Chapter 3
He lands on his feet, this time.
When the world stops spinning before his eyes--he holds himself steady, blinking several times until it does--he looks around to find he's at the castle's front gates. Shaking his head, he mutters something about the uselessness of anti-apparition wards put in place in the school. Short burst of light wink in and out of the smoke of the battle; students and professors alike casting and deflecting hexes.
Draco slips inside, unnoticed in the chaos, and quickly hides behind a pillar when Blaise Zabini steps out of a corridor. Draco thanks his stars he'd heard the other Slytherin's voice ahead of time; he doesn't fancy crossing paths with the other boy. I am from a different timeline, he reminds himself. I bloody well don't fancy explaining myself to the likes of him. He racks his brain, then, trying to remember what he had been doing at this exact moment, his past self. Remembers standing in the Room of Requirement with Zabini and Crabbe; remembers the imbecile's terrible decision to summon Fiendfrye. Remembers with a twinge--for her sake, for how shaken I've seen her after Potter's untimely demise, he asserts, not for his--how Potter and the Weasel had rescued them. After this moment, however, he finds nothing else--his memory is blank.
He furrows his brows. Did I get hit with a memory charm? Obliviated? Why can't I remember?
"I haven't seen Malfoy, now that you mention it," Blaise is saying. Draco leans forward as far as he dares to see him standing not far away, talking to the Parkinson girl. A scowl marrs her pretty face, and he can just see the irritation sparking in her eyes.
"Probably ran off to Voldemort," she grunts. "Didn't fancy getting put in time out with the rest of us. Bloody McGonnagall. . .she thinks she can just throw the whole of Slytherin in the dungeons."
"She is the Headmistress, Pansy," Blaise deadpans. Draco retreats further into the shadows, letting himself slide down into a crouch as he waits for them to leave. She only snaps something definitively unladylike before the sharp clack of her shoes on the stone floor notifies him that she has left. Blaise isn't far behind. He jogs to keep up with her, his robes flapping behind him. Draco waits until he can longer see them before daring to venture out into the open space. With no present danger to face, he decides it's safe to set off on his original purpose.
It does not take him long to find the Potions Room; the locked door grants him access after a mumbled "alohamora", its locks clicking as the mechanism opens. He shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, and rolls his sleeves up to the elbow. The Dark Mark on his forearm stares back at him, black and angry. He regards it with a clenched jaw and draws in a shaking breath. Unbidden, unwelcome memories resurface at the sight of it.
The two softly spoken words uttered by Severus Snape moments before the late Headmaster fell from the Astronomy Tower, dead even as his body sank into the darkness. The Killing Curse the Dark Lord had breathed in his own dining room, snatching the life from Charity Burbage. Hermione's screams echoing, mingling with Bellatrix's maniacal laughter.
He shudders. Can feel the dread creeping through his veins even as he fights to smother it, to stamp it out. He shakes his head, pushing it from his mind, and withdraws his wand.
"Lumos." At the tip of the wand, a soft blue glow flickers into existence. A few more whispered words; a scrap of parchment and a quill appear. He drops into a nearby chair, resting his elbows on the smooth wood of the table, and folding his hands, rest his chin atop them, his brow knit together with concentration. The quill suspended in the air twitches as if itching to be put to work. He rattles off ingredients for a Draught of Living Death from memory, hesitating every now and then but recovering just as quickly. The quill flies, its nib scratching in haste as it fills the parchment with a detailed list. When it stops, he plucks the parchment from the air to revise the list and allows himself a smug smile at how well he has remembered. At the same time, this particular potion is one that Slughorn had required them to practice not infrequently.
"It took me a bit to find you." He jumps when Hermione's voice breaks the silence he's found himself in. He glances at her over his shoulder as she mumbles a spell that fills the room with greater light than his own charm.
"Come now, Hermione Granger, stumped? Inconceivable," he quips. He does not miss the eyeroll she gives him, but smirks in spite of it. "I left you a hint, didn't I?"
"Such a Slytherin," Hermione huffs. She closes the distance between them, putting at least three feet between them as she peers at the parchment on the table. "What are you doing?"
