DISCLAIMER: All the characters in this fanfic were created by, and belong to, J.K. Rowling. The title, "Closedown", was taken from a song by The Cure.
Closedown
by Archie Rice
"This really shouldn't be happening."
No, it shouldn't. She's right - as always. Endlessly, infuriatingly right.
It should go something like this: from across the bustling courtyard Draco spots Granger loitering with best pals Potty and Weaselby, the three of them perched under an ancient archway like in a photograph. They are chatting animatedly amongst themselves. The Golden Trio. A sight so sickening in its familiarity, so utterly tiresome to Draco, it should have lost all meaning to him by now.
But somehow it still provokes.
He points them out to Crabbe and Goyle, and frightened first years scatter in all directions as the three of them march imperiously across the courtyard. Older students watch, or turn a blind eye, as trio bears down on trio. Crabbe and Goyle are flexing their muscles and cracking their knuckles - uselessly, because it never comes to blows. Not any more. Nonetheless, there's a growing thrill of anticipation as Draco realises the Dream Team have not yet noticed their approach. It would make a change to get the first verbal dagger in.
Then she looks up. Then Weasley, and then Potter. As one, their faces harden into stone. Perfect synchrony - it makes him sick. Anger swells within him. They probably need to go for a shit at the same time, all three of them. In their little crew. He wonders if they fuck each other, and the anger splashes hotly to his cheeks. It's back again - the need to break something, to feel the buckle of skulls beneath his fist, to hear the crunch of bone under the heel of his shoe, to listen to the spill of hot blood and watch faces implode. Base, Muggle desires: his father's voice. But the anger is so infinite, Father, so sweet to dip your fingers into. Draco is convinced that no Muggle could feel something as consuming as his hatred.
"Piss off, Malfoy." This, or a variation, usually comes from Weasley - the most volatile of the three. Draco loves Weasley's quick temper as he would a faithful pet. Almost endearing in its predictability, it can always be relied on to make Draco feel better. It is sometimes hard to live up to his family's name, and maintain an exterior of icy dignity, but when faced with the effortless inferiority of Weasley - such a perfect disgrace to wizarding kind - Draco finds it easy to emulate Lucius Malfoy's lofty composure.
"Language, Weasley," he will say, and he doesn't need to force the smirk, because at this moment, looking down at Weasley's stupid freckled face, Draco can actually believe - for a few, fleeting seconds, without fear of doubt - that he is better than everyone else. If anything makes him happy, it's this. This precious moment of universal harmony, when everything is how it should be: Draco above, scum below. He lives for these moments.
Then, from either Potter or the girl: "What do you want, Malfoy?" And the moment is gone, his happiness snatched away, and the fury returns even stronger. How dare they speak to him? How dare she speak to him? Why should he be forced to justify his presence to anyone, let alone a stinking Mudblood?
Ah, yes, that word.
Usually he'll try and save it till the end, use it as a parting shot. But sometimes his anger will get the better of him, and it'll slip out prematurely. These days it's almost lost its bite; it's been coming to his lips so often. But it still remains his safety curtain. His plan B. His joker in the pack. His surefire guarantee of getting a rise out of one of them. If nothing else sets Weasley off, then a casual but venom-tinted drop of "Mudblood" into the conversation will do the trick all right. Potter's getting the hang of it too; it's taken him a while, but now even he is liable to erupt when Draco says the magic word.
Never her, though.
Never her. He can jab and jab and pick away at the three of them, but she's only once risen to the bait. And he hadn't even been trying that time.
And so, time after time, it plays out like this. The same cheap shots fired. The same sly digs. The same weary pleasure of seeing Weasley flare up, no matter how obvious the trap he's stumbling into. Then the bell goes and it's back to class, where they might clash again, or they might not. That's how it goes. That's how it always goes.
That's how it should go today.
But it doesn't.
Today, at breakfast, Draco receives a letter. A glance at the handwriting, neat and sharp, tells him it's from his mother. This puzzles him, because he received the usual letter and package from her only two days ago. He opens it, and reads.
