Her screams were violent and shrill, piercing the air that surrounded them. There was no escaping—her from the clutches of his deranged aunt, or he from the sounds that were very nearly torturing him. Something was caught in his throat. Words? A curse? Tears? For a second he directed his vision to the floor and reasoned it was all three, before his stomach emptied itself beside his obnoxiously expensive shoes. Maybe that had been the lump he had felt. But, no, it was still there. His father's hand came down, hard, onto the back of his head. A reprimand for showing weakness at such a time as this. Draco tried to keep silent the sob that wrenched itself from his throat but his body still jerked with its power.
This should have been his fantasy. It was what he had been raised to believe; it had been beaten into him since birth. And he had tried to hate her, to hate those like her, to hate everyone that he had been taught to hate. He said the right words, sneered with all of his might, and played the villain. For a while it had even felt good. His father was proud of him and, thus, he was proud of himself. But that had ended the summer before his fourth year at Hogwarts, when the Death Eaters had started a riot at the Quidditch World Cup. The reality of the situation—the screams, the agonizing pain on the faces as he passed by, the chaos—had sunk in and Draco realized that this was not the world he wanted to be in.
Truth be told, he enjoyed the way the world was when he was younger. When words were usually the most you had to fear and war was in the past. It was that day he decided his prejudices were truly his father's, but fear for his mother's life (as well as his own, but that rarely registered in his mind had led him to keep up a front. He had still tried to help the Golden Trio, warning them to get Hermione to safety, albeit in a crude manner. He had never quite figured out what caused him to do that. Was it his newfound outlook, that spark of warmth in his heart that felt comfortable and right? Or had that spark come from something else?
So many questions had plagued his mind since that night, and he had yet to find the answers to most of them. Not that he had been given the chance to search, and he certainly didn't have time to think about his questions right now, though they still niggled at the back of his mind. Right now his mind was running and sweat was pouring and his veins were buzzing with indecision. This was wrong—no, more than wrong; this was evil.
Draco could feel the bile working its way back up his throat and the tears that were building behind his eyes. He wanted to turn away from the sight before him but found it impossible. He had to keep watch over her, make sure things didn't get carried away. But wasn't this carried away? His heart was beating, unabashedly and strong, in his chest. His head seemed to be filled with those creatures that Lovegood was always on about—wrackspurts or something of the like. Another wave of pain rushed over him. It was a familiar feeling, guilt.
There was something else there this time, though. Something bubbling and rising to the surface, and Draco wasn't even sure what it was until he felt himself rise out of his seat and lift his wand arm. The sound of his footsteps mingled with Hermione's soft whimpers. He didn't know if she had any sense left to her. Why had he waited so long?
"Petrificus totalus!" he yelled, wand pointed at Bellatrix. It was a simple spell, inferior to him really, but it caught his aunt off guard. He heard the subtle squeak of a shoe behind him. "Stupefy!"
His father flew back into a wall and fell to the floor, unconscious. Narcissa's hand jumped to her mouth but she made no moves toward either he husband or her son.
He landed with a thud on his knees beside the body of Hermione Granger. Her eyes were empty orbs staring beyond him—beyond anything. He leaned over her, putting a hand on each side of her face and watching his tears dance with hers down her face and onto the floor.
"Granger…," he whimpered, holding her limp body to his chest.
It wasn't just her he cried for, though he cried for her for many reasons. He cried for war and those lost to it, he cried for innocence lost, he cried for his mother and even, a little bit, his father. He cried from guilt and pain and regret. His body shook with sobs, Granger's body shaking with him. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the rigid body of his aunt, still but humming with power aching to be released. He put Hermione down to the floor gingerly before jumping up and running toward Bellatrix.
"You!" he spat. "Why? …Why?"
He lowered himself to her, teeth clenched, and whispered, "I could do this right now, you know. I could kill you," he paused. "But if my family has taught me anything, it's that a quick death is far too generous for the likes of you."
With that, he rose and gave his aunt a swift kick to the ribs.
"Mother," he said, rushing over and placing his forehead against hers, "are you okay?"
She nodded, her eyes still surveying what lie around her.
"You know what you have to do," he spoke, his voice wild but soft. "You have to let the others go and then you have to run. Go to your sister. You'll be safe with her. I love you, mother."
Finally Narcissa's eyes found her son's. She lifted her palm to his face, stroking it lightly.
"Son, you are strong. I like to think you get that from me. We will be okay, the both of us. And I love you," she answered, with particular emphasis on the last three words. Her lips rested on his forehead before she broke their connection. "Now take her and go to the summer cottage. You will have time there, but not much. Not more than a few days. But she must rest, Draco."
The young Malfoy nodded. He had a task and orders were something he understood—nothing else made sense at the moment aside from his mother's words. All he knew was that Hermione Granger needed to be safe. She was the brains, the cleverness, the plans. She was the only hope of winning this war. Without her, the Golden Trio was useless. But, right now, her being with the other two members of their esteemed group would only cause her to deteriorate faster. His mother was right. She needed to rest.
Hermione was still limp on the floor, her eyes still looking beyond her surroundings. Her senses were coming back to her slowly, though she made no effort to move or speak. There was a tightness in her chest that was filled with every emotion she didn't want to feel. Tears were building up—she could feel them in her throat and behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She let her eyes scan the room, knowing that immediate danger could be a fingertip away. She found nothing besides the younger Malfoy and his mother huddled tightly together in the corner of the room upon first glance, but soon caught a glimpse of Lucius Malfoy's body lifeless only a few feet away from his family. Her heart began to beat rapidly and her mind was flooded with so many new thoughts that a headache was quickly beginning to form. What was happening? Where was Bellatrix and what had happened to the Malfoy patriarch? Where were her friends? Had they been kept alive for the Dark Lord or killed by an overeager Death Eater? Or, she thought hopefully, had they somehow made their escape?
Footfall was making its way towards her and the groan escaped her lips before she'd had the thought to stifle it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head violently from side to side, expecting more torture and unbearable pain.
The voice she heard was soft and kind and so unlike what she had been anticipating. "Granger, listen to me. You're going to be okay. I won't hurt you."
It was then that the dam inside of her failed and the tears came, savage and unrestrained. There was no room in her head for confusion, and yet it had burrowed into her brain and refused to check out. It grew as she felt slender, cold fingers intertwine with her own. They were strong but gentle and she didn't have the fight in her to break free from his grasp.
"The wards are down. Draco, now!" she heard a feminine voice cry out.
The next thing Hermione felt was the familiar pull of Apparition and the very short-lived feeling of relief.
a/n: This honestly started out in my head as a one-shot. But this story just wouldn't allow that. It told me there was more to be told and I, of course, must listen. A new chapter may not be posted for a while as I will be on vacation and without internet for a little over a week. I will be taking my laptop and will hopefully find a bit of time to write here and there. I hope you enjoy and please leave comments and reviews! I love hearing what people have to say about my writing, both the good and the bad.
Disclaimer: I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. Obviously these characters belong to JK Rowling and I thank her for creating them, and the world they exist in, so wonderfully.