones gleamed faintly in what little light filtered through from behind them, their jagged edges protruding at unnatural angles that spoke of violence rather than peaceful rest. Draco recoiled violently when his sleeve brushed against a patch of decaying tissue that still clung stubbornly to the ribcage, the sudden, overwhelming stench of long-rotted flesh flooding his senses and threatening to undo what little composure he'd managed to regain.
Before he could say anything, Eren's arms were around him, lifting him effortlessly in a bridal carry that somehow managed to be both protective and pragmatic, his movements fluid and precise despite the cramped conditions as he navigated them past the worst of the grisly obstacle.
"Put me down!" Draco demanded, his voice sharp with indignation even as his hands trembled where they'd instinctively come to rest against Eren's shoulders, the fine tremor betraying his unease far more effectively than any words could. "I'm not some helpless child that needs to be carted about like baggage!"
Eren's response was immediate and matter-of-fact as he adjusted his grip without breaking stride. "Your pride makes for poor armor against bones that have been weathering in this damp for who knows how long," He pointed out, his eyes never leaving the path ahead even as he spoke. "They'd slice through your clothes like parchment and your skin even easier. Unless you'd prefer to test that theory?"
The question was rhetorical, delivered with the calm certainty of someone who already knew the answer, and though they might have sounded harsh out of context, there was an undeniable practicality to the action that spoke louder than any declaration of protection could have.
Pista glanced back at them then, his mouth curving into that familiar grin as he took in the sight of Eren carrying Draco through the hazardous passage. "Never thought I'd live to see the day," He remarked, his voice rich with mock astonishment that didn't quite hide the genuine curiosity beneath. "Eren Kruger, feared warrior, playing nursemaid to a pampered aristocrat. The world truly has turned upside down."
Eren's gaze remained fixed forward, his expression as impassive as ever, though there was a distinct lack of malice in his response. "He has his role to play, same as you, same as me," He said simply, the words devoid of scorn or judgment, merely stating a fact as undeniable as the stone surrounding them. "We're all pieces in this game, Pista. Just because our moves look different doesn't make any of us less necessary."
Pista's eyebrow arched at that, his grin softening into something more thoughtful as he regarded Eren for a long moment before nodding slowly, the motion carrying more weight than any verbal agreement could have. "Guess we're all just pieces on the board then," He murmured, more to himself than to either of them, his voice low but carrying a newfound resolve as he squared his shoulders and turned back to face the darkness ahead.
Draco's trembling showed no signs of subsiding, his slender frame wracked with shivers that betrayed both the chill of their underground prison and the lingering effects of their recent horrors. Eren's response was swift and decisive as he carefully lowered Draco against a relatively dry section of the stone wall. Without ceremony, he shrugged off his uniform jacket, the fabric whispering as it slid from his shoulders before being draped with surprising care around Draco's quaking form, his calloused fingers lingering just a moment too long on the clasp as he secured it in place.
"You'll catch your death in those damp clothes," He muttered, his voice rough yet softened around the edges. Draco's eyes widened in the gloom, their usual sharpness replaced by something more vulnerable as they searched Eren's face, his voice hesitant yet piercing in its quiet intensity when he finally found the words.
"Why... why are you doing this for me?" Draco asked, fragile as glass.
Eren's jaw tightened visibly, his expression closing off like a fortress raising its drawbridge even as his actions continued to betray a deeper complexity, stepping back with a carefully measured distance that did nothing to diminish the quiet sincerity in his response. "We're in this together now," He said, the words clipped yet carrying an undeniable truth that transcended their surface meaning, "and I need you strong enough to keep moving."
The faint warmth radiating from his coat wrapped around Draco's shoulders stood in stark contrast to his reserved words. Their precarious journey took a sudden and harrowing turn when a four-meter Titan rounded a bend in the tunnel with terrifying casualness, its grotesque features contorted into an impossibly wide grin that stretched far beyond the limits of human anatomy, its dull eyes glinting with primitive hunger in the faint light that filtered through the underground passage.
Pista froze in place as if turned to stone, the color draining from his face until he resembled nothing so much as one of the marble statues that might have once adorned the city above in better days, his voice reduced to a strained whisper that barely carried over the sound of their own pounding hearts. "We're done for," He breathed, lacking their usual bravado and leaving behind only naked fear.
Eren moved with that uncanny speed that always seemed to startle despite its familiarity, his body reacting before conscious thought could intervene, one arm nudging Pista aside into the shallow sewage with a controlled push that was more calculated maneuver than act of aggression even as his other arm pinned Draco firmly against the cold stone wall, his own body forming an immovable barrier between the younger man and certain death as he pressed close enough that Draco could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"Stay still," He whispered directly into Draco's ear, one large hand coming up to cradle the back of Draco's head gently. "Don't make a sound, don't even breathe until I say so."
The Titan's heavy tread echoed through the confined space as it lumbered past their precarious hiding spot, each footfall sending vibrations through the stone beneath them and rattling their bones in turn, its monstrous form casting flickering shadows that danced across the damp walls like macabre puppets in some grotesque theater of the damned, its presence a suffocating weight that tested their collective resolve to the breaking point.
Draco shifted slightly against the press of Eren's body, the movement barely perceptible yet enough to draw attention in this deadly game of predator and prey, his voice emerging as the faintest murmur that somehow carried all the indignation and fear warring within him. "You're crushing me," He said, his breath warm against Eren's shoulder where his face was pressed.
Eren's response came as a low rumble that vibrated through Draco's chest where they were pressed together, his body remaining an immovable shield despite the protest. "Better crushed than dead," He countered simply, the blunt pragmatism of his tone belying the protective instinct that had prompted the action in the first place, the dichotomy between his rough exterior and unexpected care continuing to reshape Draco's understanding of this enigmatic man who had somehow become his unlikely protector.
Having pulled himself from the sewage with as much dignity as one could muster under such circumstances, Pista wiped at the grime now coating his face with undisguised disgust, his expression cycling through a series of emotions before settling on a mix of irritation and grudging admiration that spoke volumes about their strange dynamic.
"Always playing the hero for the fancy one, huh?" Pista quipped.
Eren's eyes met his with that same calm intensity that seemed to see straight through to a person's core, unwavering in their focus yet carrying now a quiet encouragement that hadn't been there at the start of their journey. "Keep moving. We're not out of this yet."
Pista snorted softly, shaking off the worst of the filth with a grimace before resuming his position at the front of their little procession, his stride steadier now.
The tunnel walls seemed to breathe as they pressed ever inward, their slick stone surfaces glistening with moisture that gathered in fat droplets before sliding downward with eerie deliberation, each one tracing an icy path along Draco's exposed neck like the probing fingers of some long-dead specter. The air hung thick with a noxious blend of rusted metal and decaying organic matter, the cloying stench so potent it seemed to take physical form, coating the back of Draco's throat with every shallow, panicked breath he managed to draw into his constricting lungs.
Pista moved ahead with cautious steps, the flickering torch in his grasp casting grotesque shadows that writhed across the black water's surface like tormented spirits, the distorted reflections creating the illusion that something lurked just beneath, waiting with inhuman patience for the perfect moment to strike. Each footfall echoed through the cramped passageway accompanied by the relentless dripping of unseen water sources and the ominous creaking of ancient stone settling under unimaginable weight, the combined effect creating a symphony of dread that made Draco's skin prickle with the certainty that the entire city above was slowly pressing downward to crush them beneath its indifferent bulk.
His chest constricted painfully as the latent Veela magic within him stirred from its slumber, reacting to some unseen threat his conscious mind couldn't yet perceive, the power coiling beneath his skin like a caged beast sensing approaching danger.
Without warning, the tunnel walls fell away as they stumbled into a cavernous drainage hub, the sudden vastness of the space striking them like a physical blow after hours of navigating the suffocating narrows. The torchlight revealed a scene ripped from nightmares—great pools of stagnant water stretched across the uneven floor, their surfaces disturbed by mysterious ripples that seemed to originate from no visible source, while scattered bones of varying sizes gleamed dully in the uncertain light, their smooth surfaces telling silent stories of lives cut short and left to rot in this forgotten underworld.
Pista came to an abrupt halt as his boot struck something slick and unyielding beneath the brackish water. A moment later, a pale human skull bobbed to the surface—its jaw dislodged, teeth scattered like broken pearls, one empty socket clogged with slime. The rotting scalp still clung to the cranium in patches, slick with mold and threaded with writhing maggots. The water around it turned a sickly hue, stirred by the disturbance.
"Welcome to what Marley leaves behind," He muttered, the dark humor in his voice brittle and forced. His eyes swept the chamber with growing urgency, unable to ignore the rising sense that something worse still lurked just out of sight.
