Vacivitas

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Reverence.

When her song is over, the raucous clapping and cheering doesn't make her feel good or proud. It just makes her feel like a failure. Like she's failed the wizarding world as a whole. She, Harry, and Ron had the chance to win a war. They fought hard. They did. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough, and now she's here, pretending to be Malfoy's prisoner, and singing for an audience of witches and wizards who own Muggleborns for carnal sport.

She can barely hear anyone's voices, even as the woman in blue and diamonds comes to take the charmed microphone away from her. She wants to be off the platform as soon as possible, before she can't breathe anymore.

Malfoy's there already, at the bottom of the five steps, one hand in his pocket and the other held out to her. In his eyes, she can see that his walls are still built high. But there's a crack. One small crack through which she can see that same reverence that she'd seen while she was singing.

Hermione places her hand softly upon his own and he holds it while she descends on shaky legs. Her adrenaline is running, water rushing past her ears like a raging river. When they walk back to their previous platform, his hand against her lower back is that of a ghost. The hand of a spirit.

"Sweet Salazar, Granger. Who knew that voice was hiding in there?"

Hermione tries to hide her smile at Blaise's compliment as Malfoy leads her back to the armchairs. It feels wrong being grateful for a compliment when the room is so full of horror, but the smile happens in spite of herself.

"Yeah, Hermione," Tracey says from her place on Blaise's lap. "Your voice sounds beautiful. I can't imagine it didn't please everyone else's ears, either. Maybe it was enough exposure to you that they'll leave you alone the rest of the night."

Warrington and Flint are no longer there, much to Hermione's pleasure. The chairs they once occupied are now empty, leaving only Malfoy, Blaise, Tracey, and Hermione on their particular platform. She does cast a quick glance about, trying to see if she can spot the redheaded girl, but she can't see anything. She wishes there was something she could do to help her and all of the other women in the room, but realistically, she knows she can't. She has very little power in this new world, and she's already lost so much. She doesn't want to lose what little she has left. Tillian, Faye, Pinky, the other elves, Malfoy...

Anger rises within her. Anger at herself, for not letting go of her idea of him. The idea that he cared about her.

"Hopefully, no more Flint or Warrington debacles," Blaise says, then he leans in closer, lowering his voice to just below the sound of the music. There's a girl dancing suggestively on the lower platform now. "Although I'm not too sure about Carrow. I think I saw him frolicking about while you were down there."

Malfoy sits down in the chair, but Hermione makes no move to follow. Sure, the room is full to the brim with people who could be watching, but there's no one watching them in their current position. She doesn't see the reason to pretend until they are. She stands beside the chair, casting furtive glances every which way. She'd hoped Carrow wasn't here, but she knows that was a futile thought. It's his house–of course he's here.

The question is: where?

"Granger."

Surprise pulls Hermione's attention down to Malfoy. He's gazing up at her and even though his Occlumency walls are strong, she feels like there's some sort of emotion floating about behind the stone.

"Are you supposed to call me that here?" she asks in a quiet voice, knowing he can hear her no matter where she's at.

"I can call you whatever I'd like. Come here."