Chapter 16
The next day turned out to be a threat to the peace Hermione had so briefly found.
“Books away, wands out,” said Nettle briskly, “We’ll be practicing counterjinxes today. I trust you’ve all done the reading I set you last lesson?”
Hermione had. That didn’t make her any less nervous. Nettle’s lessons definitely weren’t her favourite – they seemed to keep them as unpredictable as possible on purpose.
Sue’s pained expression and Daphne’s frozen one indicated that they hadn’t. Padma stayed close to Sue, probably hoping to save her from the worst of her own chaos if they had to partner up. Nettle had other ideas.
“Find a partner you haven’t had this year. You won’t always have the benefit of knowing your opponent.”
That’s how Hermione ended up facing off with a nervous-looking Hannah Abbott. Nettle instructed them to line up on either side of the room, for those on the left to cast a jinx of their choice, for the victim to counter it as soon as possible, and then switch. The classroom exploded with noise as the students obliged. Hermione hit Hannah with a mild stinging jinx, the girl ending the affects a few seconds later. Hannah smiled in gratitude before mouthing a ‘sorry’ and hitting Hermione with an equally half-hearted jelly-legs jinx.
Hermione stumbled and fell to the ground, giving her an excuse to look around the room. Nott and Seamus seemed to be ignoring the instructions and simply duelling instead. Ernie had gone particularly hard on Malfoy – who’s skin seemed to be melting like wax.
Then Neville fired a wordless jinx at Sue, covering her in vines. Immediately, her face turned ashen. Neville, bless his soul, took only half a second to cast what Hermione assumed to be the counterjinx, but nothing happened. The vines only wrapped themselves tighter around Sue as Neville panicked. Another attempt led to even more vines snaking around her neck. Sue looked terrified now, breathing coming in ragged gasps and struggling so hard Neville’s spells kept missing her. Another caused the vines to grow thorns, and Sue fell forward, face writhing in pain. Neville looked like he was about to faint. The few who had noticed were staring now.
Suddenly, he was thrown across the room, head hitting the wall with a sickening crack before slumping forward, unconscious. Immediately, the vines loosened and Sue breathed deeply, frantically ripping them off of her.
Padma, wand smoking, ran over to her, pulling off the last of the quickly shrivelling vines. But Sue continued to gasp in air like nothing had changed.
Something was very wrong. Hermione quickly countered the jelly-legs jinx on herself before running over to her friends. Padma was holding Sue’s face in both her hands and keeping up a steady mantra of ‘in… out… in… out…’
“What’s wrong with her?” Hermione asked, panicked. “Did Neville-”
“She’s alright. Phobia of being tied up,” Padma replied briskly before turning back to Sue. “You’re alright honey, I promise,” she said, so softly that Hermione barely heard it.
Honey?
“What’s going on here?” asked Nettle, returning from their revival of Neville. “Let me see her.”
“No! I’m taking her to the hospital wing,” Padma asserted, turning to glare at Nettle. “You’ve done enough. And frankly, I’m getting a bit sick of coming out of every lesson with new bruises!”
Hermione gaped as Nettle turned to Padma, who was preoccupied with getting Sue to her feet. “Would you rather leave this school without the practical skills to defend yourself?”
“None of us will be doing that, I should think. There’s no need to train us like soldiers. The war’s over, in case you hadn’t heard.”
The whole class was staring at quiet, studious Padma at this point. Nettle could only gawk, affronted. A full ten seconds passed, during which Padma managed to collect both her own and Sue’s bags and lead the pale, wet-cheeked girl out of the classroom.
Nettle seemed to gain their composure then.
“Who here would rather spend their limited class time reading textbooks and writing essays than practicing their defensive magic? Who here believes that the end of the war means they will never have to use such defensive magic? Who here is that naive?”
When no one spoke, Nettle turned away from the door and strode back to the teacher’s desk.
“You may all continue. And remember, trust no one. Those weak enough to succumb to one darkness are often weak enough to succumb to another.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Theo Nott loudly.
But Hermione knew very well what it meant. She saw the way Nettle’s eyes carefully avoided Malfoy as they turned them to Nott. She remembered the subtle and not-so-subtle references to his past Nettle had sprinkled into their lessons as ‘learning opportunities’.
