monday
december 3, 1996
Draco was settled against the Vanishing Cabinet during the early hours of the night. December had been painfully cold, even just three days in, and he hadn't managed to warm himself up since it'd begun.
Hours ago, he removed his Slytherin green tie and dark gray jumper, nearly the minute his lessons finished. Now, he wore dark jeans and a thick gray shirt. It wasn't enough. He shivered against the Cabinet, tilting his head back until it found the wood. He pulled his knees up and rested his hands on them.
Then he carefully rolled his left sleeve up to his elbow and held his breath, trying to keep down sick. He scanned his mangled, pale skin and felt the prickle of numbness threating to overtake his fingers.
Black ink swirled beneath gashes that were the shade of dark red wine, like something he imagined his mother would drink. They'd begun to heal enough to grow fingernail-deep scabs that were tight against the skin there. What was underneath was a horror–it was repulsive. A violent thing that needed to be hidden. Hiding something so large, irremovable, so heinous was not an easy task.
It hurt. His arm hurt beneath the pain that he'd inflicted on it. There was a burn that went deeper than self-induced scratches. It was a piecing fury, traveling through even his blood.
He tried to remember exactly when he had done it– thought maybe it had been in his sleep this time. But now, he'd done such a thing more times than he could count. It was useless to try to devise what had compelled him to do such a thing.
Draco screwed his eyes shut. Everything was spinning. Everything around him was moving impossibly fast and was begging him to lay down. Sleep. The insomnia had worn his brain tired and slow– all of his thoughts were faded against a mirage.
He pushed two fingers against his scabbed skin until his head stopped reeling. He pushed his fingers against the scabs until all he could hear was the beat of his heart in his ears and felt the burn of salt at the corners of his eyes.
He had a job to do.
There was work to do and if didn't matter how badly the Mark hurt, he had to ignore it.
His consciousness fought for dominance, begged him to open his eyes, but all he could think of was the pain in his arm. The way in which it hadn't dissipated since the day he received it.
Before Draco had been Marked, almost an entire year ago now, his father had brought him to the first conversion meeting. The evening was hosted at LeStrange Manor with intentions for the Dark Lord's evangelists to preach on His behalf, conniving and coercing men to take the Mark.
Draco's father had spoken briefly. Lucius wore a barbaric look when he told the crowd of men about the power they'd be given. The greatness in their blood; the greatness in being branded together. An honor to be branded. That night, Lucius looked tall, proud, and exceptionally cold. Draco wasn't sure if it was the first night he'd realized his father was nothing more than a slave, or if it was the first night the he worried that he was next.
On the day of Lucius' imprisonment, Draco held his mother. She didn't cry for more that five minutes, but Draco held her nonetheless. She wasn't crying for Lucius, Draco already knew. His parents didn't love each other in such ways. My darling boy, she cried. Over and over. I'm so sorry, my darling.
Draco wasn't there when the Dark Lord heard the news of the failure of one of his inner most servants. It was less than a week later that the Dark Lord took his revenge and laid his claim over Malfoy's only son.
There was a tone of annihilation in the Dark Lord's voice and he gathered Draco into his knife-like grip, scarring him forever.
Draco didn't remember much of the ceremony. Aside from the fact that Aunt Bellatrix was there to act as secondary bonder and the Dark Lord's snake wove herself up his right arm, then around his chest, and up to his neck. At one point, Draco was sure that Nagini would kill him before the Mark was finished....
And then he woke up on the floor of LeStrange Manor, very much alive. Burdened by the weight of dark magic forever.
In the Room of Requirement, Draco forced himself to open his eyes. He looked down at his left arm and watched as pills of deep red liquid seeped from his skin. Bright red blood pooled on his forearm and, in a thin line, slowly ran down to this wrist. The fingernails on his right hand quickly stained red.
He stared until his own blood seemed foreign.
"Episkey." He tried to mend the bleeding, just to amuse himself. The Dark Mark repelled his magic with a sting. There were some forms of magic, almost always Dark, that would go to any lengths to keep one from altering its purpose. Even if it meant killing its owner, the Dark Mark would refuse any magic that wasn't explicitly meant for contacting a master.
He wondered, just for a moment, if the Gryffindor was smart enough to find her way around that one.
Draco pressed his head back against the Cabinet.
He wasn't sure how long his eyes had been closed when he heard the swing of the door groaning in the distance.
"Draco?" The Gryffindor's voice echoed in the cavernous room.
He didn't move to stand, but listened for the crumbling creek of the door as it reverted itself back into a simple stone wall. Her shoes clicked against the stone floor, quietly at first, but growing louder.
