Noite de Draco

The first thing I noticed about the girl was her shoes. Red. Not the deep, dignified red of a wine bottle or a theater curtain, but the red of a fire hydrant, a stop sign, a warning. The kind of red that says *don't*. They were small, scuffed at the toes, and utterly wrong for the polished black marble of the Malfoy Manor entrance hall. They were muggle shoes. They were a declaration of war.

I was seventeen, and I was bored.

That's the thing they don't tell you about being a Death Eater's son. The endless, crushing, soul-destroying boredom. All the whispered meetings in the drawing room, all the dark robes and darker oaths, all the talk of blood purity and a new world order, and what did it actually amount to? A lot of standing around in drafty corridors, waiting for my father to finish his port and his plotting so I could be dismissed to my own wing of the house. The war was a grand, terrible thing happening somewhere else, and I was a well-dressed prop in the background of my own life.

So when she came in, a splash of that vulgar red against the monochrome of my mother's impeccable taste, I felt something other than the usual dull contempt. Curiosity. A flicker of it, small and unwelcome, like a moth in a wardrobe.

She was with my father. That was the first surprise. He didn't bring people to the Manor. People were brought *to* him, usually in a state of terror or supplication. But this girl walked beside him, not behind him. Her head was up. Her hands were jammed into the pockets of a denim jacket so faded it was almost white, a garment so out of place it was almost admirable. Her hair was a chaotic cloud of dark curls, escaping from a hasty knot at the back of her neck. And her skin, a warm brown that seemed to hold its own light in the dim, greenish glow of the enchanted chandeliers, was flushed with color. Not fear, I realized. Anger.

"I'm not staying here," she said. Her voice was low, with an accent I couldn't place. Not British. The vowels were too round, the rhythm too syncopated. It was like music played on an instrument I'd never heard before.

"You will stay where you are put," my father said, his voice a silken whip. He didn't look at her. He was examining a small, dusty artifact on a side table, a silver snuffbox shaped like a serpent's head. "The wards are keyed to you now. You cannot leave."

"Watch me."

She turned on her heel, those ridiculous red shoes squeaking on the marble, and strode toward the massive oak doors. I watched, fascinated, as she reached for the handle. I knew what would happen. The wards would flare, a silent, invisible wall of force, and she would be thrown back. I'd seen it happen to a visiting dignitary from the Continent who had overstayed his welcome. He'd broken his nose.

Her hand touched the brass. Nothing happened.

She pushed. The door swung open, revealing the rain-slicked drive and the dark, twisted shapes of the hedgerow beyond.

My father finally looked up. For a fraction of a second, something crossed his face that I had never seen before. Not anger. Not even surprise. It was something closer to respect. Or perhaps a very cold, very sharp interest.

The girl didn't step out. She just stood there, the damp air from outside curling into the hall, bringing with it the smell of wet earth and ozone. She looked back over her shoulder, and her eyes found mine.

They were the color of honey, and they were full of a fury so pure it was beautiful.

"Who's the porcelain doll?" she asked, jerking her chin in my direction.

My father's lips twitched. "That is my son, Draco. He will be your escort."

"My what?"

"Your escort," my father repeated, his voice dropping to a register that made the air feel thick. "You are a guest in my home. It would be rude to let you wander unaccompanied. Draco will show you to your rooms. You will dine with us at eight. You will not attempt to leave again."

He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and walked toward his study, the snuffbox clutched in his hand, leaving us alone in the cavernous hall.

The silence that followed was immense. The rain outside hissed against the windows. The house elves, sensing trouble, had vanished. It was just me, and her, and the open door letting in the storm.

She let the door swing shut with a heavy, final *thud*.

"So," she said, turning to face me fully. "You're the son."

I crossed my arms, leaning against the cold stone of the fireplace mantel, trying to project an air of casual indifference. It was a pose I had perfected. "And you're the... what, exactly? A new acquisition?"

Her laugh was a short, sharp sound, like a stone skipping across water. "Something like that. Your father has a business proposition for my family. I'm the collateral."

