:::A Dark Responsibility:::
Draco lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. The taste of Hermione Granger was still on his lips, wonderful, warm, and sweet. His mind kept replaying the way her soft mouth had moved with his, innocently following where he led. The high of being close to her, of touching her, was slowly starting to wear off, and the comedown was leaving him pining for more.
Kissing her had been powerful… perfect.
And stupid.
At the end of the month, he would be a full-fledged Death Eater. He would be Marked and Joined to the First Circle—the elite ring reserved only for the Master's most loyal followers and trusted friends. He would be the embodiment of everything Granger had fought against her entire life. And she would be the embodiment of everything he should despise.
He sighed. He should have been angry with himself, with his weakness. He should have been furious. He knew what the future held, knew that it didn't,couldn't, hold Hermione. He should never have kissed her—he knew that, knew better.
But how could he be sorry? How, when he wanted to do it again? And again… and again, and again…
Draco shifted restlessly. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in years, not since he had realized his fate, realized that there was no escaping it. And now the price was higher than it had ever been before, because now there was Hermione to think about, to protect.
Frustrated, he sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. He'd always known who he would have to be, what he would have to become. The thought had always been torture, but it had never killed him before now. How would he live, how could he? He'd always remember that one kiss… that one girl. He'd always think of her, dream of her.
But that's all he could do. Dream.
Draco rose from the bed, began to pace. God, what he wouldn't give for a way out, a way back. But there was nothing to do. None of his options ended the way he needed them to—which was just another way of saying he didn't have any options at all.
Needing some sort of relief from the growing emptiness, he opened the balcony door and stepped out into the cool night air. The moonlit sky looked the same as it always did, but for some reason, he hadn't tired of its beauty. It reminded him of her: consistent, but never boring; familiar and distinct; intense, but somehow calming; safe. The vista in front of him housed memories, new and overpowering, memories that bonded them to one another. They had both looked out from this very place and shared their first moment, built their first connection. And it was on the jagged cliffs below that everything had changed forever.
He looked away from the dark image of the lake, his eyes shifting to Hermione's door. Her curtain was drawn, shielding her from his view. Was she awake, he wondered? Or was she asleep, dreaming peacefully? All of a sudden, he had to know. He needed to see her, if only to have a glimpse of her as she slept…
He moved the short distance to the door, reaching out for the handle. He would check on her—just for a moment. And then he would go back to his own room, back to the cold, lonely silence.
He turned the gold handle, silently opening the door and peering in. Hermione lay beneath the covers, her back facing him. Alright, Malfoy. You've done it. You've checked on her and she's fine. Now close the door and walk away… But his legs were already carrying him into the room, ignoring his mind's commands.
Draco rounded the bed, bringing Hermione's face into view. She looked peaceful, like a slumbering princess in a tower, waiting silently for her prince. Unable to help himself, he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to pet the soft curls away from her face.
Beautiful...
Unable to keep his hand still, he let it skim down her cheek, feeling her soft skin brush against his knuckles like silk.
"It isn't real, you know." Hermione's broken voice was a soft whisper in the silence. She was watching him, her eyes riveted to his face as he caressed her. Their gazes met, held, and her honey eyes sparkled in the darkness. "It's just a spell."
The words didn't stop Draco from touching her, though he knew that was their intent. Instead, he continued to stroke her, combing through her hair with his fingers, letting the silken texture sooth all the nerves inside of him, inside of her. There were no words to take away the pain, the past, no way to undo what had been done. All he could do was hold her close, letting his touch reassure her that she would be okay. That, finally, she would be safe.
"You shouldn't feel sorry for me," she whispered, mistaking the dark emotion in his silver eyes for pity. She looked away from him, her gaze traveling to her hands, her forearms, saddening at the hidden scars. "I did most of it to myself."
Draco shook his head. "No you didn't," he told her quietly, putting his finger under her chin, tilting her gaze back up to his. "Not really."
There was silence, and then Hermione was smiling a soft, tired smile. "You must be cold," she said after a moment. She scooted herself over, one inch, two, leaving just enough space for another body inside the bed. Slowly, she pulled the covers back. "Here—get in."
Draco stayed where he was, staring at the new space with a frown, his willpower warring with his desires. Blaise was right. This was dangerous—and it was becoming more and more hazardous with each passing second. Before, he had used convenience as justification to stay the night with her. But now there were no words, no excuses to hide behind.
She was letting him in, not understanding the peril. How could he get into the bed, knowing that he wasn't just bringing himself, but a world of darkness, too? How could he sleep by her side, with her in his arms, knowing no matter how innocently he held her, he would never be innocent. Knowing it could never be harmless.
But how could he not, when she was right there in front of him, her eyes bright with hope. How could he deny her… or himself?
"You don't have to," she whispered, misreading his hesitance.
But he wanted to. More than anything, he wanted her, to sleep innocently beside her, to hold her close. But there was more to think about than wants and desires. There was more to consider than this one desperate wish. He had to protect her, whatever the cost.
Even if the cost was his last chance at happiness. Even if the person he had to protect her from was himself.
"I shouldn't," he said finally, his voice low.
Hermione smiled quizzically, not understanding. "I thought that falling asleep wasn't against the law," she said softly. "Isn't that what you told me?"
Draco shrugged, looked to the darkened curtain so he wouldn't have to meet her gaze. "You were right. With us it is."
"Maybe." She shook her head, her eyes turning curious. "I thought the infamous Draco Malfoy didn't acknowledge laws or limits," she said quietly. Draco's jaw tightened. "I thought you liked to break the rules." When he didn't answer, she smiled. "Suddenly scared to take a chance, Malfoy?"
With you? Terrified. But he didn't say it.
Hermione looked away, staring at something across the room. "I am, too, you know," she said after a long moment.
Draco frowned. "What?"
Hermione looked back, meeting his gaze. "Afraid."
It was the truth. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt afraid. And like any emotion, she was cherishing its rarity, not bothering to question its root or reason.
Draco closed his eyes. Could she possibly know what he was feeling, what he was thinking? Could she possibly understand?
Yes…
"Really, you don't have to stay," she repeated, this time in the barest of whispers.
The words baited his conscience, and Draco clenched his jaw. She's giving you a way out, Malfoy, his mind was saying. Take it. Get out while you still can. But he suddenly realized that there was no use fighting. If he left now he would only be back again—if not tonight then tomorrow, or the day after that. He wouldn't be able to keep himself away.
With one last haunted look at the door, he slowly climbed into the bed beside her, pulling the sheets over himself. Hermione came into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder and her hand against his heart. He could smell her shampoo and the scent of her lotion, light and clean, reminding him of spring.
He looked down at her face, so close to his. She was already asleep, a soft smile on her lips. The show of trust hurt his heart, made it burn with guilt. She shouldn't trust him. He wasn't the kind of man she needed, the kind of man she deserved.
He wasn't good.
But now that he was holding her, it was easy to forget about that—about the darkness inside of him, about the Mark that would seal that darkness there forever. She was here in his arms, making everything right. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to think about except this one moment in Eden. He couldn't think of evil, or Eaters, or duty, or pain. Nothing and no one could touch him, no one but her.
He gently kissed her forehead before closing his silver eyes. It was only a matter of minutes before he followed her into the unfamiliar realm of peaceful sleep.
"Well, friends, it's the afternoon of the first official quidditch match, and what a beautiful afternoon it is. Not too hot, not too cold, and just the right amount of sun to kick off this year's season. Now all we're waiting for are the teams to make their entrance…"
Ron groaned as he heard the familiar sound of the announcer Sam Blotty's voice projecting up over the Hogwarts stadium. "Brilliant. That's just bloodybrilliant! The match has already started!" He looked behind him, making a face at the two girls with linked arms trailing slowly across the grass. "Oi! Take your time, why don't you! Not like we're in a hurry or anything!"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "There's obviously something wrong with your hearing, Ronald. The players haven't even taken the field."
