Memories
Chapter 5: Memories
Harry fell back into the Pensieve, landing in the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory.
His skin crawled as he watched Lavender and Parvati giggle and whisper, huddled on one of the beds. He shouldn’t be here—he was a man and this was a private space for female students. But Hermione wouldn’t have left a memory that was unsavory, at least that much he knew.
On the other side of the room, Hermione finished unpacking her trunk. She was getting ready to set her D.A. galleon on her nightstand, when she dropped it like it had burned her.
“Who’s sending messages with those still?” Parvati pried.
“Oh, um, no one. It just says Happy Birthday,” Hermione blushed as she read the coin’s message.
“Is it Ron?” Lavender asked, suddenly more interested.
Hermione chuckled, “Definitely not.”
Lavender visibly relaxed back onto the bed, flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly, and ignoring Hermione completely. Parvati, however, watched her closely for a few more minutes, and when Hermione left to change in the girls’ bathroom, she snuck over to look at the coin.
Harry peered over her shoulder.
“Happy Birthday, Granger”
It was from Malfoy. He knew it without any doubt. No one else used her surname so consistently and especially on her birthday. Had they been using the D.A. coins all summer?
Hermione re-entered the room humming a happy tune with a bounce in her step. Lavender continued to ignore her, but Parvati watched on, smiling proudly.
The scene faded out, and Harry was dropped into more familiar territory.
Hermione was pacing quickly back and forth in front of the Room of Requirement, checking her surroundings every few seconds. As soon as the door started to materialize, she flung it open and jumped inside as fast as possible. Harry snuck in after her, wondering if he would catch Malfoy in the act of fixing the Vanishing Cabinet.
It was the room of hidden things, and Malfoy was indeed in there. She wound around piles and stacks of various items. Harry even spotted the diadem sparkling from its hiding spot.
“Malfoy?” She called out, weaving between a few dust-laden wardrobes,
The boy in question had snuck up behind her, his footsteps silenced. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “What are you doing here, Granger?”
He’d caught her by surprise, but she didn’t seem scared, despite her flushed cheeks. “I—er—I came to—“
“You’re checking up on me,” Malfoy’s hand twisted a curl around his finger before releasing it with a spring.
“I just thought if you needed some help, I could—“
“No.” Malfoy’s curious tone went from playful to dark in one syllable. “You need to leave, Granger.”
“But if you just told me what you were working on, I could help you! You said it was really important—“
Malfoy grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “I said no. Drop it.” She started to protest again, but he cut her off, “I mean it. I don’t need or want your help with this. I want you as far away from this as possible.”
“You don’t look good. Even Harry’s noticed,” she sputtered out, her lower lip starting to tremble as she tried to ignore his blatant rejection.
“I am well aware that Potter’s been trailing me. He’s not as sneaky as he likes to think he is—even with that bloody invisibility cloak,” Malfoy sneered. “And to your point, shouldn’t you be worried he’ll catch you up here with the big bad wolf?”
He took a menacing step toward her, closing in on her personal space. His breath was against her cheek when he said, “Go back to your golden tower.”
“I believe,” she said breathlessly, “the saying is ‘ivory tower’”
He chuckled darkly before stepping away. “You need to leave. The longer you’re here, the less time I have to work.”
“On a schedule, are we? All the more reason to accept some extra hands,” Hermione tried to step closer, but he took a measured and equal step back.
“No, we are not. I am. Granger, if you really care about my well-being, you will leave me alone and let me do my job. I can’t have you involved in this.” Malfoy’s eyes were conflicted. Harry could see the desire to step back toward her, warring with his need to keep her at arm’s length.
He had done the same thing to Ginny when he left. Maybe that’s why Hermione was so supportive—hang on…was this more than just sharing intel? They seemed chummy enough, but the way Malfoy touched her…and she didn’t shy away…it was as if…
No. Nope. Not happening.
The Room of Requirement faded back into the library.
It was the middle of the day and Hermione was sitting at her usual study spot. No one else ever sat there. She occupied it often and consistently enough that if she wasn’t sitting there, and a student decided to take the seat, she’d make an appearance within the hour so they left well enough alone. She might as well have her name engraved on a plaque at the end of the table.
She was bent over her Potions book, copying bits of the text onto her notes and scratching things out. Harry leaned over her shoulder to see what she was frowning so hard about—it was Draught of Living Death.