The word hung in the air between us. Collateral. It was so blunt, so transactional, that it knocked the sneer right off my face. I had expected defiance, maybe tears. I hadn't expected this cold, clear-eyed assessment.

"Collateral for what?" I asked, my voice coming out more curious than I intended.

She started walking toward me, her red shoes making a soft, rhythmic *squeak-squeak* on the polished floor. She moved with a loose, easy grace that was completely at odds with the stiff formality of the Manor. It was like watching a panther stroll through a drawing room.

"You don't know?" She stopped a few feet away, tilting her head. Her eyes scanned my face, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was seeing right through the Malfoy mask, right down to the bored, restless boy underneath. "They don't tell you anything, do they?"

"They tell me what I need to know," I said, a reflexive defense.

"And what's that? How to knot a tie? How to sneer at people who are poorer than you?"

The accuracy of the insult stung. I felt a flush creep up my neck. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know your type." She took another step closer. I could smell her now, a scent of rain and something else, something sweet and green, like crushed leaves. It was a muggle smell, a *worldly* smell, and it was deeply unsettling. "You're the prince in the tower. You've never had to fight for anything in your life. You've never had to be collateral."

"And you have?"

The question came out before I could stop it, and for a moment, the fire in her eyes flickered. A shadow passed over her face, a ghost of something painful and real. Then it was gone, replaced by that hard, glittering anger.

"More than you can imagine," she said, her voice quiet.

She was close enough to touch. I could see the tiny, faded scar on her chin, the way the pulse beat in her throat. She was a puzzle, a chaotic, infuriating, fascinating puzzle, and I wanted to solve her.

"Why are you here?" I asked, the question genuine this time. "If you're collateral, why did you come willingly? You could have run."

"Because running doesn't solve anything," she said, and her voice was laced with a weary wisdom that made her seem decades older than me. "And because my family needs this deal. So I'm here. For now."

"For now?"

A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. It was the first time I'd seen her smile, and it transformed her. The anger was still there, but underneath it was a wicked, playful intelligence that was far more alarming.

"For now," she repeated. "But I don't plan on being a guest forever, porcelain doll. And when I leave, I'm taking something of yours with me."

The audacity of it. The sheer, unadulterated cheek. I should have been furious. I should have called for my father, or one of the elves, or at the very least, delivered a scathing retort that would put her in her place. Instead, I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest. A real one, not the cold, polite thing I used in social situations.

"You're insane," I said.

"Probably," she agreed. "Now, are you going to show me to my room, or do I have to find it myself? I'm tired, and my feet are wet."

She looked down at her red shoes. They were, I noticed, soaked through. A small puddle was forming on the marble around them.

Without thinking, I pulled out my wand. "I can fix that."

She flinched. It was a tiny movement, a tightening of her shoulders, but I saw it. The first crack in her armor. She was afraid of magic.

"Don't," she said, her voice sharp. "Don't point that thing at me."

I lowered my wand immediately, a strange pang of guilt twisting in my gut. "It's just a drying charm. It won't hurt you."

"I said don't."

We stared at each other. The rain hammered against the windows. The house creaked around us, a thousand years of dark history settling in its bones.

"Fine," I said, pocketing my wand. "Follow me."

I led her up the grand staircase, past the portraits of my ancestors who sneered down at her with painted contempt. She didn't look at them. She looked at everything else. The tapestries, the suits of armor, the silver sconces. She took it all in with a quiet, assessing gaze, like a general surveying a battlefield.

My mother was waiting for us on the landing. She was dressed for dinner in robes of deep green, her blonde hair coiled perfectly at the nape of her neck. She looked at the girl, then at me, and her expression was one of profound, aristocratic distaste.

"Draco," she said, her voice like ice. "What is *this*?"

"A guest, Mother," I said. "Father's order."

"Your father's orders are becoming increasingly... eccentric." She didn't address the girl directly. It was as if she wasn't there, a piece of furniture that had been misplaced. "See that it's put somewhere out of the way. And for Merlin's sake, get it some proper clothes. It looks like a street urchin."