"Yeah, well, Blotty's already started announcing, which means there's no chance there'll be even one decent seat left," he argued over his shoulder, annoyed. "The stands are packed by now!"
"Ron, Seamus agreed to save us seats so we wouldn't feel the need to rush there," Harry reminded his friend, his voice chastising. He looked behind him, lowered his voice. "You promised you wouldn't get impatient and overstress Mione," he added quietly. "Remember?"
Ron sighed. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry." He looked reluctantly apologetic, and turned, walking backwards. "Take your time," he called dutifully before turning back. "She doesn't look as tired today, though, does she?" he asked his friend.
Harry glanced over his shoulder, taking in Hermione's smiling face, her sure step. "No, actually," he agreed after a moment. There was a tint of surprise in his voice. "She looks… better."
Ron smiled. "Normal, almost."
"Yeah. Almost."
They entered the towering stands, moving up the stairs to the seating area above. The place was crowded with Gryffindors, some standing, some sitting, everyone eager for their favorite sport to officially begin.
"Harry! Ron!" Seamus' voice carried over the excitement. "Over here!" They looked, finding their friend as he waved energetically from his place in the middle of the front row.
"I'll stay here to help the girls get through," Harry said, watching for Ginny and Hermione. "You go ahead and help save our spaces."
Ron nodded, already eagerly pushing his way through the crowded row. "Watch where you're stepping, you berk!" someone complained loudly, irritated. The people around him began to groan, as well, telling him to go to the back.
"I've got seats saved, so sod off!" Ron shouted back, forcing his body through the aggravated horde. He reached Seamus, who was holding off a few third years from taking the empty seats.
"I was about to give up," the boy told him with a smile.
"The girls felt like taking their sweet time," Ron informed him, rolling his eyes. "I guess it's better for Mione, anyway."
Seamus was about to remark when he noticed Harry at the end of the row. "The crowd is giving them trouble," he observed with a frown. Ron turned. Their fellow Gryffindors were shouting insults, making it hard to maneuver through.
"We were here first! Go to the back! There's no more room up here!"
"Well then make room!" Harry snapped, leading a silent Hermione by the hand. Ginny followed just behind, holding tightly to her other hand, sending intimidating stares to the people around them, protecting her friend.
They finally reached the saved space, ignoring the rolling eyes and shaking heads of their annoyed peers. Harry let Hermione and Ginny pass in front of him, situating them protectively between himself and Ron.
"You okay, Mione?" Ron asked, helping her down into the seat beside him. She nodded, taking a deep breath. Ginny sat, too, linking arms with her friend once again and beginning to chat about one thing or another.
"And finally, here they are! Leading Ravenclaw onto the pitch is captain Marco Bolter. His team is looking stronger than ever this year, ranking first in the preseason scrimmages."
The entire crowd was on its feet, erupting into massive cheering—and, inevitably, some booing—as the team moved onto the field below.
Hermione stood as well, holding on to Ginny's arm. She watched quietly as the blue-and-bronze players paced out to the center of the field. Brandon Madison was down there, she knew, playing as the Ravenclaw Seeker. Her eyes searched for him, but it was impossible to recognize one player from another at such a distance.
Marco Bolter, a tall, sharp-featured boy, was the first to take the air. His team followed in suit, jumping onto their brooms and lifting up off of the ground. They created a line, beginning their pre-game warm-up drill.
"And here are their competitors, the Slytherin team, led by Captain and Seeker, Draco Malfoy."
A handful of people made their way onto the pitch, clad in green and sliver robes. Once again, the crowd erupted into noise.
"Malfoy and his team were annihilated by Ravenclaw in the preseason. This is the perfect opportunity for them to get their revenge and prove that the Slytherin dynasty is, in fact, still alive."
Hermione's eyes were glued to Draco as he moved up off the ground. The Slytherin team followed after him, obeying his hard commands.
"Here beside me is our resident analyst, Div Prescott. Div, what does Slytherin need to do to regain footing in this year's season?"
"Well, Sam, sheer size and brute force don't win you a quidditch match, and I think that's something Slytherin learned in the preseason. They're really going to need to work on technique and tighten their offense to even have a chance at the championship. Maybe they should channel old Salazar's famous love of cunning instead of his tendency for violence..."
Hermione watched Draco as he directed his team, smiling softly at the focus on his face, the severity in his eyes. He was easily ignoring Div Prescott's criticism, his concentration dedicated completely to his team. She felt a strange sense of pride, surprisingly similar to how she felt when she watched Ron make a save at the goalposts or saw Harry catch the Snitch. It was a warm sensation, one that made her feel almost… happy.
Suddenly Ginny was grabbing her arm, holding tightly. "Don't look now, Mione, but a certain Halloween Dance date is headed this way..."
Hermione shifted her gaze, easily finding Brandon's form as it glided towards the stands. He stopped in midair a few feet off, smiling charmingly in her direction. "Good day, fair maiden," he called to her.
Ginny was squeezing Hermione's hand excitedly, but she didn't feel any of that same exhilaration. "Hello," she returned awkwardly.
"What are you doing, Madison?" his captain called. "Get back to the drill!"
Brandon looked over his shoulder, then back again. "I was hoping for a token, milady," he said. "Something for good luck."
Hermione pursed her lips. "A token? I can't…" She laughed with nerves. "That is, I don't have one."
"Here—you can use this." The ever-helpful Ginny had her arms around Hermione's neck, quickly undoing her red-and-gold tie and handing it to her friend.
Hermione looked at it a moment, not sure how to react. She decided on a smile, quickly pasting one on and directing it Brandon's way. "Alright. Here—come closer." He eased his broom forward. "Um… hold out your arm." He did, smiling into her chocolate-gold eyes as she carefully tied the material around his bicep.
"What's this? Div, it looks like Ravenclaw Seeker, Brandon Madison, has opted out of his warm-up to get a good-luck charm from a special someone in the stands!"
"Yes, and it looks like it's our lovely Head Girl, Hermione Granger!"
A focused Draco suddenly found his head snapping up at the echoed words. Had they said Hermione Granger? His silver eyes were instantly searching the stands, scanning from tower to tower. They narrowed, easily finding the spectacle. That damned wanker, Madison, was floating in front of her—wasflirting with her. And she appeared to be smiling back.
"Should we switch sides?" someone asked from behind him, referring to the drill. Draco gritted his teeth, the every part of him that had been focused on the game now focused on the girl. "Malfoy!"
"What?" he snapped, turning.
"Should we switch sides?" the boy asked again.
"What do you think?" he spat with censure. "Yes. Switch sides. You shouldn't have to ask me! You should just know to do it!" He turned his broom back to face the scene, jealousy raging through him in bright green flames. He wanted to kill Madison, beat him until he was nothing but dust for touching what he'd already claimed as his.
Draco wasn't the only one who was angry. "Madison, stop messing around and come warm up! Now!" Marco Bolter was practically screaming at his friend, his face red with frustration.
"Marco seems angry," Harry informed Brandon with crossed his arms. "Maybe you should…" He trailed off and nodded towards the Ravenclaw team.
The other man chose not follow his advice, only continued to smile at a quiet Hermione.
Harry turned his skeptical gaze from Brandon, exchanging a frown with Ron. This was a new development, he thought. One he wasn't sure he liked.
"Madison!"
Brandon looked over his shoulder. "Coming!" He turned back to Hermione. "I shall win this tournament for you, milady," he told her, flashing a smile that would have made any girl blush—any girl but her. She watched, feeling vaguely uncomfortable as he patted the tie she'd wrapped around his arm and flew off to rejoin his teammates.
Ginny smiled at Hermione, holding their joined hands to her heart. "That was beautifully conceived," she said, sighing romantically. "God, Mione, you didn't tell me it was serious."
"You didn't tell us at all," Ron put in loudly, sending a protective glare Brandon's way.