"An essay on why the Dark Lord lacks a nose," he deadpans. "What do you think I'm doing in the Potions room, love?" Her eyes narrow dangerously, and he begins to think his sarcasm is not welcome. He swallows.
"Oh, I don't know," she remarks with a shrug. "Excuse my mudblood intelligence, it seems to remember you asking me for help and storming off like a petulant child." He turns away then, flexing his shoulders to release the tension gripping them when her words sink in. A muscle in his jaw flickers. Tells himself he deserves her barb, after all the years he'd flung it at her so spitefully. Nonetheless, he can't ignore the dull ache behind his sternum.
"If you'd like to spar, I'll take a raincheck, Granger, thank you," he mumbles, in no mood to engage in a fight with the fiery Gryffindor. "If you would otherwise express any interest in assisting me, however. . ." He flicks his wand and a pewter cauldron floats off of its shelf to settle on the table before him.
She draws in a breath, wincing as a sharp pain flares in her left arm. Glancing at the tender area, she furrows her brows and draws up her sleeve to her elbow to get a better look. She lets out a soft hiss at the angry red slur carved into her forearm. The tender skin burns, and it's all she can do to bite back a grimace. Schooling her expression into polite curiosity, she asks him,
"What do you need to brew?" She already prepares the space, setting the cauldron over a burner, and lights a flame beneath it. He takes long enough to reply that she wonders whether he'd heard her question.
"Draught of Living Death, Wiggenweld, and hmm a healing potion," he answers. He's rummaging through a cabinet full of phials and carefully pulling out the ingredients he needs as he finds them. Her brows shoot up as he numbers off the potions.
"Wiggenweld is used to--"
"Reawaken after one's taken the Draught, yes, I believe that's common knowledge, love." She throws him a withering stare, rendered ineffective by the fact that he misses it entirely, concentrated on the ingredients.
"You need to stop that, Malfoy," she huffs. He pauses and looks up at her. She could almost laugh at the feigned innocence in his expression, but catches the mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"What?"
"You know what I--forget it," she shakes her head. "Do I want to know why you need those particular potions?"
"It's a long story," he evades. "Time is not on our side. You'll find out soon enough." She recoils at the brusque answer but decides not to press and watches him organize the required ingredients for each potion. His long fingers carefully lift and place in neat arrangement the jars and phials. She casts a cursory glance over the pile for the Draught and catches a small detail, remembers it from the potions class they'd taken together.
"There isn't a silver dagger in there, is there?" she asks Draco.
He glances at her with an arched brow. "I don't believe we need one. Why?"
"Do you remember what Slughorn promised as a prize for the best Draught in Sixth Year?"
He nods. "A phial of Felix Felices. Almost guarantees success in a venture. I'd hoped to get my hands on it, but Potter managed it first." He tries not to let slip the bitter edge in his tone, but the effort is fruitless. "Bloody cheat."
Hermione tilts her head to the side and smiles at him before letting out a short laugh. "Draco Malfoy, you are jealous!"
His dark brows shoot up in surprise, and he recoils, thoroughly affronted by the accusation. "Me? Of Scarface? Not a chance."
She tsks at him, the grin still on her lips. "Mhm. Says the wizard with the second highest marks in Potions. You're missing something, genius."
Draco narrows his eyes slightly at the mockery in her tune, but turns around to give her full attention. "What might that be?"
"Harry had a book of potions and spells, belonging to someone who styled themself 'the Half-Blood Prince'," Hermione replies. "It was Snape in the end. And it was that same book that--"
"Snape? How the hell did Potter get his filthy hands on it?"
Hermione throws him a look that discourages any more demeaning comments about her friend and continues. "It was in the cabinet there," she points at a cabinet near the entry way. "When he and Ron arrived--late, mind you--to the class, they snagged books from in there."
"Hmm. What were you going to say? About the book?"
She jolts, as if she'd been shaken from her concentration. "Sorry. Ah, he found a curse in that book, and that was--" She's about to mention the sectumsempra curse, when he cuts her off.
"No, focus, Granger. Not the curse, why did you mention the bloody book in the first place?" He grumbles; she does not miss the irritation coloring his tone. Decides it's better not to tell Draco why he ended up on the floor of the bathroom with deep cuts in his torso.