The girl, to her credit, didn't flinch. She just smiled that slow, dangerous smile and gave my mother a little wave.

"Nice to meet you too, Dona Narcisa," she said, her accent thickening. "Love the decorating. Very... cobwebby."

My mother's eyes widened in shock. No one spoke to her like that. No one. Before she could summon a response, I grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her down the corridor.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" I hissed.

"Relax, porcelain doll. She's not going to do anything. Your father needs me."

We stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall, a small, dusty room that had once belonged to a governess. It was the least impressive guest room in the Manor, a deliberate insult.

"Here," I said, opening the door. "Your palace."

She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the narrow bed, the single window, the bare walls. She didn't seem disappointed. If anything, she looked relieved.

"It's perfect," she said. "No frills. No lies."

She turned to face me, and for a moment, we were just two people standing in a dusty room, the storm raging outside. The anger had faded from her eyes, replaced by a weary curiosity.

"What's your name?" she asked. "Your real name. Not the one you use in your little club."

"Draco," I said. "Draco Malfoy."

She nodded slowly. "Draco. Like the dragon."

"Like the constellation."

"Same thing." She held out her hand. "I'm Anna. Anna Beatriz."

I stared at her hand. It was a muggle gesture, a common, ordinary greeting. And yet, in this house, it felt like a revolution.

I took her hand. Her skin was warm, her grip firm.

"Welcome to hell, Anna Beatriz," I said.

She smiled, and this time, it was a real smile. It lit up her whole face, and for a second, I forgot to breathe.

"I've been to worse," she said.

And I believed her.

I left her there, in that dusty room, and walked back to my own chambers. I had an hour before dinner. I should have been thinking about my father's plans, about the war, about the dark mark that still burned faintly on my left forearm. But I wasn't.

I was thinking about the girl with the red shoes.

I was thinking about the way she said my name. *Draco*. Like it was a joke, a challenge, a promise.

I was thinking about her hand in mine.

And I was thinking about what she said she would take from me when she left.

I had a feeling she wasn't talking about the silverware.

Dinner was a study in quiet warfare.

The long table in the dining room was set for four, a rare occurrence. Usually, my father ate alone in his study, and my mother and I would pick at our food in silence, the only sound the clink of silver on china. But tonight, we were all present. My father at the head, my mother at the foot, and Anna and I facing each other across a vast expanse of white linen and gleaming crystal.

Anna had been given proper clothes. A house elf had delivered a simple black dress, something my mother had probably worn a decade ago and discarded. It fit her poorly, too tight in the hips, too loose in the bust. But she wore it with a kind of defiant grace, as if she were doing the dress a favor by putting it on.

Her hair was still a wild mess. She hadn't tried to tame it. I liked that.

My father watched her throughout the meal, his pale eyes never leaving her face. He asked her questions, probing, testing. About her family. About their business. About the nature of the "deal" they had struck.

She answered him with a calm that was almost insolent. She gave nothing away. Her answers were vague, evasive, but delivered with such a guileless smile that you couldn't accuse her of being evasive. It was a masterclass in deflection.

My mother, meanwhile, radiated a cold fury that was almost palpable. She didn't speak to Anna. She didn't even look at her. She focused all her attention on her food, cutting her lamb into tiny, precise pieces, as if she were dissecting a cadaver.

I, for my part, said nothing. I watched. I watched the way Anna held her fork, the way she sipped her wine, the way her eyes flickered around the room, cataloging exits, assessing threats. She was a prisoner, but she was also a strategist. She was planning something.

"So," my father said, setting down his knife. "You will be staying with us for some time, Miss Beatriz. I trust you will find the accommodations... adequate."

"They're fine," Anna said. "A little dusty. But I've slept in worse places."

"Indeed?" My father leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. "And where, exactly, have you slept?"

Anna met his gaze. "Places you've never been, Senhor Malfoy. Places you'd never want to go."