He laughed loudly, before stifling it with a hand…until he remembered he was in a memory and Madam Pince could in no way hear or chastise him for being loud in the library.
A head of dark, chestnut hair bounced through the room toward Hermione, who most certainly didn’t notice her new study partner as he drew up a chair.
“Granger?” Theo startled her out of her misery.
Placing a hand over her now-racing heart, she whispered, “Theo! I didn’t see you come in.”
“I know,” he grinned cheekily. “Bad news, though.”
Hermione chewed on her lip anxiously. “He’s not coming, is he…”
Theo shook his head glumly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. He was talking to Greg and Vince about meeting him upstairs and I know they have some of the Polyjuice left.”
“That’s okay,” she said half-heartedly. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“You’re still going to wait for him aren’t you?” Theo shook his head. “You know what, Granger? Don’t give up on him. Everyone else has, but you and I are different, alright? He’s gonna need us, and we’ll be right there with him.”
“Theo,” Hermione hung her head in her ink-stained hands, “I don’t even know if he wants me around. I mean, am I forcing this?” Her voice quivered. “I hear the way Ron whinges about Lav-Lav,” she said sarcastically, “but then I think maybe I’m just as bad as she is!”
Theo’s jaw dropped open. “Oh, honey, you are absolutely nothing like that abominable troll of a clinger Weasley picked up. She’s abhorrent and tawdry. Don’t ever compare yourself to her again, do you hear me?”
He reached across the table, pushing her hands away from her face to reveal tear-stained cheeks. Theo wiped away the tracks, and she smiled sweetly. “Thanks…again.”
“Well, I don’t like crying or self pity, so don’t make me do it again, young lady.”
Her grin grew wider and he even got her to laugh before they were both on the receiving end of Madam Pince’s glare.
The scene jumped, but Harry could tell it was the same day.
Hermione’s ink stains were still sunken into her skin in the same places as before, and her pages seemed like they hadn’t moved at all. The lights were low, and he knew all too well what the library looked like after curfew.
“He’s coming. He has to be,” she was muttering to herself in a hushed whisper as she stared at the D.A. coin in front of her. “He has to.”
Harry turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Malfoy?” Hermione called out in anticipation. She clutched the charmed galleon tightly in her palm. The figure stepped into the nearest torchlight. It was Theo.
“No, sorry.”
She sniffled once, then packed up her bag and left.
Harry was pulled away and into another memory.
Dumbledore’s office was filled with ticking and whirling trinkets, shelves and shelves of books—old tomes of every color and size, and interestingly unique objects. Hermione wasn’t taking in any of it. She sat rigid in the chair in front of the Headmaster’s desk, gripping the arms of the chair tightly.
“Miss Granger, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Dumbledore smiled kindly from his own chair.
“I wanted to speak with you about another student,” Hermione picked at the hem of her skirt. “He needs your help.”
The Headmaster’s eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. “Ah, Miss Granger, I am sure you are aware of my lessons with Harry, yes?”
Hermione nodded in affirmation.
“I can assure you, if Harry is in need of extra help, he will surely ask for it at our next meeting—“ Dumbledore had risen to his feet, about to bid her goodnight.
“It’s not Harry who needs you, sir,” she squeaked out the correction, unmoving from her seat despite the obvious dismissal.
“I see,” Dumbledore sat back in his chair, clasping his hands together on the desktop in contemplation. “Who may I be of assistance to then? Mr. Weasley, perhaps?”
“Draco Malfoy, sir.”
This took Dumbledore by surprise. In fact, Harry couldn’t remember a time when the Headmaster looked so taken aback.
“You are concerned for Mr. Malfoy?” Dumbledore repeated her works in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. I believe he’s been given an impossible task—though I’m not sure exactly what it is—but I know he doesn’t want to do it. Voldemort must be threatening his family. He needs protection,” she pleaded the case.
The Headmaster watched her closely, evaluating her sincerity and how much she actually knew. He was calculating.
“I am aware of Mr. Malfoy’s assignment. He will not succeed, nor can I help him do so, but rest assured he has all the help he will need to survive.”
“But, sir—“
“Now, I must insist, Miss Granger, that you do not involve yourself further in the situation. Harry will need your help a great deal in the coming months, and he will need to be able to rely on your full support.”
“Of course, sir, but what about—“
“Best be off, wouldn’t want to be out past curfew,” his smile was much less genuine this time, and Hermione finally accepted the clear rejection.