Draco's stomach twisted violently as his brain struggled to process the horrific tableau before him. "Why does it smell like the concept of death made manifest?" He began, his voice trembling with barely restrained revulsion.
But before the final syllable could leave his lips, Eren's calloused hand clamped over his mouth with startling speed while his other arm encircled Draco's waist in an iron grip, yanking him backward against a solid wall of muscle with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
"Don't give voice to that observation," Eren hissed directly into Draco's ear, his breath scalding against the delicate skin there, his chest pressed so firmly against Draco's spine that the younger man could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat even through layers of clothing.
Their brief moment splintered apart as a wet, gurgling noise slithered out from the pitch-black depths of the chamber—so disturbingly unnatural it short-circuited reason, triggering a raw, instinctive terror that surged through them like ice in their veins.
In the shadow, three grotesque Titans crouched in the murky water like monstrous frogs waiting for prey, their four-meter frames barely illuminated by the flickering torchlight that danced across the chamber's uneven walls. Their flesh sloughed off in thick, wet sheets, dissolving into the stagnant water like candle wax left too long in the sun, the exposed muscle beneath glistening with a sickly sheen that made Draco's stomach churn. One of the abominations gnawed lazily on a discarded Marleyan helmet, the metal crunching between its jagged teeth with a sound disturbingly similar to splintering bone. Its milky, sightless eyes nevertheless gleaming with an unmistakable hunger that sent primal terror coursing through Draco's veins.
These were no ordinary Titans—Draco recognized them from whispers he had overheard days ago while eavesdropping on a pair of Marleyan prisoners. They had spoken in hushed, trembling voices of underground experiments, of Titans bred to survive without sunlight, engineered to move and kill in total darkness.
Eren moved suddenly, his body uncoiling with power that belied any pretense of weakness or injury he might have maintained before. He shoved Draco backward with such force that the younger man's shoulder blades connected painfully with the damp wall, the impact driving the breath from his lungs in a pained gasp that echoed too loudly in the confined space. As Draco struggled to regain his footing, his wide eyes darted frantically between the chamber's possible exits, his mind racing to calculate escape routes even as the Titans began to stir, their massive heads lifting in unison as their flaring nostrils caught some tantalizing scent in the stale air.
Draco's magic chose that moment to betray him completely, his fear igniting an involuntary golden pulse that rippled outward from his trembling fingertips, casting an eerie, sickly glow across the brackish water that illuminated the entire chamber like some cursed dawn rising in the underworld. The nearest Titan's head snapped up, its blank eyes locking onto Draco with unnatural focus, drawn inexorably to the ethereal light of his Veela heritage like a moth to flame.
Eren spun quickly, pinning Draco against the wall with his forearm braced firmly across the younger man's collarbones, his body forming an immovable barrier between Draco and the approaching horror. "I said no magic!" He snarled, a single drop of spit landing on Draco's cheek as the intensity of his glare burned with urgent command.
Draco's breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, his hands trembling violently at his sides as he struggled desperately to rein in the power surging uncontrollably within him. "I'm not doing it on purpose," He protested, his voice cracking under the weight of his terror, the golden light flickering erratically around them like a dying lantern as his wavering control threatened to collapse completely.
The Titan charged without warning, its massive form surging through the waist-deep water with a speed that defied its grotesque bulk, its jaw unhinging obscenely to reveal row upon row of jagged, uneven teeth that glistened with saliva and something darker. Eren reacted with the flawless instincts of a man who had already calculated every possible outcome, his body moving in a blur of controlled violence. He ripped his coat from Draco’s shoulders with a single powerful motion, the fabric tearing at the seams with a sound like ripping flesh, and hurled it into the mouth of a far tunnel with perfect aim.
The diversion worked instantly—two of the Titans turned as one, their hollow-eyed gazes locking onto the fluttering fabric as they lunged after it with mindless hunger, their massive bodies churning the stagnant water into froth in their frenzy. But the third Titan remained fixated on Draco, its milky eyes reflecting the golden glow of his magic like twin moons in the darkness, its intent as clear as it was horrifying.
Eren didn't hesitate—he grabbed Pista by the scruff of his shirt with one hand, shoving him unceremoniously toward a rusted grate at the chamber's edge where the tunnel wall met the waterline. "Get that open now!" He ordered.
Pista stumbled toward the grate with only token resistance, his fingers already scrambling against the corroded metal as he muttered under his breath, "Always saving the pretty ones while I get the dirty work."
Eren turned back to Draco, his large hands coming up to frame the younger man's face, his thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath Draco's eyes with just enough pressure to focus his attention. "Listen to me very carefully," Eren said. "When I tell you to run, you run. Don't hesitate, just run."
Draco's fingers clenched desperately in the fabric of Eren's sleeves, the material straining and tearing under the force of his grip as he shook his head in frantic denial, his voice breaking with barely contained panic. "You can't possibly expect to take that thing on by yourself," He gasped, his wide eyes reflecting the sheer terror of being left behind, of watching someone throw themselves into certain death while he stood helpless.
Eren's lips twisted into a smirk that held none of its usual mocking edge, instead revealing a flash of teeth that spoke of something far more dangerous than humor—a grim, almost feral determination that sent an involuntary shiver down Draco's spine. "Who ever said I planned to fight fair?" He countered, his voice dropping to a low register that thrummed with reckless confidence.
Before Draco could formulate a response, Eren moved with that preternatural speed that always seemed to catch him off guard, lifting his own hand to his mouth and sinking his teeth, the act so sudden and visceral that Draco's breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to hold its breath for one suspended moment before reality shattered with an earsplitting crack of lightning that split the air like a whip, the water beneath their feet trembling as raw energy erupted outward in a shockwave that sent ripples racing across the chamber's surface.
But instead of the full, monstrous transformation Draco had feared, only Eren's right arm exploded in a grotesque cascade of bone and sinew, jagged plates of armor bursting through his skin in a violent bloom that formed a spiked, organic shield between them and the charging Titan, the entire process taking less than a heartbeat yet seeming to stretch into eternity.
Draco stumbled backward, his legs giving way beneath him as the sheer impossibility of what he was witnessing overwhelmed his senses, his body colliding with Pista's sturdy frame behind him. The older man caught him effortlessly, one arm wrapping around Draco's waist in a firm grip that kept him upright even as his knees threatened to buckle. Pista's laughter rang out through the chamber with a wild, almost hysterical edge that spoke of adrenaline and disbelief in equal measure.
"You're one of those things?!" Draco's voice cracked, his magic responding to his spiraling panic in erratic bursts that raced up his arms in golden sparks, the light flaring brighter with each passing second as his control slipped further away.
Eren's transformed arm steamed in the damp air, the exposed muscles already knitting back together with unnatural speed even as thick, black blood dripped from the armored claws that had formed at his fingertips, the entire grotesque display serving as an undeniable reminder of the inhuman power that lurked just beneath his skin. The Titan crashed into Eren's makeshift shield with enough force to send shockwaves through the stone beneath their feet, its jagged teeth snapping mere inches from Draco's face, the rancid heat of its breath washing over him in a nauseating wave. Eren responded with a bellow that seemed to shake the foundations of the tunnel, a primal, guttural roar that spoke of something far older and more dangerous than the man Draco thought he knew, his armored fist driving forward with devastating precision to plunge deep into the Titan's nape.
Black blood fountained upward in a grisly arc, splattering across the chamber ceiling before raining down in thick droplets that painted the walls and floor in macabre patterns, several landing on Draco's cheek with a warmth that made his stomach turn. Eren twisted his body at the last moment, using his own frame as a living shield to protect Draco from the worst of the gore, the gesture at odds with the violence of the act itself, the dichotomy leaving Draco's mind reeling as he struggled to reconcile the monster with the man.
Pista wiped a streak of black blood from his brow with the back of his hand, his grin widening into something that bordered on manic as he took in the scene before them. "Damn, Kruger," He breathed, his voice laced with equal parts awe and his usual irreverent humor, "here I thought you were just another brooding bastard with a soft spot for pretty boys."
Eren swiped the gore from his face, his narrowed eyes meeting Pista's gaze with an intensity that would have made a lesser man flinch. "That grate isn't going to open itself, Pista." He said, the words carrying a firm edge that urged cooperation without descending into outright scorn.
Pista chuckled, shaking his head in what might have been admiration as he turned back to the rusted metal barrier, his fingers moving with renewed purpose as he set to work. "Right," He muttered, "back to the business of saving our sorry skins."
The adrenaline surge faded like a receding tide, leaving Draco's magic to spiral out of control in its wake, erupting without warning in a golden supernova that flooded the chamber with blinding radiance, the sheer intensity of the power warping the old metal pipes lining the walls until they groaned in protest, their structural integrity compromised by the magical onslaught. Pista barely had time to duck as a pressurized valve exploded with deafening force, sending jagged shrapnel embedding into the ceiling with a series of metallic clangs that echoed through the confined space, the air suddenly thick with the screech of twisting metal and the acrid scent of ozone.