The air in the room grew thick. My mother's knife scraped against her plate, a sharp, jarring sound.

My father's smile didn't waver. "You have spirit. I admire that. But spirit can be... broken. Remember that."

"I'll keep it in mind," Anna said. She picked up her wine glass and took a long, slow sip, her eyes never leaving his.

I felt a strange, swelling sensation in my chest. Pride. I was proud of her. This girl I had just met, this stranger, this muggle with the red shoes, was standing up to the most feared wizard in Britain. And she was winning.

After dinner, my father retired to his study, and my mother swept off to her chambers without a word. I was left alone with Anna in the echoing dining room.

"Well," she said, pushing back her chair. "That was fun."

"You have a death wish," I said.

"Maybe." She stood up, stretching her arms above her head. The poorly fitting dress rode up, revealing a strip of smooth, brown skin at her waist. I looked away, my face suddenly hot.

"I need some air," she said. "Is there a garden? A balcony? Anything that isn't this... mausoleum?"

I hesitated. The grounds were warded, but within the wards, she was free to move. My father hadn't forbidden it.

"There's a conservatory," I said. "It's mostly dead, but it's outside."

"Perfect," she said. "Lead the way."

The conservatory was a glass structure attached to the east wing, a relic of a more ambitious era. The plants inside were mostly withered, the fountains dry, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. But the rain had stopped, and the clouds had parted, revealing a sliver of moon.

Anna walked among the dead plants, her fingers brushing the dry leaves. She seemed to draw energy from the place, from its ruined beauty.

"It's sad," she said. "All this space, all this potential, and everything in it is dead."

"It's a metaphor," I said, leaning against a stone pillar.

"For what?"

"For my family."

She laughed, a real laugh this time, and the sound echoed through the glass walls. "You're funny, Draco. I didn't expect that."

"I'm a man of many surprises."

"No, you're not." She turned to face me, her expression serious. "You're a boy who's been told what to be his whole life. You're a collection of expectations and disappointments. But underneath all that, there's something else. I can see it."

I felt exposed, stripped bare. "And what's that?"

"I don't know yet." She walked toward me, her steps slow, deliberate. "But I intend to find out."

She stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her honey-colored eyes.

"Why are you here, Draco?" she asked. "Really. Why are you still in this house? You're of age. You could leave."

The question hit me like a physical blow. No one had ever asked me that. No one had ever suggested that I had a choice.

"I can't," I said, the words automatic.

"Can't, or won't?"

I didn't have an answer. The thought of leaving, of breaking free from the weight of my name, my family, my father's expectations, was like staring into an abyss. It was terrifying. It was impossible.

"It's not that simple," I said.

"It never is." She reached out and touched my face, her fingers cool against my burning skin. "But you're allowed to want more, Draco. You're allowed to want something different."

Her touch was electric. It sent a shock through my entire body, a jolt of pure, undeniable desire. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pull her close and bury my face in her chaotic hair and forget everything else.

But I didn't. I couldn't. She was a prisoner. She was a muggle. She was everything I had been raised to despise.

And yet.

"Why do you care?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She smiled, that slow, dangerous smile. "Maybe I don't. Maybe I just like messing with you."

She dropped her hand and stepped back, and the spell was broken. The cold air rushed in, and I felt the loss of her touch like a physical ache.

"I'm tired," she said. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, porcelain doll."

She walked away, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She had left her red shoes in her room. I watched her go, a thousand questions burning on my tongue.

When she was gone, I stood alone in the dead conservatory, staring up at the sliver of moon. The house loomed behind me, a dark, suffocating weight. And for the first time in my life, I felt the stirrings of something I had never dared to feel before.

Hope.

It was a dangerous thing. A foolish thing. And I clung to it like a drowning man.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of shouting.

I was out of bed and down the corridor before I was fully awake, my wand in my hand. The shouting was coming from the drawing room, my father's voice, raised in a way I had never heard before. Not the cold, controlled anger of a man in power, but something rawer. Something closer to panic.

I burst through the doors.