Dumbledore had sent her away—given up on Malfoy. Sure he was a git in school, but the Headmaster had a duty to protect every student—even the ones they don’t care much for. Harry was in shock at Dumbledore’s behavior…add it to the list of sneaky, backhanded manipulations the old man had played.
He just couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Dumbledore was willing to hand Malfoy over to Voldemort with the knowledge he would fail his task and risk his death? There was no way Snape and Dumbledore knew that Draco would be spared. Harry wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t crucio’ed within an inch of his life.
The office twisted out of view, replaced by the Room of Hidden Things again.
“I thought I told you to stay away, Granger,” Malfoy’s voice wavered. Gone was the snide, malicious commentary. Now, his panic was evident in the purple, bruised circles under his eyes, and the translucence of his skin.
“I asked Dumbledore for help,” she said plainly.
Reading the lack of excitement in her tone, Malfoy already knew what was coming. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He already knew.”
“Fucking Snape! If I—,” he growled.
Hermione placed a hand lightly on his chest, “Don’t.”
“Well, what did the almighty warlock have to say then?” Draco spat, looking over her head, refusing to meet her eyes.
Her sigh finished in a sob, “He said he can’t help. He knows you’ll fail, but you’ll survive.”
“Well, might as well say your goodbyes. I’ll be dead any day now.”
“Malfoy, he said you’ll survive!”
He scoffed. “I must’ve missed the part where Dumbledore was a Seer…or perhaps he’s actually got the Dark Lord under the Imperius, hmm?”
“Stop it,” she said as a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Granger, you need to come to terms with this. You can’t save every lost soul. We both know I’m not going to make it out of this war alive.” He took a step toward her, and Hermione collapsed into his arms, sobs shaking her frame.
“Even if I do succeed, your lot will kill me for it.”
“Just come stay with me? Don’t go back to the Manor when term is over—“ she begged, and Harry felt his heart crack open for her.
“I can’t. You know I can’t. Mother—she’s all I have left…and you. He’ll kill her if I don’t return.” Draco buried his nose in her hair. “Then he’ll kill you.”
“Let him come. I’m not afraid of him.”
“You should be.” Draco placed a kiss on the top of her head, then sent her away again. She was too distraught to even try to rebuke him.
Harry didn’t know how much more of this he could watch. He thought he and Ginny had had a strenuous goodbye, but Hermione was fighting tooth and nail to save Malfoy. She was turned away at every corner, and yet, here she was looking for another way out.
That was Hermione.
He recognized her determined fire burning hot. She’d used it to save his life several times, and Harry just wished this time she had been able to save her own at least…maybe even Malfoy’s too.
The surroundings puttered out like a light flickering, and Harry suddenly realized how close the timeline of memories must have been to his duel with Malfoy. He’d put him in the hospital wing, with only Snape to tend to his wounds. How had Hermione not murdered him on the spot?
He pulled his head out of the basin, trembling as he reached for the last phial of memories. He really didn’t want to relive the moment he almost killed a classmate—rival that he was, he didn’t deserve to almost die… Especially now that Harry was seeing an entirely different side to him.
Harry’s shaking hand tipped the phial’s content into the Pensieve, the last of the collected memories dropping into the shimmering liquid.
Hermione’s parents were sitting on the couch watching the television. Her mum stood, stretching her arms overhead, a few pops releasing tension from her joints.
“Hermione, dear, I’m going to make some tea. Do you want a cuppa?” Her voice was so like her daughter’s, if he hadn’t watched the exchange, he’d never been able to tell them apart.
“No, thanks!” Hermione called from the bottom of the stairs. She was pointing her wand at each picture frame hung on the wall, images of her childhood vanishing from behind the glass.
She brushed a tear from her cheek, raised her wand and pointed it at the back of her dad’s head. He was sitting on the sofa, facing away from her, unsuspecting.
“Memoriam mutare,” she whispered, twisting her wrist minutely with a practiced precision. Of course she’d make sure she got it right, he just wondered who exactly she had practiced on.
Harry walked around the front of the couch, finding her dad’s eyes glazed over. Hermione didn’t stop to wipe the tears flowing freely down her face, instead, she walked into the kitchen. He followed, and watched her as she repeated the spell as her mother was filling two mugs of tea.
As soon as Mrs. Granger’s eyes glazed over, Hermione laid two plane tickets to Australia and two passports on the dining table. She tapped them once with her wand and the letters scrambled together to reform new names—Wendell and Monica Wilkins.