Eren moved, tackling Draco bodily into the brackish water just as a steel beam sheared through the space where his head had been moments before, the impact sending waves rippling outward in concentric circles that disturbed the chamber's stagnant surface. Beneath the murky water, Eren's arms locked like iron bands around Draco's waist, their legs tangling together in an awkward embrace as bubbles escaped Draco's parted lips in frantic bursts, his magic flickering erratically like a dying flame with each weakening pulse of power.
Eren's eyes glowed with an eerie green luminescence just visible through the disturbed water, a primal energy stirring within their depths as though his Founding Titan essence recognized and responded to the chaotic surge of Draco's Veela magic, their opposing powers intertwining in a fleeting, wordless harmony that neither could explain. They broke the surface gasping for air, Draco coughing up mouthfuls of foul-tasting water as Eren's hand shot up to grip his chin, forcing their foreheads together in a gesture that was both grounding and urgent.
"Look at me," Eren ordered, his voice raw with an intensity that cut through the haze of Draco's panic. "Just me, nothing else."
Draco's fingers dug into the sodden fabric of Eren's shirt, his magic sparking weakly at his fingertips like the last embers of a dying fire, the power barely contained beneath his skin. "I can't control it," He gasped out between ragged breaths, his voice trembling under the weight of both his fear and the chaotic energy still roiling within him.
Eren's thumb brushed lightly against the pulse point beneath Draco's jaw. "You will," He stated firmly. "I'll make sure of it. But first, we move." The assurance, delivered with such certainty, acted like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, pulling Draco back from the precipice of complete magical collapse as they prepared to flee the crumbling chamber.
Eren's priorities became immediately apparent as he maneuvered Draco onto his back in a piggyback hold, ignoring the younger man's weak protests, his hands splaying possessively over Draco's thighs to secure him in place. His legs, now revealing their true strength as they carried both their weights with effortless power, moved forward with steady purpose.
Without breaking stride, Eren tossed Pista a grenade from his belt with a casual flick of his wrist. "Make yourself useful," He said.
Pista caught the grenade with a feral grin that split his grime-streaked face, his fingers already moving to arm the explosive, his response brimming with a determination that matched Eren's own. "Let's blow a path out of this hellhole once and for all."
Eren kept one hand firmly wrapped around Draco's wrist, his fingers monitoring the erratic pulse beneath the skin even as the unnatural heat radiating from his own body served as a constant reminder of the Titan power simmering just beneath his human facade. Draco's trembling gradually eased wherever their skin made contact, his magic settling as though Eren's mere presence acted as some living grounding spell.
Draco's realizations came in disjointed fragments as they moved through the winding tunnels, each observation adding another piece to the puzzle that was Eren Kruger: the way his wounds steamed and closed before Draco's eyes, flesh reknitting with impossible speed; the faint golden glow of his own usually volatile magic, now calmer and more controlled, resonating in strange harmony with Eren's touch; the unspoken but undeniable weight of their now intertwined fates.
It wasn’t until much later—when the panic had dulled and his senses returned—that Draco realized something else, something he should’ve noticed sooner: Eren’s left leg, once mangled and severed below the knee, was whole again. Not limping. No cane. Somehow, somewhere in the chaos, it had regenerated—and Draco had been too consumed by fear to even register it.
Pista grumbled good-naturedly as he pried open the next rusted grate with considerable effort, the metal shrieking in protest as it yielded to his determined efforts. "Could've just told me you two were permanently attached at the hip, Kruger," He teased.
Eren adjusted Draco's position on his back with a careful shift of his shoulders, his grip firm yet undeniably gentle, his tone even but leaving no room for argument as he responded. "Scout ahead, Pista. Keep us moving."
Pista snorted at the deflection, his grin widening even as he slipped through the newly opened passageway, the flickering torch in his hand casting erratic shadows across the tunnel walls. "Let's not turn this into some tragic love story just yet." His footsteps quickened as he took point, the joke doing little to mask the seriousness with which he approached their escape.
Draco, his cheek pressed against the solid warmth of Eren's shoulder, exhaled a shaky breath that ghosted across the older man's neck, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally spoke. "Thank you." He murmured.
Eren's fingers flexed against Draco's thigh, his expression guarded but softened around the edges by something that might have been sincerity, his response delivered in a low voice that resonated with quiet conviction. "We're in this together," He said simply. "I need you to keep going." the admission, devoid of any utilitarian framing, hinted at a connection deeper than either had acknowledged.
Above them, distant but unmistakable, the echoing roars of pursuing Titans reverberated through the tunnel system, a grim reminder of the dangers still hunting them.
Eren's grip tightened around Draco's legs, his voice dropping into that familiar tone of quiet command that had come to mean safety in the chaos. "Hold on," He ordered, and then they were moving, their bodies working in perfect sync as they ran, Eren's legs carrying them both with unwavering strength, leaving the chamber of bones and blood far behind, their path forward illuminated by the eerie, intertwined glow of their combined powers—a fleeting beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness.
Draco clung desperately to Ere’s back, his arms locked around the other man’s shoulders, fingers digging into the tattered fabric of Eren’s Marleyan uniform, which was streaked with dirt and dried blood, barely holding together after their harrowing escape. Draco’s own clothing stuck to his sweat-slicked skin, the frayed edges fluttering against his legs as the cold seeped through the thin material, leaving his exposed ankles numb against the tunnel’s unrelenting chill.
The locket pulsed rhythmically against his skin, its unnatural warmth a stark contrast to the icy dampness surrounding them, its faint glow casting eerie reflections on the wet stone. Every footfall of Eren’s boots echoed through the narrow passage, a frantic staccato drowned out only by the guttural, earth-shaking roars of the Titans, their monstrous voices reverberating through the tunnels like a storm.
"Move faster, boss!" Pista’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp with urgency, his words bouncing off the slick walls as he sprinted ahead, his lean form weaving effortlessly through the twists and turns of the underground maze. The gas lantern swinging from his belt threw wild, jagged shadows across the moss-covered stone, illuminating patches of rusted pipes and crumbling brickwork. "Those things don’t take breaks, and I’d rather not find out what happens if they catch up!"
Draco’s pulse pounded in his ears, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps against the back of Eren’s neck, where strands of sweat-damp hair clung to his skin. The indignity of being carried like a child gnawed at him—he was a Malfoy, heir to a noble lineage, reduced to clinging helplessly to another man—but his legs, weakened from weeks of confinement in Marley’s cells, trembled at the mere thought of running on his own. Eren had hauled him up without hesitation, fingers pressing into Draco’s thighs with a possessiveness that bordered on defiance, the rough calluses on his hands scraping against Draco’s bare skin where the tattered rags had split apart. Draco’s cheek pressed against the solid warmth of Eren’s shoulder, the heat radiating from his body a stark contrast to the damp chill of the tunnels, his scent—sweat, iron, and something wild, like the charged air before a storm—anchoring Draco against the rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him.
"Quiet, Pista," Eren growled, his voice low and rough with exertion. His dark hair, matted with sweat and dust, clung to his neck, and when he glanced back, his eyes burned with a feral intensity that sent an involuntary shiver down Draco’s spine. "They’re getting closer."
Draco twisted his head, his platinum hair catching on Eren’s collar, and peered into the darkness behind them. The tunnel stretched into an abyss of cracked stone and dripping water, the air thick with the acrid scent of rust and decay. A monstrous silhouette emerged from the shadows, its massive form hunched to fit the confined space, its glowing eyes like twin embers in the blackness. Its claws scraped against the walls, the sound like nails on slate, sharp enough to set Draco’s teeth on edge. His stomach twisted violently, memories flooding back—narrow alleyways, curses flashing like lightning, the suffocating stench of fear and blood.
But those had been wizards, cruel and ruthless, yet still human. These were something else entirely—mindless, ravenous beasts, their roars shaking the tunnel, their hunger insatiable.
"Eren, let me down," Draco rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse, barely audible over the Titans’ guttural snarls. "I can run. I won’t slow you down."
"No," Eren snapped, his fingers tightening reflexively around Draco’s thighs, the pressure just shy of painful. "You’d collapse before we made it ten steps, and I’m not losing you here." His words were harsh, almost biting, but the way he held Draco—firm, protective, as if shielding him from the horrors behind them—betrayed something deeper.
Draco’s magic flared again, the golden light intensifying, casting long shadows across Eren’s arms, revealing the tension in his muscles, the unspoken fear beneath the anger. It infuriated Draco—this lack of control, the way his magic reacted without his command, betraying emotions he had spent years burying, drawing attention when all he wanted was to disappear.