He tried to sit taller. Flattened his gray long sleeve over his bleeding arm. Tried to blink haziness away from his vision and thought about standing up. He placed his hands on the floor on either side of him, pushing into the cool stone. When he did, the stitch in his arm tightened into a sear of pain, throbbing at the pace of his heartbeat. He retracted his arm, fist clenched tightly to keep vulgar words at bay. A shock of heat traveled through his spine, sending a fog into his brain that was unforgiving– draining him even more than before.
The Gryffindor's steps rounded through the final bend of the pathway between shelves and fallen chairs. In the next moment, she was standing in front of him, staring down at the boy on the floor.
He kept his gaze on her knees. If he looked up to greet her, she was likely to see the echo of pain on his expression.
"Oh, hi.... Are you alight?" She asked, tiny black flats on her feet shuffling as if she debated coming closer.
Draco wondered what he would do now. His options were to stand, greet the girl, but risk falling into a fainting spell. Otherwise, he could stay seated on the floor, perhaps yell at her to leave.
His jaw clenched under the pressure of his decision But the his body relaxed, unable to produce the energy, giving in and shrinking back into the Cabinet.
"Fine." His tone was harsher than he intended and he didn't lift his eyes to look at her.
"Draco...." The hum of her voice was thick with sympathy and hesitation.
He watched as her feet finally moved. Her tiny black flats came towards him quickly. He counted her steps. One. Two. Three. And, in a smooth motion, she lowered herself onto her knees and knelt next to him.
"What is it?" She asked in a voice so soft that Draco could no longer resist.
He lifted his head, eyes scanning the picture of her face until he lost himself in the deep brown of her stare. Her doe eyes engulfed him; watching him with concern as specks of honey pooled around her pupils.
"I'm fine." He replied, but his tone lacked the aggression that he forced moments ago. All of his anger had faded into nothingness– uselessness. Persuaded away by something about her.
She pressed her lips into a fine line, watching him through long lashes. Draco could tell that she was holding words of question in, keeping them to herself, and he was thankful.
She then stood, the worn rip over the right knee on her jeans rearranging against her leg before she extended her hand. There was something so easy and serene, in the way her thin fingers reached for him, offering him all of her and absolutely nothing at the same time.
He set his large hand in hers and began pushing himself off the ground.
He had been right, of course.
There was a wave of unsteadiness that washed through his body. It attacked his brain first, destroying his balance and darkening his vision until there was nothing but the feeling of Hermione's hand darting to his shoulder, then one to his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt in both places.
Darkness engulfed him, lulling him into the emptiness of thoughtlessness. All of his sensations abandoned him far faster than he had anticipated.
"Hey!" Hermione yelped when his dizziness sent him forward, his weight beginning to shift towards her as she pushed against his chest, guiding him back into the Cabinet behind him.
His shoulders landed on the wood with a dull thud, snapping his eyes back into focus. The fog lifted for long enough to reveal her face, cheeks red, brow furrowed, eyes searching him in confusion.
Draco felt his eyelids fluttering, struggling to remain open and aware. He allowed them to close, only for a moment, and set his head back against the wood. He squeezed her arm gently, realizing he'd grabbed her somewhere in his dizziness.
"Are you alright?" She asked, sinking in concern, but Draco hardly heard her.
"Fuck. Just dizzy." He sucked in a deep breath to wake himself up, begging the darkness to subside. The feeling returned to his feet, then his knees, his chest, then her small hands pressing into his skin through his black shirt.
"Fuck." He echoed himself, peeling the back of his head from its resting place until Hermione's hand left his shoulder and took hold of his face instead.
Warm finger pressed into the skin beneath his ear, her palm soft against his cool cheek. He leant his head into her hand, suddenly enveloped in her scent. That comforting mix of chamomile and honey on a Sunday, afternoon rain in the summertime, and sweet spring flowers.
"Don't do that." He mumbled, peeling his eyes open again.
"What?" She asked with a thin breath. Her face was coated with a strange stare, eyes glossed over in a way that made Draco's stomach turn.
He brought his arm over hers so their elbows touched, hesitating– his hand hovered in the air between them before reaching for her.
"That." He said, his tone still heavy and soft as his fingers smoothed over her rosy cheek, wandering to her ear before curling his fingers there, tucking fallen hair away from her porcelain skin. "Don't do that."
There was still a blanket of drowsiness that was heavy against his chest. Either way, he knew that he couldn't have her hand against his cheek without sinking into it. He couldn't allow her to touch him, to pity him, to continue to watch him with those soft brown eyes.
And yet, he couldn't seem to work up the effort to push her away.