Harry sucked in a breath. It was one thing for her to confide in him what she had done, but another entirely to live it with her…and be unable to offer any support. She had given so much for him—for the “Greater Good”. He scoffed at the thought that immediately followed: Dumbledore would be so proud. It churned his gut.
Hermione was moving again. She strode out the front door of her childhood home for the last time, head held high as she sniffled back sobs, gasping and hiccuping through them. When the door was firmly shut behind her, she slid down it to sit on the front stoop, curling up and holding her face in her hands.
“What have I done? What—what have I done?” She was full-on crying now, and Harry reached out to touch her shaking shoulders only for his hand to fall through her.
Right. Just a memory.
“Granger,” Malfoy’s voice was gentler this time, void of emotion. “We need to move, now.”
Harry recognized the dull look in his eyes, he was occluding. He had never mastered the skill, but in moments like these, he wished he had succeeded.
Hermione gasped at his words, not having heard his arrival. “Yes,” she nodded, quickly wiping the tears away to clear her vision, “let’s go.”
They clasped hands, and were sucked into the void. Harry found himself pulled to Diagon Alley. The three of them were hidden behind a dumpster, where Draco turned and pointed his wand at Hermione. She slowly disappeared from the top of her head to her feet, then Draco’s body followed.
Disillusioned, they crept around the front of the building to slip through a familiar green door in front of a cafe.
“Granger!” Theo cheered happily as Malfoy canceled their charms. “I knew you’d—,” her blotchy, red face and puffy eyes gave him pause, “—oh I’m so sorry, love.”
“You did it then?” Pansy asked, only slightly cold.
Hermione nodded as Theo wrapped a warm blanket—the same one he’d used for Blaise only yesterday—then helped her to the sofa.
Pansy’s eyes softened, “It’s for the best. There’s been whispers about them for a week now.”
Hermione’s eyes were wild with panic, and she launched herself from where she sat, shrugging the covers off of her. “They don’t leave for a few more hours—I have to go back, change their tickets! I—“
“I put in a false trail,” Draco said quietly, still occluding from across the room. “They’ll be looking in Surrey for the next week or so. I told them I remembered you saying you and Potter lived close together.”
“Draco, won’t they hurt you for that?” Her lip quivered.
He shrugged. “We’ve only got a few days until Potter gets moved to the Order’s new headquarters, according to Snape. They’ll be distracted enough to forget about some Muggles after that.”
Her worry did not cease at his words. He’d just reminded her she had so many more people to lose…
“You can stay with us,” Theo held her hand between his own. “Pansy promises not to disturb your lions mane.”
A small chuckle cracked through her tears. “Yeah, okay. I’m expected at the B—“
“No!” Draco shouted, holding his hands over his ears. “Wait until I’m gone.”
“You’re leaving?” Her heartbreak was written in Malfoy-esque perfect script all over her face.
He stared for a long moment, and Harry thought he caught a flicker of emotion behind the steely gray eyes as Malfoy tried his damnest to bury any and all feelings back down behind his mask.
“Yes. You’re in enough danger as it is. The Minister will be removed soon, and the Dark Lord has his own puppet at the ready. You and Potter, and anyone else aiding you, will be made public enemies of the Ministry.” He sighed, his mask slipping yet again.
“What does that have to do with you staying?” She whimpered, trying her best to hold herself together.
Draco looked away from her, unable to continue occluding while keeping eye contact. “As you very well know, I am Marked. The Dark Lord can track me anywhere, anytime, should he wish it. I’ve already stayed too long.”
Malfoy took two steps toward the door before she rushed into his arms.
“Please don’t go,” she begged, fisting his black robes. “I can’t lose you too.”
“Granger, you always have me with you,” he pulled out his charmed galleon for her to see, a sad smile wavering on his face, the mask almost entirely gone now.
“Draco, I—,” her watery eyes found his, but he silenced her with a kiss.
“I know. Don’t say it—not yet,” he said quietly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “When it’s all over, and no one can use these memories against us, then you can say it.”
She nodded, a fresh wave of tears rolling down her cheeks. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, then pried her fingers from his robes. Theo came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Hermione turned into his chest, not wanting to watch Malfoy leave for the last time…
This was the last time they were together, Harry realized. The next time Hermione would see him…was at the Manor.
Harry’s blood started to boil as the scene swirled again. Draco bloody Malfoy—the prat who supposedly loved his best friend—watched…he watched her be tortured within an inch of her life and did nothing! He just stood there and watched !
