Chapter 2
The breath is knocked out of his lungs when he lands in a crumpled heap. He lifts a hand to the back of his head, rubbing at the bruised spot and shifts himself into a sitting position. The Time Turner in his hand is still warm, and its mechanisms slip back into their original positions. He glances around briefly, blinking several times as his eyes adjust to the thick darkness he finds himself in.
After some moments, he can make out shapes. Long, gnarled twisting masses--trees. He can just make out the pale shafts of moonlight filtering through the branches overhead and mutters something derisive about the accuracy of time turners.
"I told it ‘Hogwarts’ and it's dropped me in a forest," he grumbles, shaking his head as he pockets the device. Only after it's left his hand, safe in his pocket, the realization hits him. A forest. . .Hogwarts. . .this can't be the Forbidden Forest? He's aware of the hope that flutters within him at the thought, but the encouraging thought fades all too swiftly when other voices break the silence of the night.
"No sign of him, my lord." A tremulous masculine voice mumbles some feet away.
"I thought he would come." A cold shiver crawls down Draco's spine; he recognizes the frigid smoothness of the Dark Lord's voice. Draco curls his fingers around his wand, more out of instinct than anything else. Doesn't bother to question who he could mean. He had heard the Dark Lord's words to everyone within range, calling for Potter's blood.
He was waiting for Harry Potter.
Dry twigs and dead leaves snap and crunch beneath the corrupted wizard's feet as he turns slowly back towards the trees, his ashen robes trailing behind him. A branch snaps loudly in the clearing, and he stills. Long, bony fingers curl around his wand as he turns back around. Draco moves then, parting the thick branches obscuring his view, and leans as far forward as he dares. It's then that he sees who has arrived.
The Dark Lord makes a full turn; his back is to Draco now. Though he cannot see the expression on Voldemort's face, Draco can hear it in the wizard's voice, and it makes his skin scrawl. He rolls his shoulders in an attempt to dispel the natural revulsion.
"The Boy Who Lived," Voldemort breathes, almost wistfully. "Come to die." Draco cranes his neck to get a better look at Potter who stands alone at the other end of the clearing. He holds a wand at the ready; moments pass in weighted silence. Everyone waits, with bated breath. The tension in the air is thick enough to slice with a knife. Draco is just about to avert his gaze when a flicker of movement behind Potter catches his eye. Moonlight casts a few speckled patches of white light through the dense bushes behind Potter; a flash of brown waves passes through the light and disappears into darkness. Draco furrows his brows. Which of his friends is foolhardy enough to have followed him all the way here, to face a Killing Curse at the hands of the Dark Lord himself? He slowly, carefully, rises from his vantage point and picks his way through the trees, to the other side of the clearing, behind where Potter waits to meet his doom. He's nearing the place where he had seen the flicker of movement, but he stops still when he gets a clearer view.
She's crouched just behind a gnarled tree, her slender hands pushing awry branches down and away from her face as she peers out into the open expanse. Her dark tresses, damp with sweat and grime, cling to her face.
Hermione.
Draco stills; his heart hammers behind his sternum. No. No, no, no. He makes a move as if to close the distance between them, but Voldemort shatters the quiet with a loud cry.
"Avada Kedavra!" Green light skitters out from the tip of his wand, slicing through the darkness with vicious speed. The curse strikes Potter square in the chest; he jolts and collapses, noiselessly. Draco watches with wide eyes, the breath leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp. He glances at Hermione just in time to see her hands fly to her face; he lunges then. Closes the distance in short steps and claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the scream about to tear from her lips. He hastily casts a silencing charm and a Disillusionment charm as he drags her further back into the bushes. She thrashes, using any possible part of her body to land a blow, to escape. A foot to his shin, an elbow to his ribs, the edge of her palm striking his jaw.
He growls.
"Stop," he hisses, near her ear. "I'm not the enemy. Stop. There's fifty Death Eaters, my aunt and the Dark Lord himself. Do you want to die, Granger?" She stops thrashing, then, but he can still feel the tension running through her. Ignores it. "Be still." He keeps his hold on her when a murmur of voices catches his attention. They haven't left yet.