The tunnel ahead of them widened abruptly, opening into a vast underground chamber where the walls arched high above, their surfaces veined with thick, gnarled roots that had broken through the ancient stone like the grasping fingers of some long-buried giant. The air here was different—cooler, heavier with the scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation, a stark contrast to the stifling reek of the sewers they had just fled. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, their surfaces glistening with moisture that dripped steadily into shallow pools below, each drop echoing through the cavern with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence. Draco’s involuntary glow spilled across the chamber, illuminating the twisted roots in an eerie, shifting light that made them seem to writhe like living things, their shadows stretching and contorting across the uneven ground. The effect was unsettling, too reminiscent of the Forbidden Forest’s darkest corners, where the trees themselves seemed to watch and whisper.
Then, without warning, the relative quiet of the chamber was shattered by a guttural, bone-shaking roar, far too close for comfort. The sound reverberated through the stone, vibrating up through Draco’s bones, and he twisted in Eren’s grip just in time to see a second Titan tearing through a rusted iron grate in the far wall, its massive claws rending the metal apart as if it were parchment. The screech of twisting iron filled the air and the creature’s glowing eyes locked onto them. Eren’s body tensed beneath him, every muscle coiling like a spring, and he skidded to a stop so abruptly that Draco had to tighten his grip to keep from slipping.
"Pista, cover us," Eren commanded. There was no hesitation in him, no flicker of doubt—just the cold, unshakable certainty of a man who had faced death too many times to flinch.
Pista didn’t waste a second as he yanked another grenade from his satchel. "On it," He replied, his voice clipped but steady, betraying none of the adrenaline that must have been coursing through him. For the briefest moment, his eyes flicked to Draco, and something almost like reassurance passed between them. Then, with a sharp exhale, Pista added, "Just don’t go fainting on us now, pretty boy. Your knight in shining armor’s got this under control."
Draco’s jaw clenched, his pride bristling at the teasing jab, but before he could muster a retort, the air around Eren suddenly shimmered with heat, a faint hiss of steam rising from his skin as the telltale signs of his Titan power crackled to life. His right arm transformed before Draco’s eyes, hardening into thick, armored plates that gleamed in the dim light, the sheer force of the energy radiating from him making the air seem to warp. Then, with a roar that rivaled the Titan’s own, Eren swung his newly armored fist in a devastating arc, meeting the creature’s lunge head-on. The impact was thunderous, sending a shockwave through the chamber that dislodged chunks of stone from the ceiling, the dust raining down around them like a macabre snowfall.
Draco clung tighter, his fingers digging into Eren’s shoulders as the force of the blow nearly jolted him loose. His magic flared wildly, the golden glow intensifying until it bathed the entire cavern in light, illuminating every crack and crevice in stark detail. The locket at his wrist burned against his skin, its heat almost painful, and for a fleeting, disorienting moment, he could have sworn he heard his mother’s voice—soft, desperate, whispering words she had spoken to him long ago, in another life. Stay safe, my dragon. The memory of her, of the sacrifices she had made to protect him, twisted like a knife in his chest.
The Titan reeled from Eren’s blow, its arm reduced to a mangled ruin of flesh and splintered bone, but before it could recover, Pista’s grenade exploded with a deafening blast, the force of it collapsing yet another section of tunnel behind them in a cascade of rubble and dust. The Titan’s enraged roar was cut short, swallowed by the crash of falling stone, and for a heartbeat, the chamber was plunged into near-silence, broken only by the ragged sound of their breathing.
The drawing room of Malfoy Manor stood frozen in time, its grandeur now reduced to a cavern of oppressive shadows where the heavy velvet curtains had been drawn so tightly that not even a sliver of moonlight could penetrate the suffocating darkness. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of dark magic, the kind that left an acrid aftertaste on the tongue, its presence made visible only by the sickly green pulse of the wards that flickered erratically across the rune-carved altar at the room's center.
Narcissa stood before it, her posture rigid with the kind of determination that came only from desperation, her once-impeccable blonde hair now falling in loose, disheveled strands around her face, a stark departure from the pristine elegance Draco had always associated with her. Her features, usually so composed, were gaunt, the hollows beneath her eyes pronounced, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. But it was her eyes that struck Draco most, burning with a ferocity that was almost frightening in its intensity, a mother's resolve pushed to its limits.
Draco remained frozen in the doorway, his fingers clenched so tightly around his wand that his knuckles ached, the Dark Mark on his forearm itching beneath his sleeve, a constant, inescapable reminder of the choices that had led him here, of the shame and failure that clung to him like a second skin.
"Draco," Narcissa said, her voice low but unwavering. "Come here. We don't have much time."
Draco's heart hammered, his throat so tight with dread that he could barely force the words out. "Mother," He began, his voice cracking, barely more than a whisper, "what are you doing?" His gaze flickered between her face and the locket in her palm, his stomach twisting with growing horror. "This magic—it's forbidden. You can't possibly—"
"I must," She interrupted, her tone sharp but undercut with a tenderness that made his chest ache. She stepped closer, her hands cradling the locket with a reverence that bordered on desperation. "The Dark Lord knows, Draco," She continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, as though even the walls might betray them. "He discovered your Veela heritage, despite every precaution we took to conceal it. And now he wants you—your power, your allure—as his own. His mate. His weapon."
His stomach lurching violently, bile rising in his throat. Memories surged forward unbidden—Voldemort's gaze, cold and serpentine, piercing through the masks Draco had worn as a Death Eater, seeing too much, always too much. The Malfoys had done everything to bury the truth of Draco's Veela blood, a distant inheritance from an ancestor best left forgotten, fearing that its allure would mark him as a target. They had used every means at their disposal—glamours, potions, carefully constructed lies—to keep it hidden, but Voldemort's spies had uncovered the truth.
The vision shattered like fragile glass, dissolving into fragments of memory as Eren's voice cut through the haze, pulling Draco back to the suffocating darkness of the tunnels. "Draco, stay with me."
Draco’s breath came in shallow gasps as unshed tears burned behind his eyelids. The weight of what he had just relived—Narcissa's desperate gamble to save him—settled over him like a suffocating shroud.
Pista's voice, usually so sharp with sarcasm, was uncharacteristically soft as he adjusted the lantern's flame. "You okay, pretty boy?" He asked, his eyes scanning Draco's face with a flicker of genuine concern. The roots overhead twisted in the dim glow, their grotesque shapes eerily reminiscent of the Whomping Willow's violent branches, a cruel mockery of the world Draco had lost. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry, the lie forming automatically on his lips. "I'm fine," He murmured, barely audible, hollow even to his own ears. But he wasn't fine—how could he be? The memory of Narcissa's sacrifice, the lingering specter of Voldemort's hunger, the pity in Harry Potter's eyes the last time they had spoken—it all pressed down on him like a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs.
Eren's grip on him tightened almost imperceptibly, his fingers pressing harder into Draco's thigh, the touch bordering on possessive. "You're not fine," He said. "I can feel it." His words were edged with a rawness that made Draco's breath hitch. "What did you see?"
Draco hesitated, the words lodging in his throat like shards of glass. How could he possibly explain? How could he put into words the image of his mother standing inside that cursed rune, her hands stained with blood, her eyes filled with a love so fierce it had burned away all fear? "My mother," He finally managed, his voice cracking under the strain. "She... she gave everything to save me."
Pista's usual smirk faded, replaced by an expression of quiet understanding. "Sounds like a hell of a woman," He said softly, his gaze steady. "You're carrying her fight now, yeah? Don't waste it."
"You're here now," Eren said, his tone dropping to a near-whisper. "I won't let her sacrifice be for nothing." His thumb brushed against the delicate skin of Draco's wrist, just above the locket's chain, the contact sending a jolt through him.
Pista arched an eyebrow, his smirk returning, though it lacked its usual bite. "You two need a private cave or what?" He quipped. "I can scout ahead, but try not to get too cozy with Titans still sniffing around."
"Move," Eren snapped, but his hand lingered on Draco's wrist a moment longer than necessary, the silent vow in his touch sending Draco's pulse racing. Torn between the shame of his past and the undeniable pull of Eren's presence, Draco could only exhale shakily.
"Put me down," Draco demanded again.
Eren didn't so much as slow his pace. "You're shaking like a leaf," He countered, but the way his thumb absently traced the exposed strip of skin where Draco's tattered clothing had split—just above his knee—sent an unwelcome spark of awareness through Draco's veins. His traitorous magic flared in response, illuminating patches of luminescent moss that clung to the ancient brickwork like emerald constellations.