“It means that we should all be careful who we trust, Mr. Nott. And we should all think long and hard about what warrants forgiveness and what doesn’t.”
Heat exploded through Hermione’s chest. She felt wired, suddenly, ready for a fight.
“Are you a muggleborn, Professor?” she asked, trying in vain to keep the irritation out of her tone.
“No,” Nettle said, turning to her with curious eyes, “I’m a half-”
“Then who are you to decide what does and doesn’t warrant forgiveness? In fact,” she continued, fuming, “I find it disturbing that with all the effort the school’s apparently putting in to prevent division, some of the staff are actively encouraging it.”
She stomped over to collect her bag and sped out of the classroom without looking back. She felt the eyes on her regardless. That didn’t matter. Hermione was so angry she could feel her blood boiling under her skin. She was going straight to McGonagall.
She almost tripped on the stairs as she realised what that would look like. Hermione Granger, leaving class to go and complain to the headmaster about how Draco Malfoy was being unfairly targeted. Part of her blanched at the thought of the looks she’d be getting by the time the Hogwarts rumour mill had spread this around. Probably by dinner tonight. The thought of all those eyes on her, the sheer panic at the extra scrutiny regarding her secret friendship with the ex-Death Eater… she almost turned back around.
But the echo of ‘we are friends, right?’ kept her moving forward. It played over and over in her head like a broken record, giving her strength, determination, and something she almost couldn’t admit, even to herself. Hope. False hope, probably. But hope.
“Oi, Granger! Slow down!” Theo called out from the bottom of the staircase.
She turned back to see Daphne hauling an over-exerted Theo behind her. Hermione waited until they’d caught up to her, restlessly shifting from foot to foot. She felt ready to run a mile. Or hit something.
“We’re going to McGonagall,” Daphne said, barely winded. “Are you with us?”
Hermione nodded, and they set off, slowing their pace when Theo grumbled about his jelly-legs jinx having not quite worn off yet.
“Nonsense, you’re hungover again, aren’t you?”
“How dare you accuse me of such debauchery, Greengrass! I’m a man of high society, I’ll have you know.”
The sound of their bickering brought her mind unbidden to Ron. Oh god, what would he think of her doing this? It was Malfoy, Harry’s sworn enemy. Ron had never been any good at seeing all the shades of grey in things. None of them had, really. This year had given her a lot to think about regarding right and wrong. Maybe the teachers had been onto something with their resorting idea.
The gargoyle guarding the office opened its mouth as if to demand a password, but after seeing their three fuming faces instead asked them to wait a few minutes while it consulted with McGonagall. It let them through a few seconds later.
“Whatever is the matter? You three should be in cla-”
“We’re here to make a compliant about Professor Nettle,” Theo blurted out as soon as they had McGonagall in a clear line of sight.
The professor’s lips pursed at the interruption. She put down her quill anyway, offering them seats. Theo slumped into one immediately. Hermione was too antsy to sit. Daphne didn’t seem to want to, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Go on, Mr. Nott.”
“They’ve been making comments about Draco and it’s completely unfair and inappropriate.”
“What sort of comments,” McGonagall asked, brow furrowing.
Theo went on to give an impressively detailed and chronological list of every subtle reference Nettle had made to Malfoy’s past, the war, pureblood families, all of it. McGonagall remained stone-faced all the way through.
When Theo was done, McGonagall fixed her eyes on Hermione. “Is this true, Miss Granger?”
She gulped. This was it. She had to take a side now. Or rather, she had to refuse to take a side at all. Even the side that some would argue was her own.
We are friends, right?
“Yes. It’s quite inappropriate, and I don’t think it’s helping with the division problem you mentioned at the start of the year, Professor,” she said, falling easily into her model-student persona.
McGonagall nodded. “Very well, I shall investigate.” And they were dismissed.
“What’s the bet nothing comes of it?” Daphne said as soon as they were out of earshot of the gargoyle.
“Why wouldn’t anything come of it? We’ve made a complaint,” Hermione said.
The others looked at her like she’d asked why grass was purple.
“Your Gryffindor privilege is showing, Granger,” Daphne sighed. “Nothing ever gets done when it’s one of us,” she gestured to herself and Theo.