The scene was chaos. My father stood in the center of the room, his face white with fury. My mother was pressed against the wall, her hand over her mouth. And two of my father's men, Crabbe and Goyle's fathers, were holding Anna by the arms.

She was struggling, her hair wild, her face flushed with effort. But it was the object on the floor that drew my eye.

A small, black book. A diary.

My father's.

"I found it in his study," Anna gasped, still fighting against the men's grip. "He's been keeping records. Names. Dates. Everything. The things he's done, the people he's hurt... it's all in there."

"You little fool," my father hissed. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I know exactly what I've done," Anna spat back. "I've found the evidence. The proof. The thing that will bring you down."

My father laughed, a cold, terrible sound. "And who will you give it to? The Ministry? They're in my pocket. The press? They wouldn't dare. You have nothing, girl. You are nothing."

"I'm not nothing." Anna's voice was fierce, defiant. "And I'm not alone."

Her eyes found mine. And in that moment, I understood.

She wasn't just a prisoner. She wasn't just collateral. She was a spy. A saboteur. She had been sent here to find something, and she had found it.

And now she was going to die.

My father raised his wand. "Crucio," he whispered.

The curse hit Anna before I could move, before I could even think. Her body arched, a scream tearing from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. She collapsed to the floor, twitching, her eyes rolled back in her head.

"Stop it!" I shouted. The word was out of my mouth before I knew what I was doing. "Father, stop!"

My father paused, his wand still raised. He turned to look at me, his expression one of mild surprise.

"Draco," he said. "This doesn't concern you."

"It does." I stepped forward, my heart pounding. "She's my responsibility. You said so yourself. I'm her escort."

"Your responsibility is to this family. To our cause."

"My responsibility is to do what's right."

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. My father stared at me, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. A deep, profound disappointment that cut deeper than any curse.

"You would betray me," he said, his voice quiet. "For a muggle. For a girl you've known for a day."

"I would betray you," I said, "for a chance to be something other than your son."

The silence that followed was absolute. The men holding Anna looked at each other, unsure. My mother let out a small, choked sob.

Then my father laughed. A real laugh, full of genuine amusement. It was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard.

"You have spirit," he said. "Just like her. I suppose I should have expected this." He lowered his wand. "Very well. You want to be responsible for her? You want to protect her? Then you can share her fate."

He gestured to the men. "Take them both to the dungeons. We'll deal with them in the morning."

The men released Anna, who lay gasping on the floor, and grabbed me instead. I didn't fight. I couldn't. My body was numb, my mind reeling.

As they dragged me away, I looked back at Anna. She was pushing herself up, her face streaked with tears, her body trembling. But her eyes, those honey-colored eyes, were fixed on me.

And she was smiling.

We were thrown into a cell in the lowest level of the Manor, a place I had never seen before. It was cold, damp, and dark. The walls were rough stone, the floor was covered in moldy straw, and the only light came from a single torch flickering in the corridor outside.

Anna was thrown in after me. She landed hard, a grunt of pain escaping her lips. I scrambled to her side.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my hands reaching for her, checking for injuries.

She laughed, a weak, shaky sound. "I've been better. But I've been worse too."

"You're insane," I said. "You're absolutely insane. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I couldn't let him win." She sat up, wincing. "I was thinking that the things he's done... the people he's hurt... someone has to pay."

"And you thought you could make him pay? Alone?"

"I wasn't alone." She looked at me, and her expression softened. "I had you."

I stared at her. The words didn't make sense. "You didn't have me. We just met."

"I know." She reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was strong. "But I saw something in you, Draco. Something that your father can't see. Something good."

"I'm not good," I said. "I'm a Malfoy. I'm a Death Eater."

"You're a boy," she said. "A boy who's been told what to be his whole life. But you're not that. Not really."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here." She squeezed my hand. "You could have let them kill me. You could have stood by and watched. But you didn't. You chose me."

The words hit me like a curse. She was right. I had chosen her. In a moment of blind, stupid, wonderful madness, I had chosen her over everything I had ever known.