If they had to bring him back too, then Harry would make sure he was the one to end his miserable, pathetic life, and he’d relish every second of it.
Hermione was dancing, Ron’s arms holding her up as they spun around the gleaming dance floor; her floaty, lilac-colored dress fluttering around her bronzed legs. She looked so much taller in her matching high heels, but still not tall enough to be eye level with Ron. The dance floor had spread from the center of the marquee like molten, liquid gold, solidifying underfoot. Matching golden poles supported the canopy above.
Harry spotted himself—disguised as a Weasley cousin, sitting at one of the white-clothed tables, talking with Elphias Doge and Ron’s Aunt Muriel. He really didn’t want to relive that conversation, the disappointment beginning to bloom in his chest all over again.
Ron did his best to keep Hermione away from Krum, though now it all seemed rather superfluous considering her true entanglement they had no clue about. She acquiesced to his lead, sparing his ego from any bruising for the night, with a glittering smile. Harry soaked in the scene—his two best friends enjoying each other’s company, in front of a fading backdrop of the sunlit orchards and countryside.
Hermione stopped their dance, holding a hand over her heaving chest as she tried to catch her breath through hearty laughs. Ron pointed to the waiters bearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, and headed toward them to get their refreshments while she joined Harry at the table.
The golden-jacketed band stopped playing.
A large, gleaming, silver lynx landed gracefully in the middle of several astonished dancers. The Patronus’s mouth opened, and the deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt echoed under the canopy.
“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”
Hermione and past-Harry jumped to their feet, wands at the ready. Screams began to break out among the panicking crowd—guests running in every direction, hurrying to Disapparate as the enchantments around the wedding had broken.
“Ron!” Hermione cried out. “Ron, where are you?”
Past-Harry pulled her across the dance floor, toward a shock of red hair that he knew had to be Ron.
“Ron! Ron!” She was half-sobbing as she called out his name. Spells of every color were flying haphazardly around them, and Harry had been ducking and weaving to avoid any crossfire he could. Hermione, however, had lagged behind him—
A shock of bright blonde, too short to be Lucius’, flashed behind her. The masked Death Eater tossed a shield up, and stepped along with them using himself as a backup shield for their escape.
Then Ron was there and they turned on the spot.
Harry hadn’t noticed that at the time. No wonder they hadn’t been hit—of course, they were the intended targets, but not a single spell had found its mark. Draco Malfoy had stepped in yet again.
The following few memories were difficult to discern as time didn’t seem to change between each vision, but it must have, considering their minimal location and clothing changes. From what Harry could make of it, Hermione was in contact with Malfoy throughout the entire horcrux hunt via the fake galleons. He would hide food and refills on healing potions for her to restock their supplies every so often. Harry wondered why he didn’t leave more food…or at least better food. They had eaten a lot of mushrooms… He cringed at the memory of the now-repulsive taste.
The ground pitched from beneath him, and his surroundings adjusted accordingly for another memory. Harry sincerely hoped it would be the last one. Hermione had been nothing less than thorough in what he now understood was her way of proving Malfoys innocence should she be unable to do so in person.
“…your pretty little friend…” Greyback’s predatory growl encircled them.
“Easy, Greyback,” Scabior said over the jeering of those surrounding them.
“Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barney. Who are you, girly?” The werewolf’s breath was thick with a distinct stench, and Harry tried not to regurgitate everything he’d consumed that day.
“Penelope Clearwater,” Hermione said quickly, barely breathing as she did so, causing Harry to wonder how long she’d had that alias prepared for a moment such as this.
“What’s your blood status?”
“Half-blood,” she said with more confidence than Harry remembered. He could only recall the innate fear he’d felt—for her, for Ron…for himself—he’d assumed she’d be just as scared, but if she was, she masked it well.
“Easy enough to check,” Scabior said, “but the ‘ole lot of ‘em look like they could still be ‘ogwarts age—“
“We’b lebt,” Ron said through his broken nose and mouthful of blood. Harry cringed at his friend’s beaten face.
It was his fault they’d all been captured.
“Left ‘ave you, ginger? And you decided to go camping?” The Snatcher was grinning. He knew something wasn’t adding up with their story, but he was enjoying toying with them. “And you thought, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”
The exchange continued just as Harry remembered it—no new information coming to light. Once they were bound, and reacquainted with Dean and the others, Harry’s intrigue kicked in. He hadn’t been coherent for most of the traveling until they reached Malfoy Manor. He’d been trying his hardest to keep Voldemort out of his mind, and to stay out of his while he searched for the Elder Wand.