So he kept his hand against her cheek and allowed her to do the same.
And they simply stood like this, fogged and strange in a surreal haze.
He could see it in the way she pressed her lips together that she was dying to swarm him with questions. He didn't have it in him to fight today.
There was blood beneath his finger nails. There must have been blood left on his hand. The spot where his hand had first grazed her chin was now smudged with dark red.
Draco felt his heart lurch in his throat, then stop entirely.
His blood was on her fucking face.
He tried not to look at her. But his blood was on the floor, too.
Had he really bleed that much?
He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, then, but was inundated with darkness and fear. He was spinning again, worse than before.
His hand slipped away from her face, clutching at his chest.
He thought he heard Hermione yelling his name as the ground rushed towards him and everything went dark.
Draco wasn't sure how much time has passed when he came to. He kept his eyes closed and tried to account for what had happened. He'd fainted.
He'd fainted and was laying down, now, he thought. The stone floor was cold beneath his back, but his head was perched against something soft.
Hermione Granger was crying. It was a soft, pained sound that left her in long breaths and shaking sighs. Hiccuping, even.
Draco's stomach twisted in on itself and he had to clench his jaw and screw his eyes shut even tighter to keep himself from crying out it pain.
He was infinitely aware that the left sleeve of his gray tee shirt had been rolled up to his elbow. His arm was exposed and felt sticky in the cool air. He knew that whatever suspicions Hermione had before, he just confirmed them all.
He felt boiling tears begin to cast down the sides of his temples, but didn't dare to move. He was horrified. His head was in her lap and one of her small hands was on his right shoulder, and he was horrified and agonizingly ashamed.
Draco gave himself away when he couldn't hold his breath for any longer. His chin trembled violently as he tried to keep himself quiet and a harsh inhale through his nose.
There was red behind his eyelids from forcing his eyes to stay closed. Knots had found their way into his hands and fingers, tightening every muscle in his body. He was going to be sick. She should have killed him. She should have left him there to die.
"Draco–" The Gryffindor began, but he shook his head.
He'd lose it if she said anything more.
He was going to have to cut his fucking arm off.
He was too far gone to see reason. Too far gone to take a breath that he desperately needed.
"I only wanted to check– just wanted to check that you're okay. I only wanted to stop the bleeding– I didn't.... I wasn't thinking–"
He wanted to plug his ears like a little boy. Wanted to hide away from her.
Why hadn't she just fucking killed him?
It was like drowning in the Black Lake in the dead of the winter. He couldn't seem to fill his lungs and had lost all feeling in his toes and hands. His throat constricted and tried, but no air came through.
Above him, Hermione was speaking, but he couldn't understand a single word from her mouth. He thought, for a moment, maybe her hands were against his face. Maybe she was trying to hold onto him, but all he could feel was the floor falling out from beneath him. His body was falling into the abyss– down, down, until he was unconscious again.
It could have been days or seconds when he finally woke. Draco wasn't sure. It was like waking from a deep sleep. His heart rate had settled into something moderately normal and, though every inch of his body ached, he was able to breath again. He could taste blood in his mouth and, somehow, knew that it came from the inside of his lip. He must have bitten himself in his panic.
He was sure of it now– Hermione's hands were cupped around his face. One of her small hands was around the side of his chin, the other up by his opposite temple. Her thumb rubbed soothingly on the corner of his forehead.
She wasn't crying anymore, he realized, and his sleeve had been rolled back down to his wrist.
He opened his eyes and tried to adjust to the light.
Her face was silhouetted at first, but slowly came into focus. Her brown eyes were swollen and the skin around them red and wet. Thick curls of dark hair framed her face as she gazed down at him, upside down from this angle.
It was impossible to know what to say.
He didn't even try. He couldn't.
Instead, he turned until his nose pressed into the thigh that she had been using to keep his head off the floor. Her hands shifted around him and repositioned to the side of his head and his shoulder. Soundlessly, tears streaked down the tip of his nose and onto her jeans. She didn't say a thing as his hands maneuvered towards his face, but landed with one on her leg and one in the fabric of her jumper.
She'd have to turn him in, he knew. There was no point in denying it. He'd be expelled and sent back to the Manor to face the Dark Lord. He imagined that his mother wouldn't live long after that. The Dark Lord would likely have someone in Azkaban murder his father– some other prisoner would catch redemption for doing the Dark Lord's bidding. He would save Draco for last. Just like He had promised. Just like Snape had warned.
He could kill himself. He'd thought of it before. He'd even researched potions and accounted for the materials in Snape's personal stores. The only thing that stopped him would be the likely chance that his suicide would amplify the Dark Lord's anger and take it out on his mother.