"There were instructions for the Draught, and a note," she says softly. "Slughorn's directions were to--"
"Cut the bean, yes, but the damned things kept jumping out from under the blade. Neary impossible," Draco mutters. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose between index finger and thumb.
"Snape's note suggested crushing the bean beneath the blade of a silver knife," Hermione says, "That's how Harry did it. None of us knew and tried, in vain, to cut it." Draco nods thoughtfully as he considers her point. He turns back to the cabinet to look for one, but she speaks up again.
"I've got one, actually," she says quickly. "Sirius gave it to me." His eyes widen slightly.
"Sirius Black? Locked-up-in-Azkaban Sirius Black? No idea you preferred such. . .dangerous. . .company, Granger."
"It's a long story," she says. She reaches into her beaded bag, and Draco watches her with some curiosity as her hand goes deeper than it should. He arches a brow, about to ask about it, but she catches his confusion and matches it with a small smile. "Extension charm. I've got everything I need here." As if to prove her point, she withdraws a silver knife and hands it to him.
He nods his gratitude and sets to work.
He leaves the Draught to simmer and casts a glance in Hermione's direction. She's nearly finished with the Wiggenweld potion, adding in a few drops of honey water and boom berry juice before stirring it. The potion is a soft shade of turquoise, a good sign. He clears his throat, suddenly aware of how quiet it was in the room.
She looks up.
"Almost done," she promises. In the next moment, her gaze shifts to something behind him, and her eyes widen in surprise. Draco regards her curiously and parts his lips to question but she answers before he can. "Fawkes," she whispers to him. "He's here." He almost misses her softly spoken words. She jerks her chin slightly to indicate the direction, and he turns. True enough, the Phoenix sweeps gracefully into the room, his feathers aglow like the embers of a dying fire. He squawks to announce his arrival and perches on the edge of a cabinet. Draco stills, and he's acutely aware of the frenetic rhythm of his heart behind his sternum. The bird has impeccable timing, he realizes. A phoenix's tears is a key ingredient in the healing potion he's devised. Strange coincidence that the resident phoenix has chosen now to appear.
"A phial, Granger," Draco whispers. "Have you got one?" Without taking his gaze from Fawkes, he holds a hand out, palm up, waiting.
"You need his tears? But there isn't any potion that--"
"Granger, please, this is extremely important. Might get only one shot," he pleads. There's a rustle of robes and glass clinking before he finds an empty phial in his hand. He curls long fingers carefully around and takes a step toward the Phoenix. Fawkes lifts his wings, scattering sparks beneath him and peers at Draco with one dark glinting eye. "It's not for me, it's for her," he says in something just above a whisper. Doesn't miss the sharp intake of breath behind him. "Please."
He advances slowly toward the phoenix, uncorking the phial and lifting it up. When he has nearly reached its perch, Fawkes rouses, squawking loudly and beating his wings. Draco flinches away as sparks fly, but he does not stand down. He feels a flush of hot air before he catches sight of the Phoenix leaning down from its perch, as far it dares, tilting its head. Only then does Draco realize what it offers. The Phoenix blinks once, solemnly, and one, two, three tears fall. Draco lifts the phial to catch them, unconsciously holding his breath with the suspense of the moment. Fortunately, he catches all three of them. He releases a sigh of relief as he corks the phial and pockets it. "Thank you," he says to the Phoenix. Fawkes draws himself up, and Draco could swear he puffs his chest out somewhat. Neither he nor Hermione can stifle the laughter the sight produces. The Phoenix spreads his wings and with one great beat, disappears in a flurry of sparks.
Draco turns to show Hermione his prize, but the ready smile on his lips disappears when he realizes she isn't there. His heart rate picks up once more, and he rushes to the door, bracing himself against the threshold as he peers out into the hallway. "Granger? Granger!" He curses and runs a hand through his hair. Where did she go? Why did she leave? His heart clenches at the possible dangers she'd be in. Cornered by the Death Eaters currently swarming the school, struck by a stray Killing Curse, bleeding out in some dark corner of the castle. He shakes his head. Damn that Gryffindor and her foolhardy courage, he grumbles to himself.