“You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you.”
“It isn’t! It isn’t me!” Hermione squeaked, her terror showing its face, finally.
“…known to be traveling with Harry Potter,” Greyback repeated quietly.
The Snatchers and the werewolf inspected Harry’s stretched out scar more closely until they’d convinced themselves of his true identity. At least Hermione’s stinging jinx had done well enough of a job to keep them from calling Voldemort straight away.
Once they’d decided on their plan of action, Harry and the other prisoners were hoisted to their feet. Greyback grabbed ahold of Harry’s hair, and he could still feel the ghost of his claw-like yellowed nails digging into his scalp. They were all side-alonged to Malfoy Manor.
As one of the Snatchers approached the gate and started to rattle the bars, the iron twisted into a frightening face, speaking in a clanging, echoing voice, “State your purpose!”
“We’ve got Potter! We’ve captured Harry Potter!” Greyback roared triumphantly.
They were let into the property, being watched by the eerie albino peacocks that, naturally, the Malfoys would own. Harry hadn’t thought of it in that moment, too worried about the present, but he’d seen the same peacocks outside of an ostentatious tent at the Quidditch World Cup just before fourth year.
“Bring them in,” Narcissa commanded, meeting them at the entry hall. “Follow me.” She led them across the hall, speaking as she went. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”
Hermione’s breathing increased to a rapid rate, and Harry wondered how she didn’t pass out from hyperventilating.
The wretched crystal chandelier was hanging above them, and Harry wished it had crushed Bellatrix like Dobby had originally intended during his rescue mission. The purple walls held posh and uppity portraits of various Malfoy ancestors, and Harry pointedly ignored the sneers they cast toward his past self and comrades.
Draco was called over to them, and Narcissa beckoned for her son to identify Harry’s swollen face as his own.
“Well, boy?” Greyback rasped, placing Harry directly beneath the chandelier.
“Well, Draco?” Lucius stepped in. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”
Hermione’s eyes were filled with tears, pleading with Draco to not give them away. Harry was sure, now, that Malfoy hadn’t been sleeping. He could actually appraise his childhood nemesis’ appearance, being just an observer of the scene. His blonde hair hung limp, lacking its usual sheen and luster. His pallor was gaunt and the shadows under his eyes, vast and purple. He was a far cry from his usually arrogant and aristocratic attitude.
They were all prisoners of this war.
Of course he would have been punished for failing his assignment to kill Dumbledore. Voldemort always knew Snape would be the one to commit the murder, but Draco’s inability to perform would be punishment in itself for Lucius to see his only son flounder and bring even more shame to their family. Not to mention, apparently he’d been working overtime with the other Slytherins at Hogwarts to keep the younger students safe.
“I can’t—I can’t be sure,” Draco said, keeping his distance from the rabid werewolf and avoiding eye contact with Harry.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” Lucius Malfoy said excitedly. “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv—“
Greyback stuck his snout into the middle of it yet again, demanding he be compensated for his part in “capturing Harry Potter”. Lucius brushed him aside and took his own turn assessing the stinging jinx’s handiwork.
Meanwhile, Draco and Hermione had locked eyes and were having an unspoken conversation. With all the focus on Harry, no one else in the room seemed to notice, except Narcissa who was watching the pair with an intense ferocity.
“—Draco, come here, look properly!” Lucius called. “What do you think?”
Draco obliged his father’s request, getting closer to Harry and pretending to look more closely. “I don’t know,” he finally said, and Harry could see that he was occluding again. Malfoy walked back to his mother’s side near the fireplace. He wasn’t the only one who noticed Draco’s change of demeanor. Narcissa stiffened at her son’s blank expression, looking back at Hermione on the other side of the room.
“We had better be certain, Lucius,” her voice was cold and clear. “Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord…they say this is his…” she was looking at the blackthorn wand the Snatchers had confiscated. “But it does not resemble Ollivander’s description. If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing…Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”
“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback.
Hermione was shoved to the forefront, and Narcissa stepped forward. “Wait. Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”
Draco’s mask wavered, but he dutifully looked at the woman before him as blankly as he could manage. “I…maybe yeah.”
“But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” Lucius shouted, his excitement ramping even higher at the breakthrough.
Then Bellatrix came in.