"You're hurt!" The trembling syllables whisper. His aunt. Without letting go of Hermione, he shifts them around to get a look. Bellatrix rises from where she had thrown herself, rushing to Voldemort's side. He rises, pushing her fretting hands away.
"I don't need your help." He draws himself to his full height, wand lifted as if to strike her. She cowers at his feet, her face lost in the wild black curls spilling into it. Voldemort takes a tentative, shaking step into the clearing, his gaze fixed on Potter's prone form.
"The boy!" Bellatrix whines, on her feet now. "Is he dead?" Voldemort stares steadily on. Draco narrows his eyes, straining to make out the shape that wordlessly steps forward. His heart leaps into his throat when he recognizes his mother. She slips past the gathered Death Eaters and crouches beside Potter, leaning over him. Just as she bends down, she casts a wary glance about her, her dark eyes searching the night. She whispers something, inaudible to her son who watches her with riveted concentration. A moment passes, and she rises to her feet, turning slowly to face Voldemort.
"Dead," she calls out. Draco's brows knit together. That can't be, he muses. Did I change the timeline that much? Is Potter really dead? Despair begins to settle in his soul when he feels Hermione shift against him, a muffled whimper behind his hand. He shakes his head, denying it. He remembers watching the Boy Who Lived fleeing from the Dark Lord; he'd tumbled from Hagrid's arms even as Voldemort had flung hex after hex in his wake.
Potter can't be dead, he tells himself. I'm missing something. . .
He leans down again.
"Don't scream, darling," he whispers. "We'll be dead in seconds. Promise me you won't." He waits until she nods against him to lower his hand. She lifts her own hands to her lips, making a valiant effort to stifle her sobs until he gently reminds her of the charm he cast. She only gives the slightest nod. He releases her, realizing in retrospect she could have taken the opportunity to bolt. Finds himself pleased at the fact that she doesn't. "Just a little longer." He holds up a finger to her. The rustle of footsteps and downtrodden undergrowth alert him to their departure, but he waits until the very last one slips away into the darkness to slump against the nearest trunk and release the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He turns back toward her. "Now that that's over, I was going to expla--" He stills when he finds himself facing her wand, clutched in a white-knuckled grip, the tip of it already sparking with her magic. "Hermione. . ." Almost misses the flicker of surprise in her gaze, the quick upraised arch of her brows at his use of her given name.
"Not another step," she bites out. "Or I'll hex you senseless." He rocks back on his heel, the corner of his lip upturning in a thin smirk despite the frantic rhythm of his heart. Realizes how beautiful she is, even when on the receiving end of her wrath.
He isn't convinced she means to make good on the threat, but he's wise enough not to push it.
"Let me explain, would you, love? Give me that, at least," he answers, the carefully formed words gentle in their tone. Her eyes narrow somewhat, but she maintains her hold on her wand. He releases a tired sigh. "Potter isn't dead, firstly." The sentence carries with it little conviction, but he offers it nonetheless, if only to give her a sliver of comfort. "Not in my timeline at least."
Her brows furrow. "Your timeline? You used a Time Turner? Those are illegal, you know," she begins, drawing in a breath as she rattles off useless information about the dangers and prohibitions of using a device banned by the Ministry. He nods patiently.
"Yes, well, this one was a gift," he mutters.
"You could be sent to Azkaban if you're caught with it!" she hisses. "What justified using something like that? Did you ever listen to what Professor McGonnagall said about the after-effects?"
"You died, Granger," he says softly. He drops his gaze to the damp grass beneath their feet, kicking at a loose branch. He can just barely catch the soft gasp that falls from her lips when she hears him.
She staggers, as though the reality of his words were a weight too heavy for her to bear. "I--what do you mean I died?" The hand clutching her wand drops to her side; she wraps her arms around herself as if to steady herself.
"The scar on your arm," he jerks his chin in her direction, "the one my aunt left--she used a cursed blade to leave such a mark, and it brought about your death. I found you in the wreckage--what will all be wreckage tomorrow morning--and you died. I remembered that I had a Time Turner in my possession and saw fit to use it and see if I might stop that from happening."