Pista twisted to glance over his shoulder. "Your little glowstick's putting on quite the show back there, boss," He called, his tone dripping with amusement even as his sharp eyes never stopped scanning the tunnel ahead. "Might want to tell your princess to dial it back unless he's aiming to light our funeral pyre early."
Draco's jaw clenched hard enough to ache. "If I could control this damned magic, do you honestly think I'd be using it to entertain you?" He snapped, the words laced with more venom than intended. Pista's relentless teasing was normally a welcome distraction from the horrors surrounding them, but now it scraped against Draco's raw nerves like sandpaper, each joke another reminder of how thoroughly his carefully constructed masks had crumbled in this hellish world.
To his credit, Pista's smirk softened as he adjusted the lantern's wick. "Easy there, firefly," He murmured, the nickname carrying an unexpected gentleness. "Just saying we could do without the light show when we've got half of Marley's Titans sniffing after us."
Without warning, Eren veered into a shallow alcove where the tunnel widened slightly, the ceiling arching upward into a tangle of knotted roots that formed a natural vault overhead. The air here was noticeably fresher, carrying the crisp mineral scent of underground springs mingled with the earthy perfume of moss and lichen. Eren lowered Draco carefully, his hands lingering at the other man's waist as he guided him to the uneven ground, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long to be purely practical.
Draco's knees buckled the instant his feet met the cold stone, weeks of malnutrition and confinement betraying him despite his pride. Eren's grip tightened instantly, his calloused fingers splaying across the sharp jut of Draco's hipbone where his threadbare clothing had ridden up, the contact sending an electric jolt through Draco's system that had nothing to do with weakness. His Veela magic surged in response, flooding the alcove with golden radiance that made the hanging roots above them gleam like gilded chandeliers.
"Get ahold of yourself," Eren growled, his voice vibrating through Draco's ribcage. But there was an odd tension in the command—not anger, but something far more volatile. His pupils were blown wide in the dim light, the usual sharp green of his irises nearly swallowed by black as his gaze raked over Draco's illuminated form. "You're broadcasting our position to every damned thing in these tunnels, and I can't—" He cut himself off abruptly, his jaw working as if chewing through unspoken words.
Draco swallowed hard, the heat of Eren's proximity making his skin prickle with awareness. "I'm trying," He ground out, taking an unsteady step backward to break the contact.
The sudden absence of Eren's touch left him oddly bereft even as the cooler air helped clear his head. He clenched his fists until his nails bit crescent moons into his palms, focusing on that sharp pain to center himself as he willed the golden glow to recede. The light dimmed reluctantly, fading to a faint shimmer that clung stubbornly to his skin like gilded sweat—a visible testament to emotions he couldn't fully suppress.
Pista pushed off from the alcove wall where he'd been observing them with amused detachment, his arms uncrossing as he shifted the lantern into a steady position. "If you two keep burning holes through each other with those looks, we won't need the lantern to find our way out," He remarked. "We're nearly at the exit point, boss. Unless you've suddenly developed a taste for Titan hospitality, I suggest we move before they decide to throw us a welcoming committee."
Eren remained motionless, his piercing gaze locked onto Draco with an intensity that seemed to physically pin the slender man in place. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions churned behind those green eyes—frustration warring with protectiveness, anger battling against something far more dangerous that neither of them dared name aloud. "Stay close to me," He murmured, the command laced with an unexpected note of pleading. His hand lifted almost of its own accord, calloused fingers brushing aside a wayward strand of platinum hair that had stuck to Draco's sweat-dampened cheek.
The touch lingered beyond what could be considered necessary, Eren's thumb tracing the sharp line of Draco's cheekbone with a tenderness that belied his usual gruff demeanor.
"Stop touching me," Draco protested weakly as his traitorous body leaned into the contact. His magic thrummed beneath his skin, responding to Eren's proximity with a will of its own. When Eren reluctantly withdrew his hand, the space between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken tension, the air thick enough to taste as Draco's pulse hammered in his throat with a confusing mix of apprehension and something dangerously close to yearning.
Pista rolled his eyes dramatically, the lantern swinging and sending swaying shadows across the tunnel walls. "For fuck's sake," He groaned. "If you're going to have your dramatic confession, could you at least wait until we're not actively being hunted by man-eating monsters? I didn't survive this long just to get eaten because you two can't keep your hands to yourselves."
Draco's pale cheeks flushed crimson as his attention dropped to the silver locket resting against his wrist, his fingers tracing the intricate runes carved into its surface as if seeking solace in their familiar patterns. "Why are you doing this?" the question slipped out before he could stop it, barely above a whisper as he stared at the locket rather than meet Eren's penetrating gaze. "Risking your mission, your life... for someone who means nothing to you?"
Eren's entire body tensed at the question, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle stood out in sharp relief. When he spoke, his voice carried a raw, unfiltered honesty. "I saw you," He admitted, rough with some unnameable emotion. "Long before we met, in the paths of the Coordinate. You were standing in this... void of light and shadow, glowing just like you are now." His hand lifted unconsciously, fingers hovering near Draco's illuminated skin without quite making contact. "I don't understand what it means. But I know I can't walk away from you."
The confession hung between them, heavy with implications Draco wasn't ready to examine. His heart pounded erratically, the locket's pulse synchronizing with his racing heartbeat as he struggled to process Eren's words. "I'm not worth this," He whispered, the old mantra slipping out before he could stop it.
Eren moved with startling suddenness, his hand snapping up to cup Draco's chin gently despite the clear frustration in his grip. "Don't," He growled, eyes burning with an intensity that stole Draco's breath. "Your mother gave everything because she knew your worth. And so do I." the pad of his thumb brushed lightly along the line of Draco's jaw, a touch so fleeting yet so electric it sent Draco's magic spiraling outward in a brilliant cascade of golden light.
The moment shattered as Pista's voice echoed down the tunnel, sharp with alarm. "Heads up! We've got incoming!"
The warning came just as the distant but unmistakable sound of scraping claws against stone reverberated through the underground passage, growing louder by the second.
Before he could react, Eren's hand closed around his forearm with bruising force, yanking him bodily behind an outcrop of jagged rock as the roots above them swayed ominously in the lantern's erratic light.
Pista came sprinting back toward them, the lantern swinging wildly and throwing chaotic flashes of illumination across the walls, revealing the horrific sight of a Titan forcing its massive bulk through a side passage. The creature's hunched form scraped against the narrow confines of the tunnel, flakes of ancient mortar raining down as its glowing eyes burned with predatory hunger in the darkness. A high-pitched screech like shattering crystal that seemed to vibrate through their bones.
Eren's arm began to shimmer with the telltale signs of his transformation, tendrils of steam rising from his skin as his muscles tensed in preparation. "Stay here," He ordered, his voice tight with command, though Draco didn't miss the barely perceptible tremor beneath the words—a crack in Eren's usual iron control that mirrored Draco's own rising panic.
Draco reacted without thinking, wrenching his arm free with a sharp jerk, the locket at his wrist pulsing with sudden heat as if responding to his defiance. The memory of Narcissa's words rang clear in his mind—"Your magic is your strength, Draco."—cutting through the fog of fear like a beacon. "I won't cower like some helpless child," He snapped, his voice carrying an edge of aristocratic haughtiness that belied the way his legs shook beneath him. His wand was long broken, but he could feel the raw power of his Veela heritage stirring restlessly beneath his skin, a wild, untamed force that thrummed in time with his racing heartbeat.
Pista had already pulled a grenade from his satchel. "Looks like pretty boy's finally showing his teeth," He called out.
With practiced ease, he yanked the pin free and hurled the explosive toward the creature, the resulting detonation filling the tunnel with a concussive blast of heat and light that made Draco's eyes water. The Titan howled in rage, one massive hand swiping blindly through the smoke-filled air, missing Pista by inches as the soldier ducked behind a collapsed section of piping.
Then something extraordinary happened. Without conscious thought, Draco felt his magic surge forth in a cascade of golden light, his hands lifting instinctively as a shimmering barrier materialized in the air before him, curving protectively over Pista's crouched form just as the Titan's claw came crashing down. The impact sent a shockwave of pain radiating up Draco's arms, his teeth clenching against the strain as hairline fractures spiderwebbed across the shield's glowing surface.
Pista stared up at the unexpected protection with undisguised awe, his normally quick tongue momentarily stilled. "Well I'll be damned," He finally managed, his voice thick with disbelief. "Since when do you do party tricks like that?"
Draco could barely spare the breath to respond, his entire body trembling with the effort of maintaining the barrier as another thunderous blow landed against it. "I don't… know," He gasped out between clenched teeth, sweat beading along his hairline as the locket burned against his wrist like a brand.