“What? That makes no sense. We’re all...Oh.” Because it did make sense. Honestly, she’d always thought the Slytherins brought it upon themselves, but now she counted a few as friends, she was becoming more acquainted with the intricacies of the situation.
“Exactly,” Theo said, dejectedly.
Lunch passed uneventfully. As did transfiguration and ancient runes. Malfoy seemed determined to ignore her as always. And as always, she was determined to pretend it didn’t sting. It was for the best. They may have agreed to be friends, but the unspoken contract they’d formed to keep it a secret still stood.
By the time eight o’clock rolled around, she’d almost forgotten about her extraction, already halfway to Ravenclaw tower. Dread pooling in her stomach, she turned towards the room of requirement instead, plodding back down the stairs on leaden feet.
She was ushered in by an unusually silent Malfoy. Something in the air felt like a warning. The crackle before the lightning strike.
“Thank you,” he said, finally.
“It’s okay.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. They were pissing me off.”
He let out a small almost-laugh. “You know it won’t change anything, right? It’s not like I don’t deserve it, anyway. I’ve made my mistakes, and if I can’t fix them, I have to at least take ownership of them. You taught me that.” The last sentence was tacked on quietly, like he didn’t want her to hear. But of course she heard.
She didn’t know what to say. Luckily, he didn’t seem to expect a response.
“Are you ready for the extraction?”
The words sent a jolt of panic through her spine. No no no no no. His stupid voice and his stupid face had been swimming around in her head all day. He wouldn’t be able to miss it. Not to mention that swollen feeling of lightness in her chest whenever she noticed the bracelet on her wrist, or the way her heart beat faster when…
No. She needed to banish all this from her mind. Now. But the harder she tried, the more mortifying thoughts floated to the top of her brain.
His hands on her waist.
Her admission to Daphne.
Falling asleep imaging him beside her.
This was bad. This was very bad. She’d made a mistake, letting it into her consciousness. It was here now, filling her up like air. She needed to bottle it and hide it somewhere deep, deep down. But how did you bottle air?
The clinking of glassware sliced through Hermione’s brain like a knife. She needed to fix this. She was running out of time.
A minute later the vial was held out to her. How had she ended up on the couch?
Before she could so much as breathe, Malfoy’s potion was down his throat. “Granger? Hurry up, it’s dangerous if you wait too long.”
Fuck. No no no no no.
The vial swam in and out of focus in front of her, its familiar shade of cyan suddenly alien. It was impossibly large and getting larger. Suddenly it was at her lips, spilling onto her tongue and down her throat. Cold. Searing. Sealing her fate.
Just as she felt herself slipping into the potion’s magic, she panicked. She fought. She couldn’t let him see. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t handle the harsh, derisive laughter she’d imagined months ago. Couldn’t handle the awkward apology she now imagined instead.
I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you felt that way…
She couldn’t handle that. Not yet. Not yet. So she swam against the currents, pushing desperately upstream. No. Not yet… Not yet…
Finally, inevitably, the whirlpool sucked her in and her surroundings materialised. Hermione panicked before realising that she’d never seen this room before. Slowly, she became aware of another presence in her mind.
-nger! Granger! What have you done? How did you do that? What’s going on?
Hermione couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even think. What had she done? Where was she?
#####
Suddenly the door to the room was thrown open and Lucius Malfoy strode in, larger than life. Panic filled her, but it wasn’t her own.
No! Granger, get out-
But she couldn’t get out. Neither could he. They both had to watch, and feel as Lucius’ hand came down across the child-Malfoy’s face.
Hermione had never been hit by a parent. The pain of it was expected, but the jolt to her heart was not. It took all the thoughts from her brain – or rather, Malfoy’s brain – leaving her numb and confused.
Malfoy – and Hermione – didn’t have time to process before it came again, and again, and again.
“What- have I- told you- about speaking out of turn?!” Lucius shouted, punctuating it with slaps to the face before grabbing the front of Malfoy’s shirt, shaking him.
All Malfoy could do was focus on not crying. Father would only get angrier. He would only hit him harder.
“You’re a Malfoy, Draco – the sole heir to this estate. And Merlin help me you will learn to act like it.”