Hermione sighed, looking around self-consciously. She sat, dragging Ron down by the sleeve. "I didn't tell you because it isn't serious," she explained, lowering her voice. "He asked me to the dance and I said yes. That's all."
"He asked you to the dance?" Harry asked, sitting too, leaning in. "When was this?"
"I don't know. A while ago."
"A while ago," Ron repeated hotly. "And you didn't say anything?"
"Obviously I didn't think it was a big deal," she argued tiredly.
"Well it isn't a little deal when he comes over here in the middle of a quidditch match—"
"The match hasn't even begun."
"And starts spouting medieval gibberish like some lovesick ponce!"
Ginny wrapped a defensive arm around Hermione and glared at her brother. "Oh, really mature, Ron," she said sarcastically. "God, the two of you are like a pair of hovering parents. You don't own Hermione! She can date whomever she wants—with or without your consent!"
Hermione shook her head, covering Ron's hand with her own. "We're not dating, though," she insisted quietly, looking from his blue eyes to Harry's green ones. "I would tell you."
They backed down, nodding, but they weren't admitting defeat. They would have to do some further investigation on Brandon Madison and on the situation before deciding how they felt and if they approved. If Madison thought he could just waltz in and whisk Hermione away, he had another thing coming. They had almost lost her once, and it would never happen again.
"And Madam Hooch is finally making her way onto the pitch. It looks like the quidditch match will begin at last…"
Draco looked to the stands one final time. This time Hermione met his gaze, her warm brown eyes colliding with his silver ones. The look on her face was soft, but it did nothing to comfort him. His jaw clenched, the raw fury not ebbing an inch. Sharply, he guided his broom away, breaking the connection.
Madam Hooch came to stand at the center circle. "You know how it goes. Follow the rules, play fair—and no funny business from any of you." With a nod, she released the balls and the players zoomed into a flurry of motion.
Only Draco and Brandon were unmoving, both of them urging their brooms with muted force, floating instead of flying. Their eyes studied the air around them, hunting for the gleam of gold. Their gazes linked briefly in the silent search—met in passing, really. But for that single second their eyes connected, an unspoken hostility surged between them, a threat posed by one, understood by the other.
"Ravenclaw Chaser, Terry Boot, holds the Quaffle—he's heading down the field—and look at that!—He makes a clean pass to Pamela Martin—Martin, moving in those tricky circles she loves so much, outsmarting the Slyth—Oh! And she's been hit by a powerful Bludger sent by Vincent Crabbe—Slytherin takes possession of the Quaffle…"
Everyone was on their feet, eagerly watching the excitement, cheering when their team made a pass, groaning when it was intercepted. But Hermione's eyes were riveted away from the action, on the two Seekers that rested in midair. Their brooms were level, keeping them at a close but safe distance from one another. There was a kind of tension flowing in the space between them, an intensity that was almost tangible. Was it just the pressures of the sport? Was it just that athletic, masculine need to win the game? Or had something more than a quidditch match wedged its way between them, something like... a girl…
Hermione shook her head, pushing the thought away. There wasn't enough between her and either of them to warrant a battle of possessiveness.
Her eyes moved to Draco, softened. Oh, but how she suddenly wished there was.
"Slytherin Chaser, Claudius Stark, has the Quaffle—he's really flying—Sandra Peterman trying to knock him out—He forces her back with one hard push!—She spins out! She's still spinning, still spinning! God, what a hit! Div, I think maybe brute force does help to win a match after all!"
Draco could see the Ravenclaw Chaser out of the corner of his eye. He didn't let it take his attention away from the task at hand. Jaw clenched, he searched the sky, keeping his thoughts focused. Get the Snitch. Win the game. Teach that whelp a lesson. The words repeated over and over in his head, fueled by the picture of Hermione securing her school tie around Madison's arm.
She was watching. He could feel her eyes on him, silent, waiting. He didn't look back, didn't even glance. Instead, he turned his gaze to Brandon Madison. The boy was slowly turning his broom, taking a full intake of the place, searching for that tiny, elusive ball. Draco shook his head. He had to win.
Win the game. Win Hermione.
Just then, the glimmer of gold whizzed in between them. Their gazes clashed, one second, two. And then they were off.
"The Seekers are moving—the Snitch has been spotted and the race is on!"
Hermione's friends jumped to their feet again, but this time she stayed seated. Cheering exploded around her, the crowd egging their favorite Seeker on. But as she watched both boys rocket from one side of the field to the other, she didn't make a sound.
Wind was whipping against Draco's face, almost painfully. He was just ahead of Madison, his hand outstretched for the Snitch. One increment further, and he would have it!
The glittering orb suddenly switched directions, causing both of them to swerve. Madison was leading now, but only by an inch. Draco could hear Sam Blotty's voice announcing in the back of his mind, and the faint echo of screaming applause was in his ears. But none of that motivated him. No, it was the memory of that day in the courtyard, that split second Hermione had lifted to her toes to kiss Madison's cheek. It was the image of Madison wearing her damned tie around his bicep that brought back the bright green rage.
With unrestrained force, Draco swung his broom left, ramming Madison, shoving the man's body with his own. Brandon looked over his shoulder, murder in his eyes, and shoved back with all his might. Draco smiled coldly. He pushed his broom faster, piercing through the air with powerful strength, keeping his eyes on the Snitch as it changed directions once again.
"Madison and Malfoy are really running! It looks like they're playing as close to dirty as they can get!"
Slowly, Hermione stood. Silently, she stepped forward. Her hands unconsciously wrapped around the railing as she watched the two boys race side by side, both of them stretching a hand for the little glimmer of gold that was just out of reach. They were both so close that it was impossible to tell who was leading and who was trailing just behind.
They were shoving back and forth, smashing harder and harder with each hit. "Give it up, Malfoy!" Brandon shouted, his eyes intent on the little golden ball.
The words incensed Draco. He heard them over the whistle of wind, but nothing could have muted what they meant… Give it up. I'm taking it. The Snitch. Hermione.
The jealous fury was back sevenfold. Irate, he propelled his broom faster, piercing through the air.
"Malfoy has a spurt of speed! Have you ever seen him go that fast, Div?"
Hermione gripped the rail tighter, her eyes intense as they followed the two Seekers. There was only one thought inside of her, so strong that she was silently mouthing the words.
Come on. Come… on…
It was all Draco's brain could process, all he could think. He was so close he could taste it, feel it. The Snitch was at his fingertips, if only he could just… reach… it…
And then the voice in his head transformed, became hers. Come on, she urged softly. Come on. He saw his opening then, as the Snitch streamed right. Draco forced his body to the left for one last hit, reaching out for the golden ball at the same time. Their shoulders collided, forcing Madison away, rolling his broom. They hit hard, hard enough to grit Draco's teeth.
But he smiled against the pain as his fingers closed around the cool metallic sphere.
"And he does it! Draco Malfoy catches the Snitch! Slytherin wins, 150 to 0!"
Hermione released her death-grip on the railing. The crowd around her groaned and booed, but she was silent, only the barest hint of a smile on her face.
Ginny took her hand, sighing. "But Prince Charming is supposed to win the battle," she complained with a shake of her head. "There really is no justice in the world."
Hermione nodded, but she couldn't help thinking that she much preferred the Black Knight.
Draco dismounted his broom, leading the Slytherin team off the quidditch pitch. They were serious, almost businesslike, as if they had been the losers and not the other way around.
The Ravenclaws were huddled together at the edge of the field, wiping sweat from their brows and patting each other's backs in support. Their heads snapped up as the Slytherin Captain passed, their faces speaking volumes to the group in green and grey.
Draco walked by without even glancing in their direction.
"I always knew you were a bastard, Malfoy," declared a voice from behind him. "But I never pegged you as a cheat."
He stopped at the words, turned. His team parted like the Red Sea, making it possible for him to see his accuser. It was Brandon Madison, of course, his eyes narrowed and glaring. Draco said nothing, but his grip on his broom tightened. He reached deep inside himself for patience.