Then he reads it again. And again. And again, until it's as though nothing is connected anymore, just individual words.
Words.
Words and words and words.
And blotches of ink, like tiny crevices, where tears have fallen.
Words.
Words and words and words.
And a pressure within him, like a crumbling stone bridge on the brink of giving way.
Words; but two words in particular, tearing open a horrible wound above the pit of his stomach.
"Father."
"Murdered."
For five minutes he can't hear anything. And he can't see anything. And then - just like that - it's gone, like a blindfold being removed: anything that stood in his way, anything that clouded his judgment, anything that made hazy the path that lies between what he thinks, what he has always thought, and what he needs - gone. A shroud has fallen away, exposing trembling, pure and thrillingly precise intent; a purpose as clear and exact as a centaur's aim.
He gets up from his seat and walks out of the hall. He does not know where he is going exactly, but he knows what he is looking for, and he will not stop searching the castle till he finds it. He's moving differently, walking with an elegance and cool efficiency which he has been straining to achieve all his life, but only now has mastered. And it's easy, because he doesn't have to try. His father would be proud if he could see him. This thought makes him smile. Father would be proud, yes, but not if he knew what Draco was about to do.
He climbs ancient staircases to winding, wind-battered turrets. He goes down into dank, shadow-filled dungeons. He covers the grounds. Goes in and out of classrooms, traverses torch-lit corridors, explores secret rooms he didn't even know Hogwarts held.
And then he finds her.
He spots her as he walks past the door to Snape's store cupboard. She's standing on a ladder with her back to him - collecting ingredients off the shelves for today's class, he supposes. He steps forward into the cramped little space with its stacks upon stacks of bottled magic, looks up at that cacophony of bushy brown hair - and suddenly he falters. He doesn't know what he's doing. As quickly as it came to him, his sense of purpose evaporates. Faced with the reality of Hermione Granger on a ladder, the tiniest of ladders visible in her tights, back turned to him as she fussily searches for the correct ingredient, Draco lets doubt and terror and confusion possess him. Even now, with his father dead, when nothing should matter to him anymore; still he cannot bring himself to face the awful reality of what he so desperately wants.
She turns around. The sudden sight of him standing there makes her jump; her hands fly to the ladder and the vials she was holding fall to the ground with an ear-splitting smash of breaking glass.
"For crying out loud, Malfoy. Look what you made me do."
Huffing, she descends the ladder and, after shooting him a murderous look, bends down to pick up the remnants of Snape's precious vials. Draco looks on, unable to speak. He wants so very much to say something, but anger and hurt and the ache in his stomach seem to muzzle him.
"What do you want?" she asks, not looking at him. He doesn't reply; simply watches her as she carefully collects each little glass shard into a glinting pile in the cup of her hand. After a minute, she pauses and looks up at him, red-faced and cross. Gazes at him searchingly, wanting to know why he's there. He cannot respond. Something in her expression shifts. "What is it?" She stands up; looks at him as if he were that rare thing: a question she can't answer. Then: "What's wrong?"
And that's what he's been waiting for. The first sign. Evidence of something he despises, but needs so badly. Evidence of compassion. Of pity.
Now he can hate her. Now he's ready.
"Are you happy now?" he says. She frowns.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Are you happy?" He takes a step forward - he's smiling! - wants to box her in, but moving his leg alerts him to the fact that he is shaking. He stays put, but keeps talking: "You've won. You've got what you want. You and Potter and Weasley."
The confusion on her face thrills him terribly. How long he's waited to see her like this: lost, frightened, unsure of herself. He never knew how sweet and so awful it could be to see her flounder. Until now.
"Malfoy, please tell me what's going on."
"He's dead." Oh, the bitter triumph. Her face falls as if he's run her through with a sword.
"Who's dead?"