Malfoy’s face remained impassive, frozen despite the hurt burning though him. His knees shook, his muscles were tense, prepared for the next blow.
“Do you understand?” Lucius shook him again. Malfoy nodded, holding Lucius’ cold, grey gaze and biting his lip to stop it from trembling.
“Good,” Lucius finally let go of Malfoy’s shirt, causing the boy to fall clumsily into a heap on the floor. A wave of terror shot through him as he quickly picked himself up. Would Father hit him again?
Thankfully, Lucius had lost interest, eyes clouding over with disdain as he left in a swish of robes.
Hermione expected the tears to come, then. She expected the tiny Malfoy to let it all bubble over now that he was alone, and safe. But he didn’t.
Malfoy felt numb. Disturbingly numb. The fear in his veins dissipated so quickly it was like it was never there. Quietly, Malfoy walked over to a nearby bookshelf, picked a book at random, climbed onto a velvet armchair and started reading.
His mind was soon occupied only by seventeenth century witch-burnings and the artificial sense of calm that couldn’t quite stop his knees from shaking.
Granger. What have you done? How are you here?
Malfoy… was all she managed. Surely she wouldn’t need to say it. Surely he could feel her shock and her sympathy as clearly as she could herself.
What have you done? he repeated, more urgently.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t ask if you were sorry. What’s-
The potion chose that moment to fling them forward in time. Malfoy was sitting at a mahogany table strewn with all manner of roast meats and vegetables laid out on opulent silverware.
“Draco,” drawled Lucius, holding up a crisp white piece of parchment. “Would you care to explain why you have come second in every one of your subjects this year.”
Malfoy’s heart sank, and he glued his eyes to a stack of peas.
“And not just second, second to a muggleborn girl.”
Malfoy’s small fists clenched under the table and anger flared up in his chest. Stupid Granger. He hated her. Hated her hated her hated her. The bossy, frizzy-haired know-it-all-
Malfoy jumped as his father suddenly incinerated the parchment in a flash of heat and light.
“Needless to say, I am disappointed. You won’t be coming with us to Latvia this summer. You’ll stay here with your tutors and Dobby. You’re old enough, now.”
Malfoy felt his chest cave in at the words. No… they wouldn’t just leave him…
“Lucius! He’s only eleven. He can’t stay here for a month on his own,” Narcissa argued.
“He won’t be alone, he’ll be fine. We can’t have him frolicking about on holiday when he’s doing so poorly.
“He’s not doing poorly!”
“This girl is a muggleborn, Narcissa. Can’t you feel the shame of it?” Lucius snapped.
“It’s not like the Nott or Zabini boys are doing any better. And the Parkinson girl certainly isn’t.”
A swell of affection for Narcissa built in Malfoy’s chest – or was it Hermione’s? It was so hard to tell.
“None of them are Malfoys. Are you saying this is good enough? That our son should be satisfied with second best? What kind of common, idle values would you instil in him?”
“I am not spending a month a whole ocean away from my child!” Narcissa snapped, silencing Lucius.
“Draco,” he said quietly, voice dripping with danger, “Leave us.”
Malfoy was shaking now, and Hermione became aware of knowledge that wasn’t her own. Muffled thumps behind closed doors. Bruises on Narcissa’s face. Tears in her eyes. Heavy sobs from the parlour Malfoy sat outside of, curled into a ball, listening just in case Father came back. Ready to run back to his room at any second.
He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t leave or Father would…
“Draco,” it came lower this time, threatening, and fear washed through Malfoy. The terror – the cowardice – moved his limbs for him and as he walked out of the room he hated hated hated himself.
Alone in the hallway, before it began, that strange sense of calm washed over him again. There was nothing he could do. All he needed to do was stay out of the way. He would be safe. He would keep himself safe. It’s what mother always told him.
Don’t argue. Don’t talk back. Just stay safe for me.I don’t know what I’d do without you.
With his mother’s voice in his ears he walked up the stairs, as quickly as he could with his shaky legs and queasy stomach. He was almost at the top before he heard the first blow, cracking like a wip through the empty hallway.
Just stay safe for me.
The child Malfoy let the numbness consume him, made his way to his room, walked in, and closed the door. He didn’t look back.