"You played a dirty game, Malfoy. Right from the start." Still, Malfoy said nothing, causing Brandon's eyes to slit. "That last hit was a cobb—you know it was."
Draco wasn't intimidated. His gaze moved coldly from Brandon's eyes to his arm. The deep-red tie was still there, barely, the knot loosened by wind and play. His jaw clenched at the sight. The material stood out against the blue and bronze robes, though no one could say the colors complimented each other.
"I don't recall Hooch calling it a foul," he stated icily.
"Well we're off to challenge that oversight now," the other man assured him. "We'll be petitioning her for a rematch." The other Ravenclaws were nodding their support. "We'll be seeing you on the pitch again, and soon," Brandon spat. "Perhaps the next time we can play a gentleman's game."
The Slytherins looked at each other, then at their Captain, waiting for him to speak—waiting for his infamous wrath. He surprised them all by slowly moving forward, taking one step, two, purposefully closing the distance between Madison and himself.
Brandon raised his chin, unafraid, and didn't so much as retreat an inch. He waited, expecting threats to fly, punches to be thrown. But nothing came except the hard stare of silver eyes. They glared with a searing hate he didn't quite understand. He shook his head, not letting himself wonder about the source of the loathing. Instead, he stared back, his eyes telling the world that he wasn't scared of the so-called Slytherin Prince. "Don't think that you've won," he said, his voice spitting daggers. "That move wasn't legal. This game should have been ours."
Draco only smiled coldly. Without warning, his hand rose, grabbing the end of Hermione's tie and pulling it loose from its place around the other man's arm.
"Hey!"
Draco ignored the protest. Instead, he regarded the material in his hand. "A good luck charm, eh?" he asked condescendingly, studying the red and gold threads. His eyes shifted back to the Ravenclaw Seeker, harsh and cold. "Better luck next time, I guess." And then he turned and began to stride from the field, taking the supposed token of luck with him.
"Where are you going with that?" Brandon shouted. "Bring it here! Oi! Bring that back!"
"Give it up, Madison!" Draco called without stopping, returning Brandon's words with dangerous force.
Give it up. I won't let you take what's mine. Not the Snitch…
His fingers clamped around the tie.
And not Hermione.
Hermione entered slowly through the centaur portrait, wiped out from the day's excitement. Tiredly, she moved to the sofa, reaching up to untie her hair, letting her wild curls fall over her shoulders. She sat, curling her legs under her, resting her head against the cushioned scroll-end armrest.
God, what a spectacle Brandon had made. What a mess he'd created. A simple dance date had suddenly turned into some kind of courtship, and Hermione certainly wasn't ready for that. When she'd accepted Brandon's invitation to the Halloween Dance, she'd been inspired by his easiness, his lack of complication. But in the course of a single quidditch match, things had gone strangely awry. And she was starting to understand now that she didn't want the light, flirtatious, airy relationship that Brandon had to offer. She wanted the real one, the intense, all-consuming one. The one that Draco offered in his own coded, complicated way.
What was the matter with her traitorous heart? Why couldn't it beat for Brandon the way it did for Draco Malfoy? Life would be so much simpler that way, wouldn't it? But hearts don't listen to reason or follow orders; she was learning that the hard way.
"I was told this belongs to you."
Hermione's eyes opened at the low voice. Draco was suddenly there in front of her, as if summoned by her silent thoughts. His white-blond hair was wet, damp strands falling across his eyes. He was just out of the shower, she realized. Her cheeks warmed as an image of him flashed before eyes, water streaming down his naked skin, running across the toned muscles underneath.
"Granger." He held out his hand, where the red school tie dangled in his grasp. "Your tie."
She blinked, mortified, her face going hot as she met his gaze. "Oh." She reached out, taking it, then looking up at him strangely. "Where did you find this?"
Draco ran a hand through his wet hair. "Around Madison's arm," he answered unapologetically.
Hermione looked down again, unable to meet his hard gaze. "Oh," she said again. "Did he… did he give it to you to give back to me?"
"You could say that," was all he said.
Hermione frowned, looked up again. "You didn't… take it from him, did you?"
Draco's eyes narrowed. "What if I did? Would it really matter?" Hermione didn't answer. "Did you want him to keep it?" he pressed after a moment, his voice disapproving. "A good luck charm for the next quidditch match, too?"
Hermione met the intense grey eyes above hers. "No," she told him honestly. "I never wanted him to have it to begin with."
Relief waterfalled through him, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he shrugged easily. "That must be why it didn't work."
Hermione nodded, holding back a secret smile. "Maybe." She stood, absently curling a light brown ringlet around her finger. "Well goodnight… Malfoy." She turned, walking slowly to the lion portrait at the other side of the room.
"Goodnight? It's barely six o'clock."
Hermione looked back, smiling quietly. "There's no rule against going to bed early, is there?"
Draco crossed his arms, his face stern. "No, but there is a rule about skipping dinner. You can't go to bed without eating something, Granger."
Hermione sighed, turning all the way around. "I'm not really hungry," she explained warily. "And that really isn't a rule."
Draco stepped forward. "Then I'm making it one," he told her firmly.
Hermione rolled her eyes, exasperated. "What is it with all of you? I don't need constant supervision. I've been eating just fine." She gestured to her body in frustration. "Can't you tell?"
His grey eyes moved over her, studying her body. He could tell, actually. In fact, there was a new awareness entering him, making his own body tense up. Her slight, frail form had taken on shape again, filling out the plain school uniform. Her body had been all angles before, but they had softened into curves, subtle, smooth, and totally hypnotizing. He was noticing her now, not the innocent beauty, but the womanly appeal, the kind that had his blood pumping red-hot through his veins. Her small breasts had become fuller, rounder, and Draco's hands itched to feel the weight for themselves. He longed to touch her, to let his palms brush down her abdomen, to let them rest at the light flare of hips. Had it really been only days ago that she'd been merely skin and bones?
Hermione regretted her bating words as soon as they spilled out. She felt her face heat, but she didn't look away as Draco's passionate gaze studied her. She could feel his eyes like hands as they moved up and down her body… and she swore her heart was suddenly beating in slow motion.
He wanted her, wanted her like he'd never wanted another woman. Before now, his thoughts about Hermione Granger had been completely pure—now, all of a sudden, they were purely lascivious. God, how had he slept beside her without feeling this raging need? How had he looked at her without wanting her like this?
Would it ever be possible to look at her that innocently again?
"I… I should go…" Hermione gripped the bunched up tie tightly in her hand, squeezing the material. She had to run, to escape his penetrating gaze. "I… should…"
"Go?" he finished. "You're right. You should."
Despite the words, neither of them moved. It was as if they were paralyzed. Hermione took a deep breath, in… out… willing her legs to press forward, step backward—anything to get her away. But Draco's silver eyes held her in place, bright, intense, like a predator as it watched its prey.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked him quietly. Fear and excitement mixed like a drug inside of her, branching through her blood to her brain, turning her breath ragged.
The same drug had Draco in its grip. "You know why," he said, his voice dangerously low.
Hermione swallowed, her eyes widening just a bit. Yes, she knew. The air around them was practically charged with sexual energy, and she could feel the sparks of tension all through her body, touching places she'd never even known existed.
"This… this is new," she whispered, unable to stop her gaze from scanning down his body. "This wasn't there before." Or maybe it had been there all along, just under the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.
Draco took a step forward—another one—then another. Suddenly, he was in front of her, his body a breath away from hers. He reached out, lifting the hem of the white button-up shirt. One hand slowly passed underneath, gliding across the smooth skin of her abdomen, down her hip. The tender feelings of before were jagged and harsh now, the warmth turned up to a scorching heat. He had never touched her with sexual intent, with desire. But he did now, his hands gripping the flesh at her waist, pulling her body roughly against his.