He could ask her to kill him, he thought. But she was too kind. Too pure and far too Gryffindor. She wouldn't even consider it. The same went for Potter.
If she turned him into Dumbledore tonight, he'd be on the train to the Ministry by sunrise. If protocol for an underage wizard with the Mark was the same as most magical crimes, the Ministry would have his mother there, waiting to claim him. She'd pay his posted bail and they'd go home to lay the sheets and blankets of their own deathbeds.
He was ready to die. His breaths came easily, in waves and synced with the hot tears. He was. He didn't have a choice. He had to be ready.
Neither Draco nor Hermione moved for a very long time. Her hands were heavy and motionless where they rested on his body until he was sure he'd dampened her jeans down to her skin.
It's time. He said to himself, over and over, as if saying such would persuade him to sit up and face her. He couldn't lay there forever, could he? Surely, she wouldn't let him do such a thing. Besides, his side had gone uncomfortable and she couldn't sit there beneath his head forever.
He wanted her to be the first to move.
And wanted nothing to do with her decision.
She'd earned it– the right to decide his fate. He'd stolen her time and her affection, even her virginity. He'd tarnished her in his recklessness. Made her cry. Made her bend her morals and, even though she'd never explicitly claimed such, he knew she'd twisted even her closest friendships. She'd spent so many evenings with him, why hadn't she asked for something in return?
Draco felt sick all over again.
Another while passed before he felt Hermione's hand drifting through the hair on the side of his head. She raked her fingers slow and gentle just above his ear, pushing hair away from his forehead. He took it as his queue to face her and carefully rolled his cheek away from her leg. He now laid flat against the floor, looking squarely up at her.
She was upside down from this angle, but cocked her head slightly to the side as if to see him better.
Draco could feel that his skin was still splotched and his eyes were heavy, likely red. He wanted to apologize, but could not command his mouth to open. More than he wanted to apologize, he wanted her to hit him. If she would give him even a fraction of the torture he deserved, he might be able to go on. He wanted to use Legilimency on her– just to get it over with. Then again, he didn't even deserve to know.
She pressed two warm hands against either side of his face and brushed her thumbs against his cheek bones.
"I'm so sorry." She shook her head as she spoke, softer than ever.
It felt like a fucking knife.
He sat up, slowly and unsteadily, and felt her hands against his back to guide him the whole way. His head swam and the floor swayed as he turned to look at her, sliding his legs beneath him.
"Don't." He tried to tell her, but couldn't be sure that she even heard him.
"I think I've known for a while."
"I had a feeling." Draco bowed his head. It was easier to admit that he expected. It was just as comforting as it was unsettling to know that they had been keeping the same secret from each other for quite some time now. His throat felt like he had been screaming.
"What do we do?" She asked.
Draco couldn't pick his gaze off the group. If he looked up– he'd be a withering mess all over again. If he saw her, sitting there like a school girl waiting for his instruction, he actually would have to pitch himself into the Black Lake. Even though every inch of his Marked soul told him that she would despise him, he could feel it in the air between them– she didn't have it in her.
"If you Obliviate me, I won't be able to help you solve this, Draco. I'll have no way to keep you safe."
He hadn't even considered such a thing. His gaze shot back to her, but she looked certain and calm.
"No–" He stuttered. There is was. Self hatred that ran so deep it begged him to hex himself for her. His throat strained as he fought against desperation and self preservation. "No, absolutely no."
"Why not?"
Could he? He needed to finish the Cabinet. Snape had been clear about that. If Draco could manage to finish His task, he needed an escape route. If he Obliviated the Gryffindor, he'd be able to keep using her casting skills and precision. Or he could make her a fucking nimpy. The thought of it rose bile in the back of his throat.
"To Obliviate someone, Granger..... I'm not precise enough. Not practiced enough. I could cause serious memory damage or even hurt something inside of your head. No. It's out of the question.... You have to turn me in. McGonogall. Or Dumbledore."
"What?"
Draco didn't respond. He didn't understand what she was doing. He was tempted to grab her face and yell until she understood. Was she entirely fucked in the head? He didn't have the energy to even raise his voice.
"You want me to turn you in? Draco they'll try you as an adult. They'll send you to Azkaban." Her eyes flickered around him, confused and obviously saddened.
"I know the punishment. I know–"
"I don't give a damn if you know the punishment... Draco, y-you can't be serious."
He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her then. Give her his memories. Give her his thoughts. Make her understand.