"My father." She blanches, and he can barely contain his glee. "That's right. My father is dead. Are you happy now?" He wants her on her knees, broken, apologetic, submissive; but, damn her, she's still standing. Why isn't she doing something? Anything? He lashes out blindly with his arm, feels something hard knock and spin, and a set of shelves crashing down, their contents scattering and disintegrating at his feet.
For a few seconds she stares open-mouthed at the mess on the floor, then looks back up at him. For a moment he thinks she's about to yell; her cheeks go red and her eyes flash with outrage and accusation. He glares back, defiant, daring her to have the nerve to admonish him. Then she takes a deep breath, appears to repress her indignation, and then ... The cheek! Her features soften into something more conciliatory, more understanding.
She smiles weakly. And he wants to be sick.
"Malfoy..."
This isn't going the way it's supposed to.
"What? Malfoy what?" His voice cracks as he shouts - another sign of weakness, another crack in his defences. Again he lashes out with his other arm; another set of shelves and its contents crash noisily to the ground. She closes her eyes and grimaces at the din, then, once the last glass bottle has toppled to its shrieking end, her eyes open and she relaxes slightly.
"Please stop doing that." Patronising. Treating him like a child. Now he wants to smash her, can barely restrain himself, the thought of her terrified eyes looking up at him ... Base, Muggle desires. He wants to smash, wants bone to crunch beneath his feet, wants blood-hot victory, he wants to WIN. Can't she see it in him?
"I do what I like." He no longer knows what he's saying; there's no time for him to think. Everything is noise; in his mind, the shelves are still collapsing and thousands of tiny glass bottles are shattering against ceiling, wall and floor. A darkness is slowly enveloping him; all he can do is react.
"I know," he hears Granger say, "but think about what Professor Snape will say if he sees-"
"Professor Snape is a cunt."
"Okay."
Not the reaction he wanted.
"You're a cunt."
"I think we need to get you to the hospital wing," she says patiently. He doesn't want patience.
"Mudblood."
"Please don't call me that."
His vision is clouding; his head feels heavy. He can barely feel his legs. He's not really conscious anymore; he's having to close his eyes because somehow he knows that if he opens them his head will fall off. All he wants is to curl up into a ball, put his hands over his ears and block everything out, but even his body won't do what he wants it to do. He's being betrayed by his own body, just like Voldemort betrayed his father, just like Granger is betraying him by not doing what he wants, what he needs her to do for him...
"Come on."
He's dimly aware of movement, and a slight pressure on his back which he guesses to be her hand, but he can barely bring himself to care. Everything's a mist, nothing matters anymore; something's trying to swallow him up and he wants to be swallowed, he'd dearly love to be swallowed whole so he didn't have to feel so confused and frightened anymore ...
HERMIONE: Malfoy? Malfoy?
He does not respond.
HERMIONE: For goodness' sake. Malfoy!
She shakes him vigorously, but he does not wake up. She glances nervously along the dungeon corridor. It is not clear if she is looking for help, or checking that nobody's looking. She returns to his slumped form.
HERMIONE: (tentatively) ...Draco?
A grunt. He slowly lifts his head. They look at each other.
DRACO: Who are you?
HERMIONE: Oh, for crying out loud. Can you walk?
DRACO: I don't know.
HERMIONE: Well, try standing up.
He stares back at her blankly. Clearly he doesn't know what she means. Sighing, she gets up and, with a not inconsiderable amount of effort, heaves him up to his feet.
DRACO: I feel sick.
HERMIONE: Are you going to be sick?
DRACO: I don't know.
HERMIONE: Well how about we start walking to the hospital wing, and you can decide if you're going to be sick along the way? Is that a good idea?
DRACO: Hmm-mnnh.
HERMIONE: Okay, let's go then.
Propping DRACO up as she goes, HERMIONE starts walking along the corridor. Enter SEVERUS SNAPE from his classroom.
SEVERUS: Miss Granger, it's been ...
He notices DRACO. His eyes narrow.
SEVERUS: Explain.
HERMIONE: Malfoy's had a bit of a shock, Professor. His father's just died.
DRACO: Professor Snape's a cunt.