Hermione couldn't catch her breath. Draco's hands were on her bare skin, lighting her body on fire. She could feel him against her, slowly pushing to get closer, the bulge in his pants pressing hard to her waist. There was dampness all around her, as if the air had suddenly turned humid. What had happened to the days of cool autumn? In the course of a single minute, the world had melted into summer.
Draco was burning from the inside out, desperate for more. He was struggling to hold back, to remind himself who he was, who she was, trying to remember all the reasons why this was wrong. He opened his mouth against her throat, his tongue touching her skin.
"God, you're soft," he whispered hungrily, before shaking his head clear. "No—you should go. I should go." He held her away before it could get any worse, taking a deep breath. "Go to bed," he told her after a moment, turning his head. "I'll bring you your food."
"But—"
"Go, I said!"
Hermione swallowed, nodded. She backed away and then turned, heading through the lion portrait to safety.
Draco waited for the sound of the painting to click shut before putting his head in his hands. Oh, God, what had he done?
And how was he going to stop himself from doing it again?
Harry and Ron looked up and down the Gryffindor table, their gazes searching in vain for Hermione. Blind panic threatened to break into consciousness, but both of them kept their fear at bay.
"Do you see her?" Harry asked, his voice low.
"No, mate. She isn't here," Ron said. "Maybe she's running late."
Harry turned, his eyes focused on the entrance. "Or maybe she's not coming at all."
Seamus looked up from his dinner, chewing noisily. "Big bloody deal!" he said sarcastically, not bothering to swallow.
Dean smiled. "Yeah. You know, if she isn't here it's probably an indication that she isn't hungry," he informed them mildly.
But that was exactly what Harry and Ron were afraid of. And it was anything but funny.
What if she had relapsed into her depression? What if the endless days of starvation weren't over? What if she had never truly recovered from them to begin with? The thoughts propelled Harry up out of his seat. "I'll check on her," he decided, stepping over the bench.
"What for?" Dean asked. And then he shook his head, bemused. "Harry, she can't be with you all the time."
"We know that," Harry snapped, running a nervous hand through his hair.
"Then what's the problem?" Seamus asked with a smile, taking a giant gulp of water. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I bet she's in her room—hiding from you, no doubt. You never give her any peace!"
The words struck a nerve and had Ron slamming his fists down, shaking the table. "Why don't you just shut your mouth, eh?" he thundered, shocking the laughter into silence. He was up out of his seat, hands raised threateningly at his friend.
"What the fuck is your problem, mate?" Seamus asked, pushing himself up as well.
"You, man! You're my problem! Always talking about shit you know nothing about!"
"What are you on about?" Dean asked from his seat. He turned his narrowed gaze to Harry. "What's he on about?"
"Nothing." Harry tugged Ron by the sleeve, conscious of the attention they were attracting. "Let's go, Ron."
"Yeah, go!" Seamus taunted. He turned to Harry. "Take your mate out of here before he gets himself hurt!"
"Why you—!"
"Come on, Ron" Harry said, grabbing the boy's arm before he could lunge at Seamus. He pulled Ron away from the table. "Let's go."
"Good riddance!" Seamus called after them. "And don't come back until you've taken that stick out of your arse!" Shaking his head, he settled back into his seat. "Totally mental," he muttered, exchanging bewildered glances with the people around him. They nodded, turning their heads to watch as Harry dragged their furious friend from the room.
"Let go of me!" Ron spat once they were in the corridor, wrenching his arm away. Harry put his hands up, backed up a step. Ron shook his head, taking a deep breath, blowing it out again. "God, I want to kill that git sometimes."
"I can see that. What the hell's gotten into you?"
Ron brought his hands to his forehead. "I just hate when they say stuff—you know, like it's some sort of joke."
"To them it is a joke. They don't know her like we do." Harry sighed, rubbing his neck. "They don't know how it really is."
There was silence. After a while, Ron turned to his friend, a new vulnerability in his eyes. "Hey, Harry." Harry looked up. "You don't think Seamus is right…?"
"Right about what?"
Ron looked at the floor, hesitant. "About Mione," he said quietly. "What if she is hiding from us?"
"She isn't." But Harry wasn't sure.
Ron nodded. "You're probably right," he said with a shrug. "I just… worry sometimes."
Harry nodded. He knew the feeling.
What Dean had said was true. They couldn't watch Hermione all the time—but they had to try. Because if they didn't, she might slip between the cracks again. How else could they be sure that she got enough rest, ate enough food? They couldn't trust her enough to do it on her own. If nothing else, this moment was evidence of that.
"The others just don't understand," Harry said, almost to himself. "We're doing what we have to do."
Draco was rounding the corner when a pair of familiar voices had him stopping short. It was Potter and Weasley, standing at the middle of the corridor. Quickly he stepped out of sight, moving back around the corner before he could be noticed.
Weasley was talking, passion obvious in his voice. He was angry at someone, or at something that had been said. Potter made a wry response, and then Ron was going on. His voice was slowly mellowing out, turning from something loud to a quieter resentment. "I just hate when they say stuff—" Draco heard him say, "you know, like it's some sort of joke."
"To them it is a joke. They don't know her like we do. They don't know how it really is."
Draco frowned as he listened. It was Hermione they were talking about. Who else could it be?
The voices were growing quieter with every word, and he leaned closer in an attempt to hear what they were saying.
"Hey, Harry… You don't think Seamus is right…?" Weasley asked, his voice serious.
Right about what? Harry voiced the words just a second after Draco thought them.
"About Mione," Weasley answered. "What if she is hiding from us?"
"She isn't," Potter said shortly. Draco's eyes narrowed. The words were harsh, as if he was trying to convince himself that they were true.
"You're probably right. I just… worry sometimes."
It went silent, and Draco wondered if they were whispering now. He peered around corner, his head right up against the wall.
"The others just don't understand," he heard Harry say, his voice low... sad. "We're doing what we have to do."
Draco had hated these boys for as long as he could remember. He'd walked into this school, and very possibly this life, despising everything they did, everything they said, everything they were. He'd tortured them for years, and they had done the same to him. That's how it had always been.
But suddenly, for the first time, he felt a kinship to his rivals.
Shaking his head, he rounded the corner, putting on the familiar façade.
Harry and Ron's heads snapped around at the sound of footsteps behind them. Their eyes turned, narrowed, taking in the familiar face of Draco Malfoy.
"Malfoy," Harry acknowledged with a nod.
"Potter," he returned easily enough.
They watched each other in silence. "Where'd you come from?"
Draco merely smiled. "What, you can't tell from the accent?" he asked with mild sarcasm.
"We're not playing games," Ron said impatiently. "You know what he meant. Where'd you come from just now?"
Draco only raised a brow.
Harry took a deep breath, praying for patience, praying for anything but panic. "Listen, Malfoy, we just want to know if you've see Hermione."
Draco shrugged. Funny… he usually enjoyed baiting them more. But now it was almost tiring. It felt strangely like a chore. "Maybe I have and maybe I haven't," he said evasively. "Though I can't see how that's any of your business."
Ron sent him a sharp glare, his face going red. "It is our business!" he bellowed, fists clenched at his sides.
Harry sighed. "We don't have time to waste on you, Malfoy," he said resignedly. "Either you've seen her or you haven't."
Draco had a choice to make. He could do what he'd always done and not give a flying fuck about them or what they wanted. Or he could do something new and, for once in his life, show the empathy he was feeling inside.
What he decided on was something in between.
"I might have seen Granger an hour or so ago," he said finally, giving them what they wanted without surrendering his front. He shrugged with apathy, though he was feeling anything but apathetic.
Ron crossed his arms, his hands still fisted. "Where might you have seen her?"
"Well, we do share a dormitory, Weasley," the blond man told him mockingly.
"The dormitory." Ron scowled, then turned to his friend. "Has she just been… sitting up there, then?" he asked. The answer had insecurity doubling, had questions blazing, spreading fear like fire. Was she trying to escape them? Could this be a new beginning to the starvation, the lifelessness... a new beginning to the end?