Harry’s blood ran cold. Knowing the witch before him met her demise at the hands of Molly Weasley was great, but he couldn’t help but wish he’d been the one to deliver the final blow. Her hooded lids and unhinged demeanor were enough to send shivers up anyone’s spine…and that was before she even spoke a word.
“What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?” her crazed voice echoed through the large room, accented by the scuffed clicking of her heeled boots. “But surely,” she said as she examined the prisoners, stopping in front of Hermione, “this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?”
“Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” Lucius cried eagerly. “And beside her, we think Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!”
Suddenly Lucius and Bellatrix were fighting amongst themselves over who would have the “great honor” of summoning Voldemort. Then of course, Greyback had to go and remind everyone just who exactly had caught them…in turn, leading Bellatrix to discover the confiscated Sword of Gryffindor.
A bang and flash of light followed, and the Snatchers were incapacitated for the time being. All were down except Greyback, who was at the non-existent mercy of an enraged Bellatrix Lestrange as she held the sword firmly in her grasp.
“Where did you get this sword?” she whispered.
Eventually, the snarling werewolf admitted they’d collected it from the tent. When he was released from her hold, he prowled around the outskirts of the room, licking his wounds.
“Draco, move this scum outside. If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me,” Bellatrix said authoritatively.
“Don’t you dare speak to Draco like—“ Narcissa said furiously.
“Be quiet!” Bellatrix silenced her sister. “The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!”
Harry watched the mother and son closely. He knew what was coming, but he wanted to see for himself how the Malfoys measured up in this moment.
Bellatrix had turned back to her sister. “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!”
“This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my—“
“Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!” Bellatrix shrieked, her voice frighteningly mad as she paced her small square of floor like a caged animal. A thin stream of fire shot from the tip of her wand, burning a hole in the carpet—accidental magic was not a good sign…
Narcissa hesitated, but gave the order for Greyback to lead them to their temporary prison.
“Wait,” Bellatrix stopped him abruptly. “All except for the Mudblood.”
The werewolf grunted in pleasure while Ron shouted—begged to take her place. Greyback was given his wand back, and Bellatrix took out a short, silver knife from inside her robes to cut Hermione free from the rest.
She was dragged by her hair to the center of the room. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?” Bellatrix cooed, “girl-to-girl.”
Hermione’s eyes were tearing up, Bellatrix’s hand still yanking firmly at her scalp. “Please,” she whimpered.
“Where did you get the sword?” Bellatrix demanded, the short silver knife pressed firmly against her throat.
“We found it!” Hermione choked out, her fear bubbling over. She knew the woman holding her hostage would kill her without a second thought…actually maybe she would…she’d drag it out for hours just to prove her point that Hermione had dirty blood. She’d spill every last drop.
“Don’t lie to me! Crucio!” Bellatrix’s wand was so close, Hermione didn’t even have a second to brace herself for the onslaught of pain. Her screams echoed in the drawing room, and Harry looked away. He couldn’t watch this—not after everything…
Narcissa was only a few feet away. Harry watched her blank, pale blue eyes. She was occluding now, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Was she just better at masking her thoughts than Draco? Or had she had her own change of heart later…was this it?
“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?” Bellatrix shouted.
“We found it—we found it—,” Bellatrix raised her wand again, “PLEASE!”
“Crucio!”
Hermione’s screams burned through his eardrums, embedding themselves into his very soul. Harry watched a single tear drip down Narcissa’s pale cheek, before disappearing as though it never existed. Malfoy attempted to remain casual as he returned to the room, but Harry could see the tight lines around his gray eyes. He thought he could hear Malfoy’s thoughts warring with his desire to simply kill his aunt right there in front of everyone.
“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth!” Bellatrix prowled around the edges of Hermione’s heaving body lying broken on the rug below. She was heaving, trying to catch her breath from the screams; her muscles spasming violently out of her control. “Tell the truth!”
Another Crucio, aimed from the demented witch’s wand, and another terrible scream erupted from Hermione’s chest. Draco’s fists clenched, his wand slowly starting to raise.
Then he stopped.
Malfoy was struggling subtly against some invisible restraint. Then, Harry noticed. Narcissa was mouthing something from beside her son. She was immobilizing him—just enough to keep him from interfering, but not enough to draw suspicion.
“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!” Bellatrix pushed the blade more sharply into Hermione’s throat, and a trickle of blood dripped down her neck, pooling beside her.