Then Malfoy’s memory pulled them forwards. This time, Lucius was nowhere to be found. Narcissa sat across from him in that same velvet armchair, a cup of tea in each of their hands. Hers shook as she brought the china to her lips.
There was a kind of edge to Malfoy’s bones, now. A fragility. A heightened awareness. Every detail of the small sitting room, of Narcissa’s almost imperceptibly red-rimmed eyes, of which portraits were listening stood out as if spotlighted.
But his face remained blank. Calm. His hands did not shake.
“Draco… I need you to know something.”
“It’s about… him isn’t it? He’s coming back.” The Dark Lord. His father had been out of sorts – pale, sickly, clutching his right arm whenever he thought no one was looking. He had been drinking. Was drunk almost all of the time these days. And from the conversations he’d heard between Severus and his mother…
“We can’t say for certain. If he is, there’s nothing we can do. All we can do, whatever happens – and I need you to understand this, Draco – all we can ever do is survive.” Narcissa’s bright blue eyes bore into his with a familiar intensity. She didn’t ask him for much. Not like Father. But that made it all the more important every time.
He let the words sink in.
Survive.
Just stay safe for me.
He could do that. He’d always done that. He nodded.
Narcissa’s eyes teared up, but she held his gaze. “Do you understand what this means, my son? Do you understand what you may have to do? It will be war. And you… you will not be ignored. As much as I will try to-” she seemed to choke on the words, and took a minute to compose herself, looking away. “As much as I will try to shield you from the worst of it, you will not be shielded from the worst of it.”
A single tear rolled down Narcissa’s cheek. She wiped it away like someone wipes away the stain of an insect they’ve killed. Hasty. Disgusted. The intensity in her eyes was gone. They were frozen over in a way that Hermione instantly recognised.
Malfoy’s guts had turned to liquid. His heart was in his knees, beating so fast and hard he could hear nothing else. The edge had been sharpened. His vision faded around the edges until all he could see was his mother.
Just stay safe for me.
His mind latched onto it like a life rope. He could do that. He would do that. He would keep himself safe for her. And she would keep herself safe for him. They wouldn’t lose each other. He would do what he had to do.
“Do you understand, Draco?” she asked, cold and impossibly strong and beneath it all – he knew – full of love for him.
The unspoken sentiments were there, as they always were between them. Do what you need to do. Anything you need to do. Don’t let me lose you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
“I understand.” Malfoy’s voice didn’t even shake.
And then suddenly the floor beneath him was cold tile. His hands grasped at his tie, pulling it frantically off as he tried to stave off the nausea. The edge was so sharp now it was cutting him up inside. Every beat of his heart pumped more panic into him. Each ragged breath dragged him further underwater. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t breath-
Sobs wracked his body, spine curling in on itself as he hunched over, dry-retching onto the bathroom floor. Images of the Dark Lord’s face swam in his mind, red-eyed and leering. Smirking mouth sealing his fate. He was to be a murderer.
That was enough to bring Malfoy’s mind straight to the event. The tiles fell away, replaced by a familiar stone tower. Wind whipped at his outstretched wand arm. It bit and clawed at his knuckles, hissed in his ears. He was almost sure he could hear it speaking to him.
Drop it… drop it… drop it...
But the only one speaking was Dumbledore.
“You are not a killer, Draco.”
His stomach heaved. His blood froze. Just stay safe for me.
Narcissa’s screams rang in his head, as did the Dark Lord’s promises. Threats.
If Dumbledore is not dead by the year’s end, you will be. He had smiled as he said it. And your parents will watch. Would you force them to witness that, the end of their dynasty?
Just stay safe for me.
“You have no idea what I’m capable of!” he screamed, because he had to scream. He had to give this terror a way out of his body before it consumed him. His wand arm buzzed with a power that didn’t feel like his own. He didn’t want it.
The wind berated him, slamming into his face and ripping at his hair, commanding him to lower his wand.
He was scared of what would happen if he didn’t. Would he be blown right off the astronomy tower for disobeying the laws of nature? The laws that said he wasn’t a murderer and could never be one. He was terrified of what would happen if he did. If his headmaster walked down the tower’s staircase and the school year ended with him alive and well.
