Jack of Spades
Prologue:
How the hell did it come to this?
Internal dialogue couldn't drown out the sounds of a body thrashing against another body, of incoherent grunting, struggling, and heavy footfalls.
Another blood-curdling scream clawed at every wall, window, and corner of the three-storey safe house.
Frantic, manic, pleas – to be released, let go, put down, get your bloody hands off of me! – escalated into threats, promises of retribution and vile curses.
Then, she screamed again.
Harry's forward march was anything but mechanical. Ron brought up the rear, his curt replies to unwanted queries punctuated the deeper inhales and mutterings made by the man who was doing what neither one of them could do.
Every person Harry shouldered out of the way, glared at so that they'd step aside, or ignored when questioned about what was going on, caught a glimpse of his fear, panic and shame. Who saw what, and how much, depended on how well they knew him.
A hiss of surprise and an exhaled breath of pain made him pause and turn his head.
Trapped within the taller man's arms was what was once his best friend. Now, she was someone who only shared the same height, size, and coloring as Hermione: dark hair, dark eyes, skin tinted with gold and pink. Her arms and torso were locked against Malfoy's. Her eyes never ceased to move. Some internal panic had taken hold of her and Harry had no idea as to what to do to help her. All he knew was that she wouldn't want to be spectacle.
Somehow, she'd managed to get one foot down to the floor. With the strength that comes from being in the throes of madness, she pushed against the hallway's runner, sending her and her guardian into the wall.
Malfoy's teeth clattered when his head and shoulders struck papered plaster. His grip on her slackened on impact.
St. Mungo's was out of the question as there was no way to guarantee her safety at the busy hospital. The anti-Apparition wards at Grimmauld Place would Splinch whoever side-alonged her.
It was Malfoy who had taken charge. The man still wore his traveling cloak, having just come back from a mission. Dirt from Godric-knows-where trailed from his boots. It was Malfoy who had been the only one to step forward, use his body like a walking straight-jacket, and forcibly man-handle her to a less public area of the house.
Harry still hadn't wrapped his head around Hermione and Malfoy's relationship, what it actually consisted of, but it was real enough that, in the isolated moments of lucidity, his presence was the only one she responded to; his words of calm and reassurance some how parted her layers of mania.
A primal growl reached Harry's ears; Hermione wrenched herself away from Malfoy.
"Potter, don't!"
Harry's wand wanted to fire a cushioning charm. But he didn't. They were in a Muggle neighborhood. Magic could be traced and they were in hiding.
Malfoy lurched forward. Muscles bunched and corded as he snagged Hermione's trailing arm. His forward momentum was too much for the confined space. He hauled her back to his chest and did the best he could to make sure he took the brunt of the impact when they collided against the opposite side of the hallway. This time, though, he clutched her tighter and lifted her enough so that her feet couldn't touch the floor.
"Blimey." Ron's murmur was the understatement of the moment.
A fresh round of thrashing, clawing, and screaming erupted.
"Put me down!"
"Let me go!"
"Get your hands off of me you fucking-"
"Who do you think you are?! What the fuck are you doing?!"
"You have NO FUCKING RIGHT!"
A strangled sob. A moment of clarity. "Oh, God – I can't… It hurts…." Her right hand attempted to cradle her left arm, the source of her pain.
Harry's shame doubled. No sooner had he touched eyes with Draco Malfoy than the little voice inside his head started to chant: thankGodit'snotmethankGodit'snot methankGodit'snotme.
Between the three of them, they got her up a second flight of stairs.
Trailing Ron were members of the Order, people who called her 'friend', people she had saved with her bravery and cleverness, and the morbidly curious.
"Move, Potter! Now!"
Malfoy's grunted order restarted his forward motion. Harry didn't even realize his thoughts had stalled his feet.
Down another hallway, up one last flight of stairs, they made a right turn at the landing. The attic was their destination.
Malfoy's strength, mental and physical, had to be waning. How far could he half-drag-half-carry someone who fought like every step was her last?
Realization that he would've broken down by now prickled the backs of his eyes.
Last door on the left… Harry grasped the knob and turned it. The latch gave easily. He stepped inside and propped it open.
Malfoy had to turn sideways in order to haul himself and Hermione through the door frame. Once inside the room, Malfoy released her with a push, propelling her towards the far wall.
"Leave – now – Potter."
Malfoy's words came out in pants. His face shined with exertion even as he kept his gaze fixed warily on the woman who had backed into a far corner of the room. She stared at them like they were going to murder her.
Harry step-shuffled to the right, bringing the door with him. Ron's ginger head hovered at the threshold. The murmuring of others never strayed from his awareness.
Harry paused at the doorway, equal parts feeling the obligation to stay, to ride this out with Hermione, and escaping. He flicked his gaze to the man who was once a hated enemy and who was now an ally.
Three years of war would do that.
Malfoy's cloak was a puddle of black fabric on the floor. His head and shoulders were propped against the wall opposite from where Hermione raged. His arms rested against his chest and his ankles were crossed. His stance was as non-threatening and familiar to her as he could possibly make it.
Harry felt anger from the blond stab him like a well-thrown knife.
"I said LEAVE!" Malfoy didn't shout. His vehemence carried nonetheless.
Emotionally wrung, Harry didn't have it in him to play any Slytherin-esque guessing games. What was important was Hermione.
"What happened to her?" Ron's question upped the tension exponentially.
Malfoy's grey eyes slid sideways. Contempt dilated his pupils. Harry felt the piercing lance of Legilimency spear his consciousness. Blame was laid clearly at his and Ron's feet as Malfoy dredged up select moments from nearly ten years of friendship.
"You did."
Harry couldn't speak. Normally, whatever foul, git-like, thing Malfoy flung his way, Harry had a come-back, could deflect.
Not this time. The images Malfoy shuffled forward from his memory were deliberately chosen. The most damning occurred over the course of the past one-hundred-twenty months.
Malfoy had spoken the truth, showed him the truth, and dared him to say otherwise. There was no 'otherwise' to counter the montage of proof that sustained his accusation.
Harry closed the door behind him. His back to the door, Ron crouched beside him. Hands tangled between their knees. Those who also cared about Hermione milled about a few meters away.
A fresh wave of wailing, screaming, and, at one point, sobbing, each punctuated by the deeper tones of Malfoy's voice.
No magic meant no silencing charms. No magic meant no privacy for any of them.
The least they could do was keep watch. That, and let their respective guilts fill the air and paint their faces with culpability.
They weren't alone. Others who had been part of the rescue party lingered in the hallways; some spoke quietly to a friend, others chewed their fingernails, most kept to their thoughts to themselves. Blaise Zabini stood on the edge of Harry's line-of-sight. The tall dark-skinned Slytherin fixed his eyes on the door at Harry's back but didn't project any consolation to anyone but the man beside him, the man on the other side of the attic door, and the woman the Snakes had adopted as one their own. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Zabini, Theo Nott slouched, hands across his chest. Nott, too, directed his considerable mental energies towards his best mates, Hermione included, he and Ron excluded. Padma and Hannah had sunk to the floor and sat side-by-side, their heads and thighs touching. No doubt the two girls would find additional comfort with each other later.
Harry tapped his head against the wooden door. He stilled for a moment, long enough to catch Ron's eyes.
They shared the same look. They had both seen it when her shirtsleeve rode past her elbow.
The bastards… Her kidnappers, her jailers, the men who took her, etched the Dark Mark into her skin.
This chapter: reworked a bit...cleaned up a bit... love to read what you think of it!