The same thoughts were running through Harry's mind. "Well has she?" he suddenly demanded, turning to his nemesis.
Draco looked between the two men, his face and eyes like stone. It had never been difficult for him to be harsh or sarcastic with his enemies. He didn't care about them, not about their wellbeing, and certainly not about their feelings—didn't even care when he was the one to threaten both. Their cold interactions never weighed on his conscience. In fact, he hadn't been at all sure he even had a conscience.
Until now.
He looked over his shoulder, wishing he had stayed out of sight, avoided interaction. He couldn't show an ounce of sympathy or understanding. Not for anyone—but especially not for them.
"I couldn't say," he said with sarcastic-sweet charm. "She's went to bed—and, as you might have guessed, I didn't join her."
Oh, but how he'd wanted to... The two men in front of him would never know just how desperately he wanted her—to fall into her room, into her bed... into her body. They would never have guessed that the cold, arrogant Slytherin Prince was fighting back burning flames of desire for the mudblood Hermione Granger.
"Well, thank God for that," Ron said back with a scowl. "Because if you ever so much as tried to get into Hermione's bed, I'd slice you apart until you were nothing but shreds of skin on the floor."
Draco smiled blandly at the irony. "Trust me, Weasley, if I ever did end up sleeping with Granger, you wouldn't know a thing about."
Ron turned beet red. "Why don't you sod off, Malfoy."
"You want me to leave? But I thought we were having so much fun." The twin glowers he received had his smirk growing. Slowly, amusedly, he began to back away. "I guess I'll be seeing you, then."
"Not too soon, I hope," the redheaded man spat.
Draco only laughed and turned away, beginning to head down the corridor towards the Great Hall.
He returned to his common room with a plate of food in his hand.
Immediately, he crossed to the lion portrait. For the first time, it didn't growl as he approached, causing him to frown. The thing no longer perceived him as a threat, a sign that spoke volumes. A part of him was pleased, but another, bigger part of him was restless. His feelings for Granger didn't mean she was safe from him. In fact, they only increased the danger.
He knocked lightly, waited for a response. No one answered. He whispered the password and the painting swung open, permitting him to enter without so much as the slightest delay.
The room beyond was dark, bathed in the deep maroon of early night. Hermione was stretched out atop the covers of her bed, her eyes closed in sleep.
Draco placed the plate on her desk before stepping closer. She had fallen asleep still clothed in her school blouse and skirt, and they were creased with wrinkles from being slept on. He couldn't stop the tender smile that spread across his face as he watched her. She hadn't even taken off her shoes...
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Draco unlaced her left tennis shoe, gently drawing it off, before moving to the right, untying it and doing the same. Quietly, he placed them on the floor, and then shifted back to remove her knee socks. Slowly, silently, he pushed the left one down, trying carefully not to wake her.
Hermione jerked awake with a cry, her body curling up defensively.
He drew his hands up. "It's just me," he said, his voice low.
"Malfoy…" Hermione brought a hand to her chest, taking a deep breath. "You scared me." And then her gaze turned curious. "What... were you doing?"
Draco gestured vaguely to her legs, where one sock was off and one was on. "You, uh, fell asleep with your shoes on," he explained, scratching his neck.
Hermione looked down at herself. Her brows furrowed... and then they went up, a wave of warmth running through her. He had been taking her shoes and socks off for her, she realized. The action was so… she couldn't think of the word. Soft. Affectionate. Intimate.
She was grateful for the lack of light because she couldn't stop the charmed smile from spreading across her face. "Oh." It was all she could think to say.
Draco stood. "Here," he said, needing to distract them both from the ridiculous display of tenderness. "I told you I'd bring you food." He crossed the room and picked up the plate. "It's probably still warm."
Hermione peeled off her other sock, threw it on the ground before accepting the food. "Thanks," she said quietly.
Draco nodded once and then backed away. She pointed her wand at the food, heating it with a single word. His eyes stayed on her, watching as she lifted the fork to her mouth. She paused, her eyes warily meeting his. "I am going to eat it, you know," she assured him quietly. "You don't have to supervise me. I don't need a babysitter."
Draco leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets. "Your little friends seem to think you do," he told her. "They were practically in a panic when you didn't come down for dinner."
Hermione sighed, pushing the pasta around on her plate. "They're trying to protect me," she said after a moment. "They think if they're always around, I won't…" She trailed off, shook her head, unable to say the words. "They don't want things to go back to how they were."
"I don't blame them."
The words were quiet, low. They had Hermione glancing up, but only for a second. There was silence. "You know," she whispered after a while, "I never thought that you'd be the one to find me… that night." She swallowed, her brown eyes staring at the noodles that wrapped around the pointed prongs of her fork. "I imagine it was awkward for you... having to rush me to the infirmary and all that."
Draco was still as a statue, but his eyes were alert as they watched her. The haunting memory of her broken body in his arms, her warm blood against his skin, on his hands, flashed through him. "I wouldn't say awkward is the word."
More silence. Slowly, Hermione twirled the fork, watching as thin strips of pasta wrapped around silver. "You must think I'm so ungrateful," she mused with a humorless smile. "I mean… I never even thanked you."
Draco's jaw tightened. "I never expected you to."
Another pause. "I never… apologized, either."
His gaze was dark. "Apologized for what?"
She twisted the fork in the opposite direction, staring as the noodles slowly unraveled. "For putting you in that situation," she explained, her voice almost inaudible. "For forcing you to save me... someone you hate."
Draco pushed himself off the wall, taking slow, purposeful steps towards her. He lowered himself onto the bed, and, with his eyes on hers, removed the plate from her lap. Gently, he reached up, tucked one wild ringlet behind her ear. "There's always more," he told her seriously. "I can't hate you for that."
He took her hands in both of his, raised them to his mouth; she felt his lips brush lightly against the right one, and then the left. Tears pressed at the back of her eyes, tender and unbelieving, warm and hopeful. She held them at bay.
"Eat something," he commanded quietly after a moment, releasing one hand to pick the plate back up from where it rested on the little table. She nodded. His mission accomplished, Draco began to stand, but stopped when he felt her hand tighten around his. He brought his eyes back to hers, a question there.
"Will you stay?" she whispered.
Draco looked down at where her hand held firmly to his. There was a pause, long and hesitant. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'll stay."
He sat beside her on the bed, their shoulders touching as she ate some of the pasta he had brought for her. And when she was done, they pulled the covers up and climbed beneath them, lying close to one another, neither of them bothering to change out of their day clothes. They fell asleep that way, their bodies wrapped together, the gentle whisper of their breathing the only sound against the silence.
The days that followed came and went at lightning speed, the nights falling just as quickly. The new sleeping arrangement had somehow become a habit, one that Draco couldn't break himself of even if he'd tried. They slept through the hours of darkness side-by-side, lying close together beneath Hermione's covers, calm and comfortable.
Neither of them asked the other for anything. There was so much to say yet neither of them spoke. There were so many questions, but both let them go unasked, unanswered. They were content to just hold each other, to just let things rest, silent and serene.
Still, Draco couldn't ignore his growing anxiety. The week was drawing to a close, bringing his meeting with Lucius nearer and nearer. His time with Hermione was coming to a sudden end, and the closer that end came, the more restless he felt.
The morning finally arrived. Draco was awake before the sunrise. He hadn't really slept. Careful not to wake Hermione, he extracted her arm from around his abdomen. As he climbed out from underneath the covers he felt the air seize him in an ice-cold grip. He looked down at the girl still fast asleep in the bed, longing to move back beside her where he knew for certain he would be warm. It was hard as hell to resist, but duty propelled him forward, towards the door, towards the future… and away from Hermione Granger.
Her voice reached him just as he reached the door. "Where are you going?"
He turned. "I have business." His voice was unemotional, almost cold.
Hermione looked into his eyes, silver in the moonlight. "Business," she repeated. "That sounds ominous."