A distant explosion rattles the walls, and motes of loose stones and dust flutter down from overhead. He casts another glance at the potions they've left to finish brewing, then at the phial in his hand. A flash of blinding green light by the window catches his attention, and his thoughts immediately go back to her. Where is she? Is she safe? He reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose and draws in a slow breath to steady himself. Focuses, reminds himself of his purpose. None of it will matter if she ends up dead, he muses.
Draco sets to work on the last potion and makes a silent promise to go looking for her the very moment he finishes. Wouldn't do if I didn't have the very things I need to save her, he reasons and gets to work.
With the potions tucked safely in his pockets, Draco steps out into the hallway and narrowly misses a hex flung at his head. He recoils almost as soon as he feels the blistering heat of its magic flicker by and whirls around in the direction of his attacker, wand out.
"Rude!" he growls. He narrows his eyes, trying to make out the human figure at the other end of the hallway, but the thick smoke and dust make it a difficult endeavor. The smoke clears just enough to allow him a glimpse of a man with stringy brown hair, skulking at the far end of the hall. The man flings another hex, and the light from his wand is just enough to grant Draco a look at his face. Scabior, the Snatcher. He recognizes the despicable creature from the day they'd brought in Potter and his friends. The fool can't tell friend from foe, Draco thinks to himself. "Stupefy!" he shouts before the Snatcher can cast again. The man drops to the floor in a crumpled heap and Draco scrambles past him, snatching his wand on the way. "Bloody idiot," he grumbles. "I might have defected but I am not the enemy here."
He jogs up the stairs and walks briskly down a long hallway, making two lefts before he faces another long flight of stairs. He grumbles under his breath about the distinct discomfort of prohibiting apparition within the school walls as he ascends the stairs. He steps out into a larger hall, lingering behind a supporting pillar as handful of students rush by in different directions, some coming and others going. "Bloody hell, Granger," Draco mutters. "Did you find my company so disagreeable you preferred to play hide-and-seek in the middle of a war? Sweet Salazar. . ."
Barely have the words left his lips when he catches sight of her. She crosses the hall, flicking the wand in her hand to hex a pair of Death Eaters waiting for her on another set of stairs.
"Oi! That's my girlfriend!" the Weasel roars, somewhere to his left. Draco's attention snaps to the ginger wizard who throws himself at a hairless and heavily-tattoed Death Eater. The man had lifted his wand, the tip of it glowing green as he'd prepared to fling a Killing Curse in Granger's direction. "Stupefy!" Draco can't help the smirk on his lips, despite everything. Of course, they'd been taught about the Unforgiveables, but did they really think Voldemort's forces would balk before using those same curses on the attack? The Death Eater had dodged the hex and lifted his wand over head to fling something back when Draco makes his move. He dashes out from his position, the words already on the tip of his tongue. He barely registers a flash of red light to his right, his gaze snapping to the sudden flash seconds before the curse would hit and ducks under and away from it. It passes so closely to him that his skin tingles. A Stinging Jinx.
He whips his wand around and bites out a "confringo". A burst of flame envelops the Death Eater who writhes, screaming. Draco turns his attention back to the Weasel, now engaged in a fist fight. The ginger delivers a sharp kick to the other man's diaphragm, sending him sprawling. He recovers quickly enough, however, jumping to his feet and already lunging for the ginger. Even as he lifts his wand, green light glowing at the tip of his wand, Draco seizes the moment and points his wand at the Death Eater. "Incarcerous!" Ropes appear out of thin air and twine rapidly around the man's body. The Weasel stares with wide eyes, mouth agape, before he looks toward Draco. His brows shoot up in surprise before dropping into a malicious sneer.
"I can fight my own bloody battles, thank you very much," the Weasel snaps. He glances around, searching. "Mione! Mione?" Granger's head pops out from behind a fallen statue. Her wide-eyed gaze softens when she recognizes him. Her features twist in a flash of pain, and she glances down at her arm. She lifts her left arm, as though trying to peer at something she's found there, when a soft cry falls from her lips and she drops her arm suddenly, slumping against the statue behind her. Both Draco and the Weasel snap to attention at her sound. She recovers quickly enough and with stilted movement, pushes herself off of the statue's support and hobbles toward the Weasel, into his arms.
Draco looks away.
"I thought he had you," she murmurs into his chest. The Weasel scoffs, feigning offense.