"I'm a Death Eater, Hermione. I'm a fucking Death Eater." His voice bellowed through the Room of Lost Things. It didn't matter who heard now. He was already dead. His right hand shot down to his left sleeve, yanking it up for them both to see. "Didn't you get a good enough look? I'm one of them. I'm fucking–"
"No!" She yelped as if he'd stuck her on the face. She squeezed her eyes shut instead of looking down at his mangled arm. "You're not. You're not! Just because you have the Mark doesn't mean–"
"You don't know that! You don't know what it means. You have no idea."
"You don't get to hurt yourself and loathe yourself and... and Draco, please, you have to tell me– if they're hurting you– hurting your mum or something or– I don't know, Draco. I don't understand. Please, God please, you have to help me understand."
Draco watched her, stunned, as she clutched a hand against her chest like he'd caused her physical pain. Curls of her brown hair had formed ringlets around the crown of her head and pulsed with her as she sobbed.
If Draco wasn't so certain of his Occlumency, he would have wondered if she'd been inside his head. If she possibly understood how he felt. How he was coming undone and had latched on to the only hopeful beacon he could find.
He was going to have to let go of her. There was no way out of this one. He almost wanted to be sick. Being sick would convey his feelings better than words could. He wanted her to know. I'm sorry. I'm fucked and I know and I'm so fucking sorry.
"What is it? They've threatened to kill you if you can't fix this Cabinet? Is that it, then?"
Draco shook his head and tried to mask the tsunami of despair that had crashed into him.
"If they tell you to do something– the Mark forces you to do it?" She was truly scrambling now.
He shook his head again, trying to regain some kind of grip of the situation.
"Speak, dammit! Please, Draco!"
He pushed a sweaty palm against his lips.
"It's your parents. Isn't it? You told me plainly not even two weeks ago. Didn't you? This is what you meant." She spoke too fast, too forcefully. They were both circling the hurricane and making the other even more volatile. "If you don't fix this, they'll kill your parents?"
She wasn't wrong. Wasn't specifically right, either.
For the first time, Draco nodded. His hand now gripped around his jaw, which ached beneath his pounding head. He fought the white hot sting that rose behind his nose– that burn of tears and fragility.
He was a Death Eater and a con artist.
"Don't you see, Draco? They've branded you illegally and now they're threatening you. You and your family. Your very powerful family. There must be some way that Dumbledore can help you out of this mess–"
In that moment, the Gryffindor had more empathy in one sentence than Draco ever heard during full conversations with other Slytherins.
She reached for him, sliding herself closer on her knees. When she was close enough to touch, she stole his hand from where it rested on his face. She held his wrist tightly, purposefully. He was shaking his head again, he realized, and her brown eyes were darting about his face. Searching him.
"There is no way." He said, searching her in return. Her complexion was wan and darkened, brows lowered so that the space between them wrinkled. "I've thought through every possible scenario. A hundred times I've thought them over, Granger. I have to do this."
"But your family–"
"Tell me about my family, Hermione Granger. Please. Because, from where I stand, that's exactly the issue."
"How do you mean?"
"My mother might just be the only one left in my family who isn't Marked. Everyone else– everyone else is already gone to me."
"They're all Voldemort sympathizers or Death Eaters themselves...." She said it more to the floor than she said it to him.
He wanted to yell at her, then. Don't ever say that name. Don't ever speak it again. But he held his tongue. Too tired to fight.
He had already begun grieving, he suddenly thought to himself. That's why he reacted with such sadness. Hermione Granger had found him out. He'd allowed her to do it and, in turn, he would be the reason for his mother's death. He had killed her, his beautiful mother, and he'd already killed himself. Snape and his father would be caught dead in the crossfire, too. Maybe even Aunt Bellatrix, not that she ever put an ounce of faith into him, but she'd taught him her tricks.
He was grieving and had been since the day he'd been Marked. It was why he'd been sick all through the fall.
In front of him, he put his forearms together until they were side by side. With his palms facing the ceiling, he pushed his wrists into the air between them. She could bind his arms together with complete ease now. She wouldn't have to worry about his magic or if he'd try to sneak away. He'd walk with her willingly to Dumbledore's office.
This was it. He had to be ready. This was what he'd been scared of every time he'd set his eyes on her since the night she followed him into the Room.
Again, she looked at him in disbelief.
"Stop it. Stop it."
Draco hung his head. It was painful to look at her. He was disgusted to know that he'd likely ruined a part of her– whatever part that was, he didn't know. He pushed his wrists closer to her.
"Snape knows? Snape is involved?" If Draco had known better, he would have thought she sounded more betrayed than confused. Still, he didn't dare to look at her.
"Stop it, Draco, please. Let's talk to Snape together. Let's figure out another way."