“Please…” Hermione’s voice was fading and cracked. She was barely conscious, but her eyes seemed to find Draco easily, as though by instinct.
“Crucio!”
Hermione screamed. There was no reprieve this time, though.
“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!” Bellatrix threw all her force behind the curse as it rippled through Hermione’s contorted body. She twisted and writhed on the floor, smearing her spilled blood against her cheek and shoulder. The walls reverberated with her screams, pushing them in every direction, surrounding them from all sides.
Harry thought his heart might just burst.
“How did you get into my vault?” Bellatrix screeched. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?”
“We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed. “We’ve never been inside your vault! It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!” Her voice was wavering as her strength was depleting.
“A copy?” Bellatrix shrieked. “Oh, a likely story!”
Lucius’s drawl was back, “But we can find out easily! Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!”
Malfoy did as he was told, the sticking charms and immobilization lifted without even a flick of Narcissa’s wand. He returned quickly, marching Griphook to his aunt, then quickly returning to his mother’s side.
“Last chance, Mudblood!” Bellatrix held her silver dagger to Hermione’s arm, slicing the skin ever so slightly.
Hermione let out another cry of anguish. “PLEASE!”
Bellatrix carved into the flesh of her forearm. M U D B— The crack from Dobby’s apparition echoed from below.
“Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar?” Lucius halted the demonic witch’s progress. “Draco—no, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!”
Greyback stormed out the room, irritation evident at being reduced to an errand boy. Silence prevailed as they all waited to hear any further sounds.
Once Pettigrew had gone to investigate, Bellatrix resumed her torturous duties. —L O O D
Hermione’s voice carried once more, and this time she lost consciousness. Her breathing was so slowed and shallow, she could’ve been dead. If Harry didn’t know beyond a doubt that she wasn’t…yet…he certainly would’ve thought she had finally succumbed.
“Goblin, come here.” Bellatrix commanded, kicking Hermione’s bloodied arm away in disgust, and wiping her blade on the unconscious girl’s jumper.
Griphook approached warily, keeping his small, beady, black eyes trained on the malevolent witch’s wand should she turn it on him next. Bellatrix looked down her nose at the creature, directing him to pick up the Sword of Gryffindor with a grunt and a short, impatient wave of her wand.
The goblin did as he was bade, and held up the sword with his long-fingered hands.
“Well?” Bellatrix demanded. “Is it the true sword?”
“No, it is a fake,” Griphook answered slyly.
“Are you sure?” she panted. “Quite sure?”
“Yes,” the goblin answered with confidence.
“Good,” she said as she visibly relaxed, all tension rolling away. She flicked her wand and a deep gash appeared on Griphook’s face causing him to drop to the ground in pain, the sword clattering in the quiet. “And now, we call the Dark Lord!”
She touched her blackened nail to her Dark Mark, relishing in her future rewards and accolades she was sure to receive once Voldemort arrived. “And I think we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.”
Draco took an enraged step forward, his wand held aloft by one of his shaking arms. His pale face had turned a darker shade of red, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Malfoy so angry or threatening. He didn’t remember noticing Malfoy’s appearance or reactions as he and Ron hid around the corner, waiting for the opportune time to jump in and save the day.
Narcissa had started to cast another immobilization charm the same moment Ron burst into the room— “NOOOOOOOO!”
He disarmed Bellatrix and past-Harry charged in, stunning Lucius. Lights flashed from Draco’s, Narcissa’s, and Greyback’s wands. Harry knew what was coming, but he finally processed what the lights that flashed were. Draco had shot a green light, but it just missed Bellatrix’s right shoulder by a quarter inch. Narcissa’s had been silvery blue shield over Hermione’s limp body—protecting her from the stray fire. Greyback’s however, was a purple jet aimed right at Ron which thankfully missed its target.
Harry pulled himself out of the Pensieve. He didn’t need to see anymore. Draco hadn’t stood by and done nothing—in fact, Narcissa had to restrain him from getting himself killed at the hands of his reckless aunt. Not only that, but Narcissa Malfoy had done her best to protect Hermione in that moment, even if it was the bare minimum.
He rubbed a hand down his tired face. Ron needed to see the memories. It would hurt him, but he needed to know that Malfoy wasn’t a threat, and that they owed it to him to at least try and save them.
Harry collected the memories still swirling in the stone basin, and placed them back in the phial as he tapped his wand gently against the small glass.
Taking his time, he walked out to the gates of Hogwarts and Apparated home.