"That little faith in me, eh? 'Least I don't blow up whatever I touch like Finnegan over there."
"You're welcome," Draco mutters to no one in particular.You'd be dead if it weren't for me, Weaselbee, he wants to say. He turns on a heel and looks for the fastest way out of this place when Granger's voice pipes up once more.
"Ron," she was saying between pants, haggard, "You have to find Neville. He's got the Sword. Remember what Harry said about the last horcrux? Find him! I have to go, to find the others." Draco does not linger to watch the exchange, but the shuffle of movement behind him catches his attention, and he glances over his shoulder to see her extricating herself from his arms. She makes to run off, but just as she passes Draco, he reaches out and grabs her wrist with bruising strength. The sudden stop in her movement jerks her, and she jolts, tugging fiercely at his hold. Another flash of pain across her face, and his heart skips a beat. Had he hurt her?
"Unhand me, Malfoy!" she snaps. "I can't just leave everyone to die!"
"I can't let you die, Granger," he retorts. "It will all have been for nothing."
"Then so be it!" she scowls. "I will not be put above the survival of everyone else in this school." He releases her just enough to switch his grip to her right arm and yanks her back around to face him, closing both of her wrists in his grip to fix her with steel in his gaze.
"Open your eyes, love," he whispers. "I'd like everyone to make it to tomorrow. You're making that incredibly difficult. Now if you'd only just--"
"You made everything difficult when you came back in the first place," she hisses. Fury sparks in her gaze. "Why do I matter so much to you, anyway? Did my death really affect everything? Does Voldemort live where you come from? Does Harry? You promised me he did." Draco stills when her words wash over him, and his lips part to offer the truth, to tell her what he carries in her heart. You are everything, Granger, he wants to tell her. Maybe Harry saved the wizarding world, but you saved something no one else considered worthy of it. You are everything.
"If we make it to the morning, I promise," he breathes, "I will tell you. Please, Granger, just listen to me for once." Her gaze searches his, and something shifts. A flicker of an emotion he dares not name. She dips her head in a nod. She averts her eyes, fixating instead on an overturned table off to the side. He does not miss the tension of her clenched jaw and the way she shuts her eyes against what he presumes to be another flare of pain. His brows knit together; he debates asking her about it.
She shakes her head once, as if dismissing the questions she'd just flung at him.
"Okay, okay."
Draco follows her out to the main doors, and they pause, watching the first rays of the dawn filtering through the smoke of the battle. He points to the expanse of rubble before them.
"That's where I found you."
"When I--when I died?"
He nods.
"You'd have laughed, I think," he scoffs. "Big bad Slytherin weeping over the Gryffindor who broke his nose in Third Year." She turns to look at him, wrinkling her nose.
"Did I really break your nose?"
He gives her a firm nod.
"And a concussion, while we're on it. You do remember you slammed me up against the monolith, don't you? I've got a scar, you know." He lifts his hand to the crown of his head and rubs the back of it, flashing her an overly exaggerated grimace as if his head still smarted from a blow struck more than three years prior.
"You do not!" she laughs. "You were such a baby about it. Has no one ever pointed a wand at you before? I still remember your face." He flushes with embarrassment, grateful for the dim morning light that keeps her from noticing.
"Watch it, lioness, I've got an honorable reputation to uphold," he quips. She pushes at his shoulder and shakes her head, denying the statement.
"A Slytherin? With an honorable reputation?" She jabs a finger into his chest and fixes him beneath sharply furrowed brows. "Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"
"You wound me, Granger," he sighs, resting a hand over his heart for emphasis. She only shakes her head and laughs at this. "After all this time?"
There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one. Ron's words from so many years ago still ring in her mind, brought to the forefront of her mind by his jest about honorable intentions.
She rolls her eyes and steps cautiously down the remnants of the stairs, kicking absently at loose stones. Gravel crunches underfoot as he follows. Hermione glances up at the sky overhead, admiring the dark palette of the night shifting to the warm tones of the dawn. His words still hang in the air, the question unanswered until she offers him one of her own.
"You know what Ron said, in First Year, when you were sorted in Slytherin?" Her words bring a memory to her mind, of that First Year.