The shield flickered precariously under the Titan's assault, but Draco held firm. Be strong, be strong, be strong. Around them, the tunnel continued to shake with the force of the creature's rage, dust and debris raining down from the ceiling as the stonework groaned in protest.
Eren's head turned sharply toward Draco, his eyes flashing with an emotion too complex to name—something between wonder and a darker, more possessive hunger. The air around Eren's body shimmered violently as the Attack Titan's power surged through him, tendrils of steam rising from his skin like smoke from a smoldering fire. "Stay behind me," He commanded as he stepped forward, his right arm transforming into thick, armored plating that gleamed ominously in the dim tunnel light.
Without hesitation, he launched himself at the wounded Titan, his armored fist connecting with the creature's jaw with a sickening crunch that reverberated through the underground passage like a peal of thunder. The force of the blow sent the Titan reeling backward, thick black blood and plumes of steam erupting from its ruined mouth as its glowing eyes flickered with what could almost be mistaken for pain. Draco's golden shield wavered precariously, the edges flickering like a candle in the wind as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. His vision swam at the edges, dark spots dancing before his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and held on, the locket's persistent warmth against his wrist a tangible reminder of his mother’s final act of love. He couldn't fail her now, not after everything she'd sacrificed.
Pista scrambled to Draco's side, his movements quick and sure despite the chaos around them. His hand came to rest lightly on Draco's shoulder, the contact unexpectedly grounding. "You're full of surprises, kid," Pista murmured, the smirk that usually played at the corners of his lips was absent, replaced by an expression of genuine respect that made Draco's chest tighten strangely. "Keep pulling stunts like that, and I might start developing a real soft spot for you."
Eren's reaction was instantaneous. His head whipped around with predatory speed, his eyes narrowing to slits as they locked onto the point where Pista's hand still rested on Draco's shoulder. A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, the sound more animal than human. "Back off," He rumbled, dripping with barely restrained violence even as he drove his armored fist into the Titan's chest with enough force to send shockwaves through the surrounding stone.
The creature collapsed with a final, gurgling roar, its massive body already beginning the grotesque process of dissolution, flesh and bone melting away into thick plumes of steam that curled toward the tunnel ceiling. But Eren's attention remained fixed on Draco and Pista, his entire body radiating a possessive energy that made the air between them crackle. Draco's shield finally flickered out of existence, the golden light dissipating like mist in the morning sun. His knees buckled immediately, the sudden absence of magical strain leaving him lightheaded and weak.
Pista reacted instinctively, his arm sliding firmly around Draco's waist to steady him. "Easy there, pretty boy," He said, his breath warm against Draco's ear. "You've got more grit than I gave you credit for."
Eren moved like lightning, crossing the distance in two long strides and shoving Pista away with enough force to send the soldier stumbling backward into the wall. The lantern slipped from the other's fingers, clattering loudly against the stone floor. "I said I've got him," Eren growled.
Pista raised his hands in a placating gesture as he retrieved the fallen lantern, his trademark smirk sliding back into place though his eyes held a new wariness. "Easy there, boss," He said, brushing dust from his uniform with deliberate nonchalance. "No one's trying to steal your shiny new toy." He jerked his chin toward the tunnel ahead, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "Exit's just up ahead. We should move before more of those things show up—or worse, those Marleyan Warrior brats start sniffing around."
Before Draco could protest, Eren had scooped him up effortlessly, holding him against his chest with a possessiveness that bordered on desperation. Draco could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as his traitorous magic responded to the proximity.
"Can you please stop? I can stand on my own," Draco protested, his voice thready with exhaustion, though the way his body trembled in Eren's arms betrayed the truth of his condition. His pride demanded he resist, but his limbs felt like lead, every muscle protesting even the thought of movement after the immense magical exertion.
"Not yet," Eren countered, his voice softer now but no less firm, his eyes dark with a maelstrom of emotions—anger, fear, and something else.
The tunnel's exit gaped before them like the maw of some great beast, its jagged edges framing a world that felt both terrifyingly vast and suffocatingly unfamiliar, the sudden transition from claustrophobic darkness to open air leaving Draco momentarily disoriented as his lungs seized in protest against the abrupt change. His chest heaved with ragged breaths that burned like fire, each inhalation carrying the metallic tang of damp earth mingled with something sharper—freedom, perhaps, though it tasted bitter on his tongue when paired with the crushing uncertainty of what lay ahead.
The night air clung to his skin with clammy fingers, the chill seeping through his tattered clothing and raising gooseblesh along his arms even as the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept the worst of the cold at bay. Every muscle in his body ached from the prolonged confinement of their underground flight, yet the sudden openness of their surroundings sent an unexpected thrill shooting down his spine, a visceral reaction to space and movement after being trapped for so long in those lightless tunnels.
As they stumbled forward into the waiting arms of the forest, the trees rose before them like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting toward the sky in grotesque imitation of grasping hands, the thick canopy above filtering the moonlight into fractured silver beams that did little to illuminate their path. The undergrowth formed an almost impenetrable wall of vegetation—tangled roots snaking across the forest floor, thorny bushes clutching at their legs as they passed, the damp earth releasing the rich, loamy scent of decay with every footfall that disturbed its surface.
Eren moved through this labyrinth with unnatural ease, his body adjusting instinctively to each obstacle, his grip on Draco never faltering even when the ground beneath them shifted unpredictably.
Ahead of them, Pista’s form flickering in and out of visibility as he wove through the dense foliage with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear into shadows. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the smirk playing across his lips was undercut by the tension visible in the set of his jaw, the lantern in his hand casting erratic patterns of light that made the forest around them seem to breathe and shift.
"You two enjoying your romantic stroll back there?" He called, his voice deliberately light though the way his eyes kept darting toward their backtrail betrayed his unease. "Unless you've suddenly developed a death wish, I suggest we pick up the pace—this isn't exactly tourist season for these woods."
Eren didn't bother with a response, though the way his arms tightened around Draco spoke volumes, the subtle pressure both protective and possessive in equal measure as he adjusted his grip to better support Draco's weight. There was an intensity to Eren's focus that was almost frightening, as though he alone bore the responsibility for their survival, as though the entire world might crumble if he faltered even for a moment—and somehow, inexplicably, Draco had become part of that burden.
"Keep moving," Eren murmured, his voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves around them. His breath came steady and even despite their frantic pace, the warmth of it ghosting across Draco's cheek as he spoke. "They'll have patrols combing these woods by morning."
Draco found himself unable to form a coherent response, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm as exhaustion and adrenaline warred within him. His fingers curled reflexively into the fabric of Eren's shirt, clinging to the solid warmth beneath as though it might anchor him against the disorientation threatening to overwhelm his senses. There was something profoundly unsettling about being carried like this—about the way his body had betrayed him, leaving him dependent on this near-stranger—yet he couldn't deny the strange comfort he found in Eren's unwavering strength, in the certainty of his movements even when everything else felt like chaos.
The deeper they pushed into the forest, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, the trees closing ranks around them until the world narrowed to little more than the patch of ground illuminated by Pista's swaying lantern. The air grew thick with the scent of damp bark and rotting vegetation, the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of some unseen creature in the underbrush serving as reminders that they were intruders here, trespassers in a realm that had no place for them. The ground sloped unpredictably beneath their feet, alternating between patches of treacherous moss and sudden outcroppings of jagged rock that threatened to send them sprawling with every misstep.
Draco's breathing grew increasingly labored, each inhale a struggle as his ribs protested the constant jostling, his fingers digging into Eren's shoulders hard enough to bruise as he fought to maintain his tenuous grip on consciousness. He wanted to speak—to demand answers, to protest his helplessness, to say anything that might make this nightmare feel more real—but the words stuck in his throat.
The forest pulsed with a presence that was neither welcoming nor entirely natural, its ancient trees standing like silent witnesses to their desperate flight, their gnarled limbs creaking ominously in the faint night breeze as though whispering secrets to one another that no human ear should ever hear. Draco could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon them as Eren carried him deeper into the shadowed thicket, his own legs hanging limp with exhaustion, his bare feet occasionally brushing against damp ferns that left trails of moisture along his skin like the cold caress of some spectral hand. The only anchor in this sea of primordial darkness was the solid warmth of Eren's body beneath his hands, the steady rise and fall of the other man's breathing a tangible reminder that they were still alive despite the forest's attempts to convince them otherwise.
Eren moved through the treacherous terrain with the single-minded determination of a predator evading hunters, his muscles coiled like springs beneath Draco's fingers, every shift of his weight calculated for maximum efficiency as he navigated roots and fallen logs with barely a pause in his stride. The faint moonlight that managed to filter through the dense canopy above painted erratic silver patterns across his shoulders, highlighting the tension in his frame as he adjusted his grip on Draco without breaking rhythm, his breathing remarkably even despite the physical strain of carrying another person through such difficult conditions. The forest air clung to them like a second skin, heavy with the loamy scent of decaying leaves and the sharp, almost medicinal aroma of pine resin, the combination so thick Draco could taste it on his tongue with each labored breath he drew.