He looked away, her searching gaze cutting him like a knife. A brief silence fell between them, and Draco longed to fill it with comforting words, longed to reassure her, and himself, that things would be okay.
But how could he, when he knew it wasn't true?
"I'll be back," he told her instead.
It didn't comfort her. "When?"
Draco's gaze moved to the window, where moonlight was shining in. "I don't know. Today. Tonight, at the latest."
Hermione swallowed, not sure of what to say or what to think. A kind of cold awareness had settled in, one that made her heart hurt. Had she really believed that they were done with secrets? "There's always more, isn't there?" she whispered sadly.
Draco's jaw clenched. With one dark, silent look, he was gone.
Hermione watched him go, wondering what more there was...
"Draco!" a voice boomed the minute he arrived. "As usual, you're late. I was expecting you at dawn."
He turned. Lucius was on the grand staircase, moving down the marble steps as if he were some sort of king. His face held all the condescension in the world, and, as always, it was all directed at his son.
Draco put on a mocking smile, letting attitude cover his unease. "Forgot to set my alarm clock, I guess."
Lucius reached the bottom of the stairwell, arms crossed imperially. "Enough with your insolence," he commanded with a scowl. "I distinctively remember telling you that it would no longer be tolerated."
"And I distinctively remember not caring," Draco replied.
His father's lip curled in apparent disgust. "We've been far too lenient with you, boy," he said. "But believe me, you'll learn that there's a price for disobedience." He turned on his heel, his expensive robes swirling around his legs. "Come with me."
Draco fell in step with the older man, following silently as he led him down a darkened corridor. The passageway was straight but long, taking minutes to get to the end of. They finally did, stopping in front of a familiar door. Reaching into the folds of his robes, he produced a large ring of more than a dozen silver keys. His eyes narrowed, he took the center-most one into his hand and inserted it into the antique keyhole. There was a click, and with a careful push, the heavy door was open.
Draco had stood in front of this door many times before, but only once had he ever ventured beyond the threshold. It had been long ago, when he had still possessed some naivety, some light. Back then, the looming darkness had still been confusing. Little Draco had not yet been able to understand why his parents wouldn't play with him, why they never hugged or fussed over him. He'd been so eager, so hopeful, following them around, desperate for a good-morning kiss, or a bedtime story, for anything in between. Instead, they gave him the cold shoulder, some harsh words, and a quick sendoff—back to the house-elves they'd appointed as sorry substitutes for themselves.
Lucius passed through the entrance, leading Draco into the large study. Bookshelves and cabinets covered the farthest wall, housing endless files and books of all sorts. Two windows that spread from ceiling to floor sat on the wall next to that, revealing the gentle pinks of sunrise. A majestic desk sat in between them, its surface bare, a gold and velvet throne behind it. At the other wall was a fireplace, wide and tall, one imposing wingback chair positioned before it.
Draco's grey eyes stared at the hearth, memory flashing in front of his eyes.
It had been late at night the last time he'd been inside the study, far past his usual bedtime. The sun had already sunk deep into the sea, and a crescent moon had been high above the manor, sending muted rays of light through the gothic windows. Draco had been on one of his midnight adventures, occupying himself, as he'd always had to do, exploring the endless rooms and passageways of his home in search of imaginary treasure.
The distant sound of voices had drawn him to the study. Curious, he'd crept down the corridor to the dimly lit room. The heavy door had been left open just a bit, leaving just enough space for one little grey eye to peek through. His father had been inside, standing before the fireplace, leaning in, as if listening to the flames.
And then he'd heard it, a quiet, scratchy, strangely-pitched voice coming from inside the fire, the sound so depleted that Draco had hardly been able to make out what it was saying.
"Must summon the First Circle… the time has come…" The voice had been weak and commanding all at once. The sound of it had had him wanting to back away, but for some reason compelled him closer, until he'd found a way to silently squeeze through the entrance and creep unnoticed into the room.
"The Circle is divided, my lord. Many are still on the run."
"They will come… when they are called," the voice assured Lucius. "They will come... or they will face the consequences."
"But you are weak," Draco heard his father reason. "You must preserve your strength."
"I must… preserve the confederacy or my strength… will mean nothing. Send out the summons, Lucius," the voice commanded.
Lucius turned, wand in hand—but just as he was about to say the spell, he caught sight of his son. "What are you doing in here?" his cold voice rang out. He came lunging at Draco, grabbing the boy by his collar. "Get out! Now!"
"Lucius." The voice stopped him immediately, held him still.
"I'm sorry, my lord. My son was just leaving." Draco flinched at the ice in his father's tone.
"No… Bring him closer…"
Lucius hesitated for the slightest of moments. And then he obeyed, dragging Draco before the fire. Inside of the flames was a face, one that had the young boy swallowing uncertainly. He knew vaguely he should be afraid, but the emotion didn't reach him. Instead, he was only curious.
"How old are you, boy?" the face asked in that chilling voice.
"Five," he answered.
"Shouldn't you… be in bed?" the face asked him. "Aren't all the other boys of five… asleep at this hour?"
Draco shrugged one tiny shoulder. "I'm not like the other boys," he told the flames with childlike candor. "I don't do the things I should."
"That's enough, Draco," Lucius reprimanded.
But the face chuckled, the sound hoarse. "Leave him be… It is astuteness, not insolence—for now, at least." The laughter turned to coughing. There was a pause. The flame-eyes stared deep into Draco's soul. "You're right, Draco," he told him quietly. "You're not like the other boys."
The words were heavy, much heavier than Draco could have ever meant them with his innocent frankness. But he had felt the weight, had somehow understood it. And even at such a tender age, he had somehow known it was burden he'd have to carry for the rest of his life.
You're not like the other boys…
"Draco," Lucius snapped, bringing him back to the present. "Are you paying attention?"
Draco looked away from the hearth. "Not really," he admitted. "Were you saying something?"
Lucius' jaw clenched. "As a matter of fact, I was," he bit out. "And it was important."
Draco smiled pleasantly. "Then, by all means, continue. Drone on about the invitations and seating charts, and what not…"
Lucius sent his son a baleful look. "Invitations and seating charts are woman's work," he informed him. "They are your mother's forte." He moved to his desk, pulling out the high-backed chair and seating himself in it, his spine long and completely straight. He folded is hands slowly, lacing his hard fingers together. "I didn't bring you here to talk about decorations and guest lists," he said with majestic censure. "I brought you here to make sure you understood that for once this is about more than that."
"You mean it isn't just another pretentious soiree?" Draco asked innocently. "Could have fooled me."
"Don't joke, Draco," Lucius snapped. "Not about this." His hands stayed together on the dark wood surface of the desk, but they seemed to tense, to grip together painfully with straining patience. "A Joining isn't just a celebration. It isn't a party. It's a commitment, one that will dictate what you do and who you are for the rest of your life—your Joining, even more so than others," he added seriously. His dark, discerning silver eyes narrowed. "I need you to understand the gravity of this. To be accepted into the First Circle is a very rare honor, Draco."
"I know," Draco said with a bitter smile. He stepped forward, towards one large window, looking out at the newly risen sun. "It's just as you always dreamed."
"I wouldn't treat it lightly. Because you'll find it's much more than that." Draco frowned at the words, but didn't turn. "Don't you want to know the rest?" Lucius asked his son. Draco didn't answer, causing his father's voice to turn harsh. "Don't you?"
"The suspense is killing me," Draco said dully.
Lucius ignored the tone. He considered his son disapprovingly for a moment. "I know you always thought that I would be your Marker. It was the natural conclusion." There was a pause. "However, other arrangements have been made."
"Other arrangements?"
"Yes." Lucius paused again, this time longer. "The Dark Lord, himself, has asked to be the one to Mark you."
Draco's eyes narrowed. A man's Marker was considered his sire, his blood. The Dark Mark connected the two together in a very unique and personal way, and that connection was binding, eternal. Inductees were almost always Marked by a father, a brother, an uncle—passing the legacy from one generation to the next, baptizing the child into this new world of darkness. If you Marked a man, you were responsible for him: you guided him; you showed him how to live the life; you took credit when he proved himself worthy; and you were partly to blame if he shamed the Mark you branded into him.