She'd just arrived with Ron, Harry and the other students beginning the year at Hogwarts. She and Ron had already been sorted into Gryffindor and sat on the edge of their seats with anticipation for the Sorting Hat's next declaration. It called for Draco Malfoy and barely had McGonnagall set it over the boy's head when the Hat proclaimed, "Slytherin!" in a voice that shook the entire hall. Ron had leaned over then with wide eyes and whispered to her, "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”
"Coming from Weaselbee," Draco says softly, tilting his head to the side somewhat, "I don't expect it to be anything favorable." He offers her a smile, but there is more sadness than mirth in it.
A shiver crawls down her spine--she tells herself it's the cool breeze whistling through the open space--as she recalls, with a shock almost like a splash of ice water, a prejudice of her own, one she had clung too all those years ago. A small voice in the back of her mind whispers, but she brushes it away, waves it off dismissively. Slytherins can't be trusted. Slytherins are despicable, dishonorable, and up to no good. She clenches her jaw, balling the hands at her sides into fists as she remembers all too well the easy excuse, the ready answer they had found to problems. If a misfortune had happened, a Slytherin was to blame. How readily she had pointed the finger at the boy beside her, chalking his morality and the disputed (in her mind) question of his possession of a conscience to the general ill connotation which everyone attributed to the house he'd been sorted into.
The still, small voice prods gently, a little louder this time. A Slytherin saved your life. He stands beside you, waiting to face the coming day and the troubles it holds. Her gaze shutters, and even behind closed lids, she can still see in her mind the broken boy she'd found not so long ago, a trembling shadow of the arrogant childhood bully she'd been familiar with. Remembers pulling his shaking form into her arms, giving him what she felt he needed. She had never seen him so weak, so vulnerable. Neither of them spoke about it afterwards, and she hadn't breathed a word of it to another living soul. She had not been bound to secrecy over it (imagines he would have scowled at her, spitting some acerbic remark about the Gryffindor Golden Girl finding the Malfoy heir sobbing in a bathroom), but something had held her back. She realizes, now, with no small degree of surprise, that not even Harry and Ron know of it.
Hermione glances at him, her eyes glinting with emotions she refuses to acknowledge, and decides against the comment. It wouldn't be kind, she reasons. Not after what has happened. Whether or not she entirely believes him, he had come from a different timeline in which he'd found her dead, returning to this point in time to stop that from happening. Why? she asks herself. He never answers when I ask him why. She'd seen him fending off Death Eaters to protect her and Ron--Draco Malfoy fighting tooth and claw to save Ron, she muses. The world must be ending.
Though he had certainly been jesting when he claimed that she'd wounded him with her lack of fidelity in his intentions, she is certain that, if she brings up the ginger wizard's comment to him, now, it will wound. Hermione glances away from him and watches heavy grey clouds marching slowly across the sky, draping a silvered mantle over the expanse. She does not wish to wound him. Realizes, to her own surprise, that she finds herself enjoying the fleeting moments they've shared--brewing potions, laughing out in the open air as a new day dawned. Quite abruptly, the jagged lines cut into her arm burn with that pain now familiar to her, and she draws in a sharp breath. In her peripheral, Draco turns to her; within moments, he's in front of her, looking her over for any sign of injury. She grits her teeth against the splintering pain shooting through her arm, but shakes her head to wave him off.
The attempt to dissuade him is feeble, at best. She takes another step and draws in a breath to tell him she's fine, it's nothing to worry about, when her knees buckle.
"Draco," she mumbles, "I--I don't--" Hermione barely registers the brief shock that flickers in his gaze at her use of his given name. Distantly, she could smile at it. Had she never used the name in direct address? No, Malfoy. Always just Malfoy. She sways, features twisting into a rictus of anguish as the pain in her arm shoots through the rest of her body. She bites back a cry. The world seems to spin before her eyes, and the ground comes rushing up to meet her, but she never feels the unforgiving impact. Strong arms curl around her before she hits the ground, shifting her to cradle her battered body in an embrace. She blinks several times, brows furrowed as she waits for her vision to clear.
"That isn't funny, Granger," Draco says to the woman in his arms, still unable to reconcile the fragile trembling thing with the fierce Gryffindor witch he'd so often fought with. "Right well gave me a heart attack when you dropped there." She smiles despite the needling pain in her nerves; he's making light of the situation, for her.