Every sound in the oppressive silence seemed magnified a hundredfold—the distant hoot of an owl taking flight, the skittering of some small creature through the underbrush, the occasional snap of a twig that could have been anything from a foraging animal to the first warning of approaching pursuers. Draco's pulse thundered in his ears, each beat a frantic reminder of their precarious situation, his fingers unconsciously digging into the fabric of Eren's shirt as his imagination conjured images of Marleyan scouts emerging from the shadows with weapons drawn. The rational part of his mind knew they had put considerable distance between themselves and the tunnel exit, but the primal, fearful part insisted danger could be lurking behind every moss-covered trunk, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Despite the ever-present threat of discovery, there was an undeniable sense of security in being held so firmly against Eren's chest, in feeling the powerful rhythm of his heartbeat through the points where their bodies connected. Draco hated this helplessness, this dependence on someone he barely knew, yet he couldn't deny the way his traitorous body relaxed slightly in Eren's grasp, some deep instinct recognizing the protective strength in those arms even as his pride rebelled against the necessity of being carried like some damsel in a fairy tale. The warmth radiating from Eren's skin seeped through their clothing, a stark contrast to the forest's creeping chill, and for the briefest moment Draco allowed himself to press closer, to steal what little comfort he could from this unexpected sanctuary in the midst of chaos.
The path ahead remained shrouded in uncertainty, the forest stretching endlessly before them like some living labyrinth designed to test their resolve. Draco knew this fragile peace couldn't last—knew that eventually Eren's strength would wane, that the Marleyan soldiers would pick up their trail, that the real challenges were still ahead.
“How much farther?" He asked, the question laced with exhaustion that went far beyond mere physical fatigue, his pride long since eroded by the relentless circumstances that had reduced him to this state of helpless dependence. He hated the way his voice wavered, hated even more the way his body had betrayed him, leaving him no choice but to rely entirely on Eren's strength, but there was no point in pretending anymore—the truth of his vulnerability was written in every trembling limb, in every labored breath that burned his lungs.
“Not far," Eren said, the words clipped yet oddly reassuring, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the vigilance he maintained even as he spoke. "Keep your eyes open. There could be Marleyan scouts out here."
The warning sent a shiver down Draco's spine, his already strained nerves tightening further at the thought of unseen enemies lurking in the shadows, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Draco swallowed hard, his throat constricting around the bitter taste of fear that had settled there like a physical weight. It wasn't just the physical toll of their escape that wore on him—it was the crushing uncertainty of their situation, that every step forward could be leading them directly into another trap. In his past life, even during the darkest moments of the war, there had always been some semblance of structure, some illusion of control that he could cling to, but here in this unfamiliar world, there were no such reassurances. They were running blindly through an endless night with no guarantee of safety, no promise of respite, and the terrifying realization that this might never truly end settled over him like a suffocating blanket.
His eyes darted nervously across the shadowed landscape as they moved, scanning the gaps between trees for any sign of movement, any flicker of movement that might betray the presence of their pursuers. But the forest offered no answers, its deceptive stillness broken only by the occasional whisper of leaves stirred by some unseen creature or the distant, mournful call of a night bird that sent echoes bouncing between the ancient trunks. The silence here was different from the oppressive quiet of his prison cell—this was a living, breathing quiet that seemed to press in from all sides, as though the forest itself was holding its breath, watching and judging their every move with ancient, indifferent eyes.
He watched Pista again. There was a freedom in his movements, a confidence that spoke of years spent living on the edge, of being forced to adapt to a world where survival was never guaranteed. Draco had never known that kind of existence—his life, for all its dangers, had always been cushioned by wealth and privilege, by the unspoken assurance that someone would always be there to pull him back from the brink. But here, in this unfamiliar wilderness with enemies at their backs and an uncertain future ahead, there were no safety nets, no second chances waiting in the wings.
Pista glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Draco's. "You okay there, pretty boy?"
Draco opened his mouth automatically, the practiced lie of I'm fine already forming on his tongue, but the words dissolved into nothing before they could escape. His throat tightened around the false reassurance, the truth of his exhaustion and fear pressing against his ribs like a physical weight too heavy to ignore. The admission stuck in his chest, too raw to voice but too present to deny, leaving him suspended in that fragile moment of silent understanding as Pista's knowing gaze held his.
From the shadowy depths of the forest, a distant sound stirred Draco’s senses—soft and scattered at first, like the sighing wind rustling through brittle leaves—but gradually, the noise became more pronounced, more deliberate, as a steady rhythm of hooves striking the earth reached his ears with a growing insistence. It was no longer just nature’s ambient whisper; something was approaching, something deliberate, purposeful.
Eren, walking just ahead, seemed to register the sound at almost the same moment. Although he didn’t break stride, his movements became taut with quiet alertness. His eyes darted left and right, scanning the moonlit forest with practiced vigilance, as though he expected danger to burst forth from the undergrowth at any moment. The urgency in his posture wasn’t panicked—but it was laden with resolve.
Just beyond the veil of trees, where the dense foliage gave way to a clearing dappled in moonlight, two figures emerged—silent and motionless. The horses stood like sentinels, their bodies poised and perfectly still, coats gleaming subtly in the pale silver glow of the moon. Their presence wasn’t abrupt; rather, it felt orchestrated, as if the forest had made space for them, parting like a curtain to reveal the final act of a well-rehearsed escape.
Draco slowed instinctively, blinking as his gaze swept over the scene. Confusion flickered across his face. “How did they get here?” He asked, the question almost to himself, as if trying to reconcile the impossibility of what he was seeing.
Up ahead, Pista turned slightly, his silhouette relaxed and confident against the backdrop of shadow and light. He offered a grin—lopsided and playful. “That’s the magic of allies,” He replied with a lightness that didn’t quite mask the seriousness threaded through his words. “You didn’t really think we’d drag ourselves out of Marley’s jaws on foot, did you?”
Eren didn’t break stride as he moved toward the horses. He approached the first one, a dark bay, its saddle equipped with simple but practical gear—nothing extravagant, just what was needed for the journey ahead. Eren reached for the reins, pulling the horse closer as he adjusted Draco on his back. His fingers brushed lightly against the worn leather of the saddle as he checked the girth strap, then turned his attention to Draco.
“Alright,” Eren said. “Up you go.”
Gently, he crouched and eased Draco down from his back. Draco’s legs barely held, but Eren’s grip was firm, steadying him. The contact lingered for a moment longer than necessary—Draco caught the flicker of something unreadable in Eren’s eyes before the man moved to hoist him onto the horse.
Draco let out a shaky breath as he was lifted into the saddle. Eren swung up right behind him in one smooth motion, the sudden warmth of his presence pressing close. Draco sat stiffly, hands gripping the front of the saddle, unsure where to place himself.
“This will make it easier,” Eren murmured again, his voice close to Draco’s ear now—calm, but not without strain.
Then came the moment Draco hadn’t anticipated. Eren’s arm slid around his waist—not quite an embrace, but solid, inescapable—as he reached forward to take the reins. The worn leather brushed against Draco’s ribs, the weight of Eren’s forearm anchoring him in place.
Behind him, Eren adjusted the reins and gave the horse a soft nudge with his heel. “Hold on,” He said.
Pista, already mounted, gave a sharp nod. “Let’s go.”
With that, they took off. The horses surged forward, hooves pounding against earth and root. The shadows of the forest fled behind them, swallowed by wind and speed—but the heat of Eren’s hand at his waist remained.
The horses thundered beneath them with breathtaking speed, hooves striking the forest floor in an unbroken rhythm that echoed like distant war drums. Each step felt as if it pushed the night further behind them, swallowed into darkness as they tore through the trees with wild momentum. Draco, nestled against Eren’s chest, could feel every lurch of the powerful animal beneath them—his body rocked in sync with the rhythm, yet Eren’s arms held him firm. One of Eren’s hands gripped the reins, while the other pressed securely around Draco’s waist, adjusting when the terrain beneath them shifted suddenly.
His legs, still trembling from the ordeal they’d barely survived, threatened to give out with every jolt of the saddle. The muscles that once braced him had gone soft, leaving bones and nerves exposed to the punishing ride. But even in this vulnerable state, the solid warmth of Eren behind him—silent, focused—kept him balanced, kept him present. The wind lashed against his face, sharp and merciless, slicing through his thoughts and dragging clarity out of the lingering fog. It was cold, yes, but oddly cleansing. A tangible force that reminded him of motion, of purpose, of survival.