The Dark Lord wouldn't take that time, that responsibility with just anyone. That integral, paternal bond... there was only one person he would consent to share it with: his successor. He would never Mark a man unless it was…
"The Heir," he finished out loud, his voice dull.
He swallowed, a harsh laugh escaping him. The title of Slytherin Prince had suddenly taken on a darker, realer meaning. And for some reason, he wasn't surprised. Maybe a part of him had always known, had always felt the severity of his future. Maybe he had figured it all out that night so many years ago, when the Dark Lord had smiled at him through the flames and said the words that had sealed his fate forever.
You're right, Draco… You're not like the other boys…
Draco's jaw clenched tight.
There's always more…
He turned, his eyes moving from the light morning sky to the shadows within the study. "How long have you known?"
"Since you were a boy," Lucius admitted quietly. "After Potter survived the Death Curse, the Master was all but destroyed." He angled his chin towards his shoulder so he could look at his son. "I thought he was dead. Everyone did. But circumstances eventually led a few of us to Albania, to the forests, where we found him alive—but barely." He turned his head back, staring ahead. "It took some time," he went on, "but we found a way to return him to a human body. In it, he began to have premonitions of his rise back to power. He saw visions of a war—of Potter and his little friends in chains." He nodded, almost to himself. "And he saw you leading his army against them." He swallowed. His voice wasn't stern, wasn't proud. It was grim. "It was then that he decided it was you, and no one else, that he wanted to carry on his legacy."
A war? Chains? Draco had known there was a plot, had known that the disappearing Aurors were the beginning of the end. But hearing these details, so small, but so definite, was like having a tiny, hazy window into Voldemort's mind.
He kept a cool façade, but deep inside he was anything but calm. The images were vivid, powerful, frightening. Would Hermione fight this battle? Would she be the one dragged away in chains? Would they torture her—would she die a painful death?
Would it be his fault? Would he be the one to kill her?
Unable to handle the imagery, Draco looked back at the window. "I have school," he informed his father curtly. "So if that's all you have to tell me…"
Lucius' gaze narrowed, examining Draco. "There is still the small matter of your Task to go over," he said, sitting back further against the back of his chair, crossing his arms.
"My Task," Draco repeated dully.
"You can't be accepted into the Circle without performing an act of loyalty, Draco. The Dark Lord allows no one in without the assurance that he or she can be trusted. And, sadly, the Malfoys are not exempt from that rule—though the Master has never had any reason to doubt our dedication."
Draco's jaw tightened. Voldemort hadn't had any reason to doubt Lucius Malfoy. He had kept the solemn vows he'd made so many years ago at his own much smaller, much more furtive ceremony; had been nothing but dutiful and deferent—the steadfast servant, the trusted friend. But Draco Malfoy was a completely different story. He didn't share his father's devotion. He had other loyalties now, and they would always come first. Hermione would come first.
"You needn't worry about the Task," his father continued, brushing a piece of lint from the shoulder of his robes. "It's surprisingly simple, actually."
"Murder is never simple, father," he said, his voice low and dead serious.
"No, it isn't," Lucius agreed sternly. "So you should be especially grateful that murder isn't your Task." He tilted his head. "Or, at least, it doesn't have to be." He leaned down, opening a drawer of the giant desk. He reached in, producing a small glass vial. "All you have to do is fill this," he said, pushing it forward on the rich wood surface.
Draco came forward, took the empty container into his hand. The glass was as cold as an ice cube in his hand. "With what?" he asked finally.
Lucius met his son's silver eyes. They were dark, like his. "With blood," he said.
"Whose?" Draco asked warily.
There was cold silence, and then the dreaded words, "Hermione Granger's."
The name resonated against the walls of Draco's mind, echoed within the deep well of his heart—a heart that was suddenly cold and still, frozen by the sound Hermione Granger... Hermione Granger... The Dark Lord wanted the blood of Hermione Granger...
"Do you think you can manage that?" Lucius was asking mildly.
Draco didn't answer, didn't nod in confirmation, didn't deny. "What's it for?" he asked instead, masking his face, making his voice emotionless.
Lucius shook his head. "I don't know," he told his son honestly. "The Dark Lord only told me that it isn't as trivial as it may seem. Only time will reveal rest."
Draco looked at the vial in his hand, suddenly wishing he had never been born... wishing the Task had been murder—a cocky Auror, or a government man. He would have killed anyone, done anything... anything to keep her name out of it. Anything to keep her safe.
"How long do I have?" he asked quietly.
"Until the ceremony. You must present the filled vial to the Dark Lord in exchange for the Mark."
Draco forced himself to nod. "Are we done here?" he asked after another moment.
His father nodded once, the movement sharp. "We are." Without another word, Draco began to cross the room. "And Draco?" He stopped, waited. "Believe me when I say the time for games is over."
Draco's hand tightened around the glass. He knew his father was wrong. What was this but a more dangerous game?
Hermione sat with Harry and Ron in her common room, trying desperately to maintain focus. Law Enforcement officials were disappearing right and left, it seemed. Something big was coming, something colossal. She could sense it. They all could.
But for some reason, all she could think about was Draco. He was off in some unknown place, brought there by some unknown obligation. Business. The word had never been so dark, so cryptic as when he had spoken it.
"Come on, Mione. Focus, will you? We need to figure this out," Ron said without looking up from the newspaper he was studying.
Hermione glanced from one friend to the other. Harry held his head in both hands, two open books sprawled out on the coffee table before him. "Sorry," she said quietly. She took up the week-old paper and tried to read it. It was useless; her thoughts were completely swayed, focused totally on the blond-haired, silver-eyed man who had been mysteriously absent all day. She tried to clear her mind of him, reading and rereading the same sentence again and again. It was impossible.
"This is pointless," she said at last. "We've been over all of this a thousand times. I feel like my head is about to cave in."
"Well, what do you suggest we do? We don't have a lot to go off of here!" Ron shot back.
"Exactly. We don't have enough information," she argued tiredly. "Going over this again and again isn't going to give us what we need." And I can't think, not about this, not while he is on my mind.
"We can't not try, and for right now this is the best we can do."
Hermione didn't want to argue. She sighed, bringing an unsteady hand to rub her temple.
"If I had known there was going to be a party, I would have come a lot sooner," Draco's haughty voice cut through the silence. Hermione looked up, her weary eyes meeting his gaze.
"You weren't invited, ferret," Ron said with a sarcastic smile.
"I know," Draco replied with a smirk. "I'm a crasher."
Harry stood, beginning to gather the papers. "We'll clean up," he put in before a war of words could begin.
"But Harry—"
"Hermione is tired, Ron," Harry cut in. "So am I. We'll finish this tomorrow… in our own common room," he added, his dull gaze briefly meeting a sardonic Malfoy's eyes. He walked over to Hermione, kissed her forehead, before heading past Draco and disappearing from the room.
Reluctantly, Ron followed, doing the same. "Sorry if I was mean for a minute," he whispered with a rueful smile.
"It's okay," she said, smiling softly. "We'll figure things out eventually." She watched silently as, like Harry, he walked by Malfoy, sending him a threatening glare as he headed out of the main entrance.
Draco waited until the portrait was closed to step further into the room. One eyebrow slowly rose as he took in the open books and newspaper clippings that the men had left behind. "What was all that about," he asked, nodding to the mess.
Hermione leaned her head against the sofa's armrest. "Trying to save the world," she told him, smiling a little.
Draco was tense, but he forced the familiar dry smile. "I guess I shouldn't have crashed the party, then," he said back lightly.
Her laugh was a breathless song, but it did nothing to comfort him. He was too aware of the empty vial in his pocket.
There would be no saving the world this time. It was doomed, all of it—all of them.
Including her.
Including him.