Silence settles between them. Her eyes are wide as she takes in her words, and the shock that flickers in her gaze is palpable. Her knees buckle beneath her, and she drops to the ground, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her shoulders tremble, but no sound of weeping comes from her lips. Her face is buried in the arms she's folded around her legs, hidden from his view. He folds his arms over his chest and lifts one hand to rub at his chin thoughtfully, watching her as he does. Not sure of what to say. Fears nothing he can say could help her in this moment.
"What about them?" She breaks the quiet with a question that falls from trembling lips. His brows knit together. He's about to ask who--because the pronoun is entirely too general--when she beats him to it. "Harry and Ron. He. . .He told me not to follow, that he was going to--" She breaks off, gasping even as she fights the tears that nonetheless escape her. "I couldn't leave him." She looks up at him now. "You said he lives, where you came from. How?"
His shoulders lift in what might be a helpless shrug. The deep furrow of his brows suggests to her that he might not know the answer to the question she's put to him.
"No idea," he confirms. "He does, though, spoilers." He finds himself wondering, still, about what he'd seen in the clearing. How his mother had bent down, whispering something, only to stand and staring the Dark Lord in the face, declared the boy deceased. Had she lied? He almost immediately rejects the thought. Can't fathom what could be so important to her as to face the Dark Lord's wrath, if she had in fact deceived him. She wasn't lying, was she? he asks himself. He risks another glance at Hermione; she's resting her chin on the arms she folds over her knees, and a thought crosses his mind. I did something similar back at the Manor. He remembers it now; when Bellatrix had beckoned him closer, yanking Potter upright to give Draco a better view of his face. When she'd asked him to identify him, before they decided to summon the Dark Lord.
Draco had studied the face obviously struck by a Stinging Jinx; he'd recognized it immediately, scar or no scar. It would have been impossible to deny the other boy's identity.
And yet.
"I can't be sure."
His heart skips a beat at the thought. He had purposefully given his unhinged aunt an answer ambiguous enough to throw all those present into doubt. Why? What had possessed him to toe the fine line between truth and lie?
The flash of green light, illuminating the dark forest, followed by the listless body dropping to a crumpled heap is still fresh in his memory. He'd been aware--painfully aware--that Potter was the only hope their world held to stop Voldemort's reign of terror. It was because of such awareness, he'd repeated to himself until it became undeniable--that he'd left the witch with a less than helpful answer. What good that did, if he really IS dead, he muses now, blinking several times as if to chase away the memory of Potter's demise. Time will tell, perhaps.
"Look, Granger," he says after some time. "No use brooding over what can't be changed." He resists the urge to crack a smile at the irony of the words. Doubts she would appreciate it, not now. Still, his very presence here is an attempt to make such a change. When she lifts her head to look up at him through red-rimmed eyes, he continues, "There's something I do mean to change. But I don't have much time, and, well. . ." He falters, internally cringing at himself. A Malfoy? At a loss for words? Impossible. Try as he might, he can't get the words out--words that will make her understand her necessity, his purpose for returning to this moment.
Her gaze is still riveted on him, but he notices a guarded glint there; she is suspicious. "What do you remember of Potions?" She jerks back in surprise, dark brows immediately pulling together in confusion.
"One of my best subjects," she mumbles. She clears her throat and tilts her head slightly, a question already on her lips. "What does that got to do with anything?"
"Everything."
Her lips settle into a firm line that, he realizes with sinking heart, expresses initial disapproval, but curves into a faint incredulous smile. "The Slytherin bully turned Death Eater needs a mudblood's help? Whatever for?" He does not know if she means to wound with the jab, but feels its sting nonetheless.