The forest blurred around them. Trees that had once loomed like threats now flickered past in streaks of green and shadow. Moonlight slipped through the canopy in broken shards, lighting their path in flashes. And the air carried the unmistakable scent of freedom tinged with desperation.
Behind him, Eren breathed in deep, his rhythm unchanged despite the pace. Draco felt each inhale like a metronome, precise and composed. The reins responded to Eren’s command like extensions of his intent, every slight movement signaling control, foresight, and an unwillingness to submit to chance. This wasn’t a chaotic escape. Eren wasn’t just fleeing. He was claiming the terrain and bending it to their will.
A faint crack of a branch snapped behind them—too far to see, but close enough to feel.
Draco’s voice came out hoarse, nearly lost to the wind. “Do you think they’re behind us?”
Eren’s arm tightened just slightly around him. “Most likely,” He said, low and clipped. “But we’re faster.”
Farther ahead, Pista was already weaving through the path, his silhouette barely visible against the tangled curtain of trees. He turned slightly, his voice sharp as it pierced the wind. “We’ll make it to the safehouse before they catch up,” He called. “Just stay low. Don’t look back.”
Obeying instinct rather than instruction, Draco shifted his weight forward, letting the horse’s momentum draw him closer to the creature’s pulse—a rhythm so alive it nearly overpowered his own. Beneath him, muscle flexed and stretched in relentless cycles, matching the pounding in his chest. Still, uncertainty gnawed at him like a shadow refusing to be left behind.
“You knew the horses would be here,” Draco said, his voice trailing just behind a breath.
Eren stayed silent, the forest speaking louder than either of them for a few long moments. The sound of rushing hooves, snapping twigs, and the ever-present wind filled the space between question and answer. When he finally spoke, there was no boast in his tone—just calm, quiet confidence. “We don’t run without knowing where we’re headed.”
Draco gave a small nod, barely perceptible, and dug his fingers into the edge of the saddle. He didn’t turn around to glance at the shadows trailing behind them. He didn’t need to. He could feel them—like a storm chasing too closely, refusing to lose its prey. But even with that storm at their heels, he remained where he was: held tightly within arms that wouldn’t let him fall, carried by a force that refused to be overtaken.
As the horses began to slow their pace, their breaths heavy and visible in the cool forest air, the edge of the clearing came into view—revealing the cabin nestled like a secret in the woods. Eren tightened his grip on the reins and drew his mount to a controlled stop, posture rigid and eyes narrowing in steady scrutiny. Though the place was familiar—etched into muscle memory from countless nights spent here—he didn’t relax. Safehouses only stayed safe if you treated them like they weren’t.
His gaze swept across the surrounding foliage, tracing shadows and subtle dips in the terrain as though expecting movement that hadn't yet dared to appear. Moonlight sifted through the dense canopy above in thin threads, painting the moss and bark in soft silver hues. The silence that greeted them was not empty—it felt deliberate. The kind of silence that could be either an ally or ambush.
The cabin stood in quiet defiance of time, low and hunched among the trees. Its roof sagged beneath thick ivy, blending seamlessly into the overgrowth. Wooden walls had dulled into shadowed gray, nearly indistinguishable from the forest floor. The windows were boarded from the inside, and vines wrapped around the door, obscuring the glint of reinforced steel beneath. It wasn’t just a shelter—it was a place designed to disappear.
Eren dismounted first, his movements silent and assured. He took one last sweeping look at the treeline, then turned swiftly toward Draco. Before the boy could slide down on his own, Eren caught his wrist with a firm, grounding touch. “Careful,” He said.
Draco’s legs, still shaking from the ride, faltered as his feet hit the ground. Eren caught him, an arm bracing his back, steadying him wordlessly. He didn’t let go immediately. Not until he was sure Draco wouldn’t fall, and even then, his eyes lingered.
“You alright?” Eren asked.
Draco nodded, jaw tight.
Pista, still mounted, clucked his tongue. “What a pair. One wounded stray and his overprotective keeper. You’re giving me flashbacks to when Jean got bit by that goose.” He swung off his horse with a grunt and stretched. “Still breathing, pretty boy?” He called, a teasing grin on his face. “Want me to knit a blanket next?”
Draco shot him a glare but said nothing.
Eren’s hand lingered another beat against Draco’s back before finally dropping. His voice lowered again, meant only for Draco. “Stay close. Don’t stray.”
Pista led his horse forward, tugging at the reins. “What do I have to do to get that kind of royal treatment? Twist my ankle? Cry a little?”
Eren ignored him.
Just beyond the cabin stood what looked like nothing more than a thicket of overgrowth, but Eren moved straight toward it without hesitation. Hidden behind a curtain of vines was an alcove barely visible even to trained eyes. His hand reached into the dense leaves, triggering a hidden latch. The panel gave way with a muted creak—familiar, but not comforting.
Inside the stable, the air was dry, layered with dust and the distant scent of straw and salt.
Eren moved quietly, unsaddling the horses and tying them to the iron bar welded into the far wall—an old wartime trick, crude but unbreakable. “They’ll be fine here,” He said. Draco stood at the threshold, a shadow long behind him. Eren returned to his side and gently guided him toward the main cabin with a steady hand on his arm.
Pista was already ahead of them, tapping out the familiar three-beat knock—two fast, one slow—against the warped wood of the door. “Knock knock,” He said, grinning. “Still ours, I hope. Would hate to interrupt a squirrel coup.”
Eren gave him a withering look that spoke louder than any reprimand.
Pista, unfazed, simply shrugged. “If I don’t keep talking, I’ll start worrying about that look on your face. Like someone stabbed your soul every time Draco breathes funny.”
As they approached the door, Eren moved closer, his palm shifting from Draco’s arm to rest lightly at his lower back. Not possessive—protective. Unshakable. It wasn’t a gesture meant to be seen, but one that simply was, like a line quietly drawn between Draco and everything that could hurt him.
Draco didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He felt it in the quiet weight of Eren’s hand. The promise.
Behind them, Pista gave a quiet snort, more amused than annoyed. “You two are something else,” He muttered under his breath. “If I see one more meaningful stare, I’m turning this rescue mission into a one-man show.”
The heavy wooden door swung open with a groan that echoed softly through the clearing, and Draco’s entire body tensed, his breath catching as instinct and uncertainty surged through his spine.
Framed within the doorway was a man whose presence seemed to shift the air itself—he wasn’t particularly tall, and yet something in the way he stood, in the silent pressure he exerted upon the threshold, made him appear larger than life. His stature may have betrayed expectation, but the way he filled the space—unblinking, immovable—suggested a kind of unspoken dominance. His eyes, dark and pin-sharp, were those of a man accustomed to dissecting everything he saw, reducing threats and loyalties to mere calculations.
There was nothing welcoming in his gaze, no trace of sympathy or concern over the peril that had pursued them through the forest. Instead, he stood like a judge already deep into deliberation. There was something else about him, something colder—like the weight of knowledge not shared, a silence forged in years of decisions made without sentiment. A man who saw things clearly and cared little for the mess that clarity revealed.
“You’re late,” He said with a tone as flat as polished stone, yet edged with the unmistakable impression that his patience—like everything else he offered—was measured and finite.
It was neither rebuke nor welcome, simply a statement placed between them like a line they’d already stepped over.
Eren, standing closest to the door, didn’t so much as blink in response. He held the man’s gaze head on, his posture relaxed, unaffected. “We took the scenic route,” He replied, almost flippant—as if the Titans and branches they’d dodged had merely been distractions.
The stranger’s eyes shifted slowly. From Eren, they flicked toward Pista with the briefest spark of recognition before settling on Draco. There was no curiosity in the way he studied Draco, no flicker of emotion or reaction. Only examination—clinical, exacting, as though trying to determine not who Draco was, but whether he held value in any capacity.
“Who’s the stray?” He asked, his tone blunt and dry, slicing the air with disinterest more than accusation.
Pista, ever ready with irreverence, stepped forward with an easy grin curling across his face. “He’s our new mascot,” He said. “Comes with glow-in-the-dark features and a tendency to attract complicated drama. Real crowd-pleaser.”
The man didn’t so much as twitch in response. His expression remained carved in granite, unreadable and unmoved by Pista’s usual theatrics. He stepped aside mechanically, gesturing toward the interior of the cabin with a single sharp movement. “Inside,” He commanded, voice dropping into something darker. “Before I start deciding whether you’re worth the risk you drag behind you.”
Eren moved without hesitation, stepping across the threshold with ease. His arm brushed against Draco’s shoulder—subtle but grounding—as Draco followed him inside, each step heavy with the tension of crossing a line he hadn’t known existed. Pista trailed them, light on his feet, though his eyes remained alert beneath the ease of his swagger.
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