It was death, or death.
You may as well get it over with, said a small voice in the back of his head. His own. For the first time in months, he felt a semblance of peace that wasn’t just cold oblivion. His heart leapt at the thought. What genius. He could simply… die. He could jump from the tower right now, give the wind what it wanted. It would end. It was the only way it would end. He had no illusions that Dumbledore’s murder would be the last of his tasks.
But-
Just stay safe for me.
It tethered his feet to the stone.
But what a lovely way to die. With the wind whipping through his hair and his stomach whooping like in did when he dived after the snitch. His wand lowered without his conscious permission, gaze wandering to the open space where stone met air. Where this met not this anymore, not this ever again.
Hermione, forgetting where she was, forgetting all concept of time and space and reality, screamed at him.
No! NO! Malfoy don’t you dar-
Granger! It’s alright. It’s-
But his voice was cut off by the slam of the tower door. Snape. Malfoy’s spine slumped in relief, in disappointment. The decision was made. It would go on.
And on it went. The astronomy tower morphed into the transfiguration classroom. The girl’s ashen face stared up at him in horror. A second year. Hufflepuff.
“Do it, Draco!” Alecto panted, her filthy nails digging into his shoulder. “Show them what happens when they disobey.” Her fevered breath crawled up his neck and he suppressed a shudder. He had to hold on. Had to survive.
But the girl’s blue eyes were filled with tears now, staring at him like he was the bringer of death itself. Maybe he was. Maybe he would be, soon, he registered numbly.
“Do it! Now!”
Blue eyes. Bright blue. Terrified. He raised his wand, arm steady, and looked away.
You will not be shielded from the worst of it.
He had seen this curse before. Felt it before. He would make it quick.
“Crucio.”
He heard the screams, but they passed over him like water. He was somewhere else. Somewhere far away, where he wasn’t holding the wand. Where the girl wasn’t writhing on the floor in front of him. The screams were joined by Alecto’s manic cackling, a symphony that his brain turned innocuous. Melodic, even.
It was over quickly. He had done it. A sick sense of pride twisted in his stomach. His father’s face swam in front of his eyes. Staring unfocused at his wand arm held out in front of him, he could almost pretend it was Lucius’. He could almost feel the heavy signet ring that would sit on his left hand one day. Maybe he could survive this.
The surroundings twisted back into cold tile and Malfoy’s head against a toilet seat, emptying the contents of his stomach. The red on his hands stained the porcelain. The metallic smell brought the images that he’d been trying so hard to push down back to his mind.
Glassy brown eyes. Petrified body hanging limp from the ceiling. Blood dripping down the child’s elbow, wrist, fingers as Amycus tore the skin slowly from his arm.
The boy was not dead. They weren’t allowed to kill.
How long until they made him do it? Their protégé. How long until he’d be expected to hold the knife?
His stomach twisted again, but he had nothing else to bring up. He didn’t even notice the wand against his temple until he was already thinking the word.
Confringo. That should do it. That would do it. This wand had such power lately he could barely control it. This wand that he’d pointed at children and-
His hand shook as he braced himself. Breath coming in ragged sobs and vision swimming with the blood on his left hand as he practiced the incantation.
Confringo. Confringo. Confr-
“CONFRINGO!”
But the blast never came. His wand was buzzing, vibrating as if angry.
“Confringo…”
Nothing.
A wave of self-hatred, of absolute abhorrence came over him as a truth settled into his bones. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He was too much a coward. A disgusting, slimy coward.
His hand opened slowly, as if pried by some unseen force, and his wand fell to the floor. The clatter of wood against tile rang through Malfoy’s very soul. Again, it would go on.
#####
And then they were being yanked through time again. Hermione knew this place, this moment. The battle raged around Malfoy in full force as he ran through the castle, dodging curses from all sides, heart beating in his throat. He needed to hide. Somewhere neither side would see him. He couldn’t risk turning now, not when they might win.
Suddenly, there she was. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Granger. Frizzy-haired, unwashed, blood splattered Granger. She looked like hope itself.
She was running – sprinting – up a staircase after Potter and Weasley. For the first time, Malfoy saw a future after all of this. The sun had not quite come out, but was peeking cautiously through from behind the clouds. If anyone could fix this, it was her.