And now we were going to die.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"I don't know." She leaned her head against my shoulder. "But whatever it is, we face it together."

We sat in the darkness, our hands intertwined, our breaths mingling in the cold air. The torch flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, the storm raged on, the wind howling like a wounded animal.

I thought about my father. About my mother. About the life I had lived, the choices I had made. I thought about the dark mark on my arm, the weight of it, the shame.

And I thought about Anna.

She was warm against me, her body a small, fierce flame in the darkness. She smelled of rain and crushed leaves, of something wild and free. She was everything I had been taught to hate.

And I loved her.

It was insane. It was impossible. But it was true.

"I have a plan," she whispered.

"Of course you do."

"There's a passage. Behind the tapestry in the east corridor. It leads to the cellars, and from there, to the woods."

"How do you know that?"

She was silent for a moment. Then, "I've been exploring. I told you, I don't plan on being a guest forever."

"You've been here for a day."

"I'm a fast learner."

I laughed, a genuine laugh, the sound strange and foreign in the cold cell. "You're impossible."

"I know." She lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes were bright, fierce, full of life. "But you love me anyway."

The words hung in the air, a challenge, a promise, a question.

"Yes," I said. "I do."

She kissed me then. It was a soft kiss, gentle, tentative. Her lips were cold, but they warmed against mine. She tasted of salt and something sweet, something that was uniquely her.

When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Good. Now let's get out of here."

We waited until the guard changed. It was a long wait, hours of sitting in the dark, listening to the drip of water and the distant rumble of thunder. We talked in whispers, sharing pieces of ourselves, building a bridge between two worlds that should never have met.

She told me about her family. Her mother, a healer. Her father, a merchant. Her brothers, two of them, both older, both protective. She told me about the deal my father had made with them, a promise of protection in exchange for their silence. She told me about the diary, the evidence she had found, the proof of my father's crimes.

She told me about Brazil.

"It's beautiful," she said, her voice soft with longing. "The sun, the sea, the music. It's a different world, Draco. A world where people like your father don't exist."

"It sounds like a dream."

"It's real." She looked at me, her eyes shining in the darkness. "And I want to show it to you."

The words were a promise, a lifeline, a future I had never dared to imagine.

When the guard finally changed, we made our move.

Anna was quick, silent, deadly. She took down the new guard with a spell I had never seen before, a flash of green light that left him unconscious on the floor. She grabbed his keys and unlocked the cell.

"Where did you learn that?" I asked, stunned.

"I told you," she said, grinning. "I'm a fast learner."

We crept through the corridors, our footsteps silent on the cold stone. The Manor was quiet, the only sound the distant ticking of a clock. We reached the east corridor, found the tapestry, and slipped behind it.

The passage was narrow, dark, and smelled of mildew. We felt our way along the walls, our hands brushing against damp stone. After what felt like hours, we emerged in the cellars, a vast underground space filled with wine racks and old furniture.

From there, it was a short sprint to the woods.

The rain had stopped, but the ground was wet and slippery. We ran, hand in hand, our breath misting in the cold air. The trees loomed around us, dark and silent. Behind us, the Manor stood like a tombstone, a monument to everything we were leaving behind.

We didn't stop until we reached the edge of the wards. Anna pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper, a portkey, and held it out to me.

"Ready?" she asked.

I looked back at the Manor one last time. At the life I was leaving behind. At the boy I had been.

Then I looked at Anna. At the girl with the red shoes. At the future she was offering me.

"Yes," I said. "I'm ready."

We touched the portkey together, and the world dissolved into a whirlwind of color and sound.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing on a beach.

The sun was rising over the ocean, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. The air was warm, salty, alive. Waves crashed against the shore, a steady, rhythmic heartbeat.

Anna was beside me, her hand still in mine. She was looking out at the sea, her face bathed in the morning light.

"Welcome to Brazil," she said.

I didn't have words. I just stood there, holding her hand, watching the sun rise over a new world.

We had escaped. We had survived. And we had each other.

It was enough.

For now.