"Not as if. . .I d-decided to," she breathes, as though each word cost too much effort to form. Concern flits across his face, and her heart twinges to see it. For the life of her, she cannot name the reason why. She could easily let fly a scathing remark, a slicing inquiry of how a pureblood wizard could find himself worried over a mudblood witch.
Has he always been like this? Have I just never seen this part of him?
Hermione pushes the temptation away, brows wrinkling in disgust that it had even formed in her mind. She draws in another shaking breath, wincing as the movement sends fire through her ribs. She bites her lip then, nearly hard enough to draw blood. Feels his hold on her tighten, shifting her to cradle her against his chest.
She remembers now all those fleeting moments--less than pleasant interactions with the wizard beside her, bristling words received, met with nothing but patient if not forced endurance on her end. Doesn't think she hated him as much as Harry and Ron had in their first years. Distinctly remembers how, years later, she had refused to affirm Harry's theories about his involvement with the Death Eaters. The hastily flung insults of their childhood had scathed, left their own scars in her memory; but even she has enough of an open mind to see that, despite everything, in light of the particular events of only hours before, perhaps she had not seen every facet of the Slytherin her friends had branded their nemesis since they first set foot in Hogwarts.
The realization is enough to set her world off its balance.
"Granger?" His voice shakes her out of her thoughts, and she slides her gaze toward his face. There is a shadow of worry in his grey eyes, along with confusion, frustration, and something else.
"You found me here," she says softly. "That's what you told me. . earlier." He nods several times, and his eyes widen with realization. He looks up, away from her, and she can feel the tension in his muscles, the shift in his movements.
"You must listen very closely, love," he whispers to her. "Your life and mine probably. . .depend on it." She makes her best effort to nod. "Shortly, I--another me, past me, er, my past--bother it all, just. . ." He huffs and releases a sigh before he continues. "You're going to see me coming through here. He--me--He's going to see you, and he'll hold you much like I am now. He's going to think you're dying--"
"I think I am." Her voice is so quiet; he strains to hear it. Strains even harder to keep his own voice steady.
"Not if I can stop it. He's going to think you're dying, and when you do--you'll make it look like it, darling, I wasn't second best in Potions, for nothing, eh?" The corner of her lip upturns in what might have been the ghost of a smile, and her lips part as if she means to question it. He makes a valiant effort to flash her a winning smile, but it falters. "He'll be a bit distraught, and then he'll use the Time Turner, I told you about. Then when he vanishes, I'll come back for you. Promise."
"Make it look like it?"
He nods, shifting her carefully in his hold to slide a hand into his pocket and retrieve the vial containing the Draught of Living Death. He nestles her briefly against his chest as he uncaps the vial and holds it up for her to inspect.
"This, is why I needed to make this potion. Slughorn's made us do this enough times that I don't need to explain to you its effects and uses. But this, will slow the process down enough to give me time," he says, the words rushing out. "It'll make you look, for all intents and purposes, dead. He--I will think you're dead." He watches her dark eyes widen as the realization hits her, and his heart skips a few beats. Will she accept it? He has no intention to force it on her, and hesitates, awaiting her answer.
"You have something to f-fix this, then?" she murmurs, lifting her left arm just enough to show the scrawled red letters carved into her flesh. He nods slowly.
"Fawkes' timing was impeccable, you know."
His heart twists into a painful knot when he catches sight of the smile on her lips. Had she ever smiled at him like this? He isn't sure.
"Whatever plan you've got up there, it seems like a good one." He blinks a few times and nods.
"I'll be back, I promise," he tells her. He lifts the potion to her lips and tips it back, careful to watch until the last drop is spent. She swallows with some difficulty and shudders, lips curling against the unfavorable taste.
Distant voices sound, and Draco glances up quickly. He must leave. "That's it for me. I've got to go. Make me believe it, love. Our lives depend on it," he says with a wink. He gently releases her and lays her down on the ground. He hates to leave her like that, but tells himself it is necessary.
He casts one last glance at her, there among the rubble, and slinks away to settle behind a pile of rubble several feet away, waiting.