But Dolohov had seen them. A fit of terror overtook Malfoy as the hulking Death Eater pointed his wand straight at Granger’s retreating form.
“STUPEFY!”
Red light burst out of his borrowed wand before he’d even realised he’d raised it. As Dolohov’s body fell to the floor with a thump, he made a decision.
He was betting on her.
Something solid and right and clean slipped into place somewhere in his chest as he turned around, seeing Amycus facing off against his pink-haired cousin.
“Impedimenta!” His body fell to the floor.
He didn’t have time to process the shock in Tonks’ gaze as he ran back the way he’d come. He’d made his decision, now. There was another way. This was how to end it. It would not go on.
And suddenly Granger was in front of him, sobbing hysterically on the ground. It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be upset. She was the one who had all the answers. She’d lived her whole life right. She’d been a light in the darkness for even him because, as much as he couldn’t stand her overbearing, righteous persona, he had to admit she could always be counted on. Never underestimated.
His wand still buzzed from the cushioning charm he’d hastily cast on the wall. Why had he done that? It was Granger, let her- No. It was Granger. He owed her one and he knew it. That was why.
And maybe that’s what drove him forward, back scraping stone as he sank down to sit beside her. Her heaving sobs caused a kind of uneasiness in him. He’d never seen her cry like this before. Was this damage from the war? Had it been something he’d done? The thought sent a shudder down his spine.
Standing, it took all of Malfoy’s courage to hold his hand out. It felt awkward in this position, like it didn’t belong to him. Because how could he ever hold his hand out to Granger? How could he ever offer her help, kindness? What a strange idea.
When she pulled herself up after barely a moment’s glance at his hand, turning away as if offended, the twisting in his gut told him that maybe he didn’t want things to be like this. Deep down, he knew he ought to thank her. Even without realising it, she’d shown him another way. The secret path out when he’d seen only cold, dead ends. He would find a way to thank her.
The memory flashed forward, and they were in their room. It felt strange to look though Malfoy’s eyes at herself sipping a mug of tea, cross legged in her armchair.
Particularly strange was the way everything else seemed to fade out of focus, while every part of her was held in sharp detail. The way she looked around as she talked, leaving him free to stare. The way her hair stuck up at so many odd, endearing angles.
Wait, endearing?
A sort of panicked buzz began to emanate from the present-Malfoy’s consciousness. But the longer the memory went on the more certain she was of what she felt. Affection.
The buzz became so loud she couldn’t even hear what her past-self was saying. And it was only getting louder. It felt like her head was going to explode.
Malfoy!
Nothing. Then the memory twisted and the room was darker, base throbbing incessantly and alcohol in Malfoy’s blood.
The panic from Malfoy’s thread somehow intensified. The white noise became a cacophony of sound, thought, colour, place, feeling. Hermione was overloaded immediately. It was like the world was caving in on her from the inside out.
Malfoy, stop!
But it only got louder. And louder. She tried to draw away, to get as far from his mind as possible but she was trapped here. Inside it. She screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed and let her terror seep through their mental link.
Stop it! Stop it, it HURTS!
And at that, it abated. Hermione took a while to come to, consciousness curled in on itself, thankful Malfoy hadn’t forced her out into God knew what oblivion was outside of this.
It took her a while to become aware they were dancing. Oh God. Embarrassment surged through her as she remembered her behaviour. But it was nothing compared to the Malfoy sharing her headspace, who seemed to be having a panic attack.
GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.
The cacophony started up again, seemingly involuntarily. Hermione drew back immediately.
I can’t! I’m sorry, I can’t! Please don’t do that awful thing again!
It she could cry in this world, she would be a puffy-faced mess. Everything about Malfoy’s mind – his feelings, his thoughts, his attempts to push her out – was just too much too much too much. She was scared.
But Malfoy wasn’t capable of doing much for her right then. Because if she was scared, he was on the verge of total mental collapse. In the silence that followed when he stopped those awful everything-at-once thoughts he’d started humming tunelessly, sounding completely hysterical.