He drops his gaze, a muscle in his jaw ticking. She is right, he tells himself, as much as it galls him to admit it. Knows he must consider events from her perspective. Reminds himself that thought it wasn't his hand that cut the slur onto her forearm, he'd already left a mark in her heart years before. He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing, and puts himself to considering any way--any possible way of making amends for the whiplash consequences of hastily snapped prejudices, beliefs he'd been raised on that he no longer held. Takes one glance at the unflinching steel in her eyes and realizes she will not accept anything he can offer. Not in this moment. He draws in a stilted breath and releases it slowly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
"I told you already, Granger," he mutters. "Must I repeat myself or did anything enter that swotty brain of yours?" He does not miss the tense curl of her shoulders immediately following his remark, priding himself that he can still get under her skin.
"You'll forgive me if I don't put any confidence in your words, Malfoy," she says evenly. "You'll remember that all I know for certain is that you were on that tower with Dumbledore, wand in hand. You intended to kill the Headmaster." He flinches, unmitigated pain flickering in his expression before he hides it. His heart accelerates, and every beat is like thunder, drowning out everything else. Excuses fly to his lips, attempts to reason, to make her see.
They die on his lips. She continues, "There were rumours, you know--I haven't seen your Dark Mark, don't show it to me--" she waves her hand away dismissively. "Harry was convinced you'd become one. When I heard about Dumbledore's death, I--" He clenches his jaw so tightly he's convinced a tooth will crack. A small voice in the back of his mind advises caution. The wrong choice of words could ruin everything. His passions speak louder.
"You what? Out with it, Granger," he snaps. "Don't tell me you thought better of me. That you couldn't believe that I'd ever join the likes of my father and fight on the wrong side of the war. What, then? You heard of his untimely death and instantly believed I struck the final blow?" He watches her shrink back under the force of his words, the ire coloring his tone, and a part of him withers to see her withdraw.
He doesn't want this. He came back to fix things, not break them beyond repair. When he speaks again, he adopts a softer tone. "How did you even find out about all that? I don't remember seeing you there."
"Harry told me," comes the answer, soft, hesitant. His heart twists painfully behind his sternum. Had Potter not told her who killed the Headmaster? She couldn't truly believe it had been him?
"He conveniently left out a rather important detail, I'd say," Draco mutters bitterly. He slides a hand out of his pocket to run through his hair even as a frustrated sigh falls from his lips. This was not how he had intended the evening to go. "I didn't do it. I couldn't."
She regards him thoughtfully, her eyes searching his face as if she'll find the answer to her unspoken questions there. "I wasn't going to say that, Draco, for your information," she says softly. She does not miss the shudder of surprise that hits him when she uses his given name. "If you'd let me finish, you would have heard me say that I did think better of you. That I didn't jump to believe Harry's carefully elaborated theory that you'd joined the Death Eaters. After hearing what happened there on the tower, it didn't confirm the doubts you seem to think I have; it shocked me, and it's not helping now that you come from some other time, claiming you're from the future, that I'm going to die. Did you honestly believe I'd take your word for it and agree to get into something that more likely than not--as you've already pointed out--ends in my death?" She does not intend to wound, but by the look on his face, assumes she has. Finds herself regretting. Not her words but whatever understanding the wizard before her had taken from it.
He stands there, shoulders tensed, slumped as though he anticipates a blow. Doesn't expect the words that reach him instead. "You died, Granger," he bites out, grief curlings its fingers around his heart as he remembers the moment. "I wanted to stop it, to keep that from happening."
"Why?" Her voice is so soft, he nearly misses the word. He takes a long look at her, grateful for once that in the darkness she might not see clearly the emotions so clearly visible in his gaze. Fears that she'd realize the truth before he gathers the courage himself to tell her.
He shakes his head, in no state to answer. Knows its answer, has carried it in his heart longer than he dares admit. Buries it deeper in the dark recesses of his soul. Not now.
He turns on a heel, readying himself to leave when he whips around sharply. "Contrary to what you might believe," he snaps, "I'd rather not see this world under the Dark Lord's heel. Potter is the only one standing between us and him. Where I come from, he lives." He drops his voice to something just above a whisper and adds, "I would not snuff out the only light left to us in the darkness we find ourselves in." He slides his wand out of his pocket, already picturing in his mind the place he wishes to go. Within seconds, he feels the sharp twisting motion of apparition, barely has time to register the puzzlement on her face before he disappears.