She soon realised why. If she tuned back into the memory, she could feel the fabric of her own thin shirt under his hands, could feel the woop in his chest when she met his eye, holding his gaze like she never did. It was enough to cause a familiar knot of tension in his stomach, a tightening in his pants. His eyes dropped to her lips and Hermione suddenly understood Malfoy’s present mental state.
It was then that time took mercy on both of them. The hour was up. Hermione felt herself suddenly ripped from Malfoy’s consciousness and careening back into the present. A second later she was falling back onto the couch, blinking at the stone ceiling.
A crash to her right brought her quickly out of her stupor. She turned to face an ashen Malfoy, crouching on the floor next to the toppled side table. He looked up at her with pure terror before pulling himself hastily to his feet and running.
“Malfoy, wait!” she called, but it bounced off him, unheard.
She struggled to get to her feet, but stumbled as a wave of dizziness overtook her. She could still feel the echo of that horrible distraction technique he’d used. Now that she was back in her body, her head felt like it was splitting right open.
By the time she made it out the door, Malfoy was long gone. Hermione slumped down against the wall and waited for the world to stop spinning.
Had she really just seen that? Just felt that?
Of course she had, there was no denying it. Admiration. Affection. Attraction.
He fancied her. That’s what he’d been trying to hide. Oh, the irony. And the stupid git had run away before she could even tell him it was alright. Tell him how alright it was. Her fears had been so unfounded. Some of them, anyway.
The realisation bubbled up through her chest, up her neck and she tipped her head back as if to let it out.
She could have this. She could have what she wanted.
Something shifted. A key finally sliding into place. Like Malfoy had said – the secret path when all she could see were dead ends. She almost laughed. They were so much more similar than either of them could have thought.
But there were differences. By god had there been differences. There had been an icy sharpness to his mind, just like the rest of him. The fear that he carried around in his body was astounding. Even at the height of the war, Hermione had never felt the kind of clawing panic that made death seem a better option than endurance. She’d never been so devoid of hope, had always believed that somehow, someone would find a way out. She would find a way out. Maybe that was why losing her parents had damaged her so much. There’d never really been anything she couldn’t do.
Malfoy’s world wasn’t like that. Or it hadn’t been. There had been one path for him, like there had been for her. But his path wasn’t through, it wasn’t out, it was on. Survive. Endure. Stay safe for me.
She felt so silly, now, remembering her self-righteous lectures on responsibility. Narcissa’s tear-filled eyes floated to the top of her mind, and she shivered. She could still feel the devotion Malfoy had for her – his first and only protector. She could still feel the earth of him caving in as he heard the cold, high ‘Crucio!’ and the screams that the oak doors couldn’t muffle.
She may have a neurological disability, but something about Malfoy’s mind was broken. And it had been for a long time. She shivered as she remembered the first of it she’d seen, in his childhood. When he pushed his whole self somewhere so deep down he didn’t even have to be anymore.
By the time he was torturing children, it was almost easy. He could snuff himself out like a candle. Replace himself with someone crueller, harder. Lucius.
She hugged her knees to her chest tightly. Wishing Malfoy hadn’t run away from her so she could pull him into a crushing hug. She still remembered what he’d said to her when he’d first described this potion.
After someone had drunk the Essence, they would feel like they’d known the other person their whole lives. They would know them like a best friend. They’d have an intuitive understanding of how their mind worked.
That’s certainly how she felt now. She’d thought she’d known him before. To an extent. But that was nothing compared to what she felt now. It was like he was a part of her, like she could feel his mortification from here. Like she could feel the burn in his limbs as he ran to the quidditch pitch. That’s where he would have gone. The rush of wind through his hair would be the only thing that would come close to calming him. He’d never told her that. He didn’t need to, now.
This new closeness did nothing to cure her of her feelings. In fact, she only ached harder. As hostile as his mind had been, they had been together. She had seen him, felt him. For once, he had had nowhere to hide. She wanted so badly to be near him she almost picked herself up and marched down to the quidditch pitch herself.
But he wouldn’t talk to her. In fact, in this state, he might take one look at her, turn around and fly all the way to France, never to return. If only the git had stayed put for five seconds and listened.
Besides, her head was pounding. She was in desperate need of the ibuprofen in her bedside table drawer. And a long, long sleep. She had a lot to process. She would rest now. Malfoy would be here tomorrow.