SEVERUS' eyes narrow even more. There is a long, awkward silence.
HERMIONE: As I say, he's had a bit of a shock.
SEVERUS: Get him out of my sight. You will return to my class the moment he is in the hospital wing, understand?
HERMIONE: Yes, sir.
Exit SEVERUS.
HERMIONE: I can't believe you just called Professor Snape a ... what you just called him.
DRACO: My head hurts.
HERMIONE: Come on.
They progress further along the corridor, DRACO leaning heavily on HERMIONE's shoulder.
DRACO: I feel ... confused. I want to go home.
HERMIONE: We'll be home soon.
DRACO: Who are you?
HERMIONE: I'm Hermione Granger.
DRACO: Mudblood.
HERMIONE: Call me that again and you can make your own bloody way to the hospital wing.
DRACO: I'm sorry. I'm a shit.
HERMIONE: Yes, you are.
We watch them disappear up a staircase, presumably leading to the hospital wing. I say presumably, because when we next see them they are in bed, and have been for some time.
"Well?"
She breaks away from his kiss. They stare at each other.
"Well what?" she says.
"Aren't you going to say 'It feels so wrong ... and yet so right'?" he says. "Every Gryffindor girl says it around this time."
She laughs.
"You haven't been with any Gryffindor girls, Malfoy," she smirks, leaning back on the bedrest. Then, suddenly, the humour vanishes from her expression. "Not that I'm at all interested in gossip, of course."
Now it's his turn to smirk.
"Of course not," he says, delighting in her look of contempt. "Keep an ear out, though, don't we? The odd update, now and then. See what Malfoy's up to."
"What you're up to?" she snorts derisively. "You mean Pansy Parkinson? Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy."
An awkward pause. Neither can look at the other - it's too strange, all of a sudden.
"I can't understand this," he says, presently. She glances up at him. He fidgets absent-mindedly with the bed covers. "I mean, I don't understand why I let you ..." He trails off stupidly. If you hadn't already guessed, Draco feels very, very stupid at this moment. Stupid - and elated. He's heard the phrase "post-coital" before, but hasn't appreciated it before because, quite frankly, sex for him has never been as great as it was with Granger just now. With Pansy there was little difference between how Draco behaved or felt during sex and after it. But now, he feels ... euphoric. He feels like he can say anything, no matter how stupid and nonsensical, and it won't matter. It's a very strange feeling; like being free.
"You did it because you've fancied me from the moment you set eyes on me," says Granger. "You've had to conceal your love for me behind a facade of cruel contempt, never allowing your true feelings to be revealed, lest your father finds out and you become the laughing stock of the whole school. But now your father is dead. Our making love has acted as catharsis both for your grief and your pent-up feelings for me, and now you feel strangely liberated and couldn't care less what people think."
He props himself up on his elbow, and looks at her.
"Yes," he says. "Yes. That's it."
She gazes into his eyes.
"It's a lie, Draco," she says, smiling. "You want to destroy me. You resent me."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. You can't stand me being cleverer than you. Even if I'm not, you're too insecure to think otherwise. I represent everything you despise."
He leans closer, till he can feel the warmth of her breath on his chin.
"If that's really the case," he says, "then why are we here? In bed together?"
She strokes his face gently.
"Because," she says softly, "you hate yourself. You slept with me because you think you're an awful person, and awful people do awful things. Like sleep with Mudbloods."
There's a pain in his cheek, and he realises he's been clenching his jaw. He swallows back saliva. Fixes her with a stare.
"Why are you saying this?" he asks. He knows it's all true, you see. "I mean ... if you know all this, then why did you let me ... why did you do this?"
"Isn't it obvious?" she says. "I fancy the pants off you, of course. And I'd like some sort of silly fling before I surrender myself to Ron Weasley for the rest of my life." Draco blinks stupidly. "And, Malfoy, you should know that I understand you, and I feel compassion for you. I can even empathise with you, to a degree." She smiles sadly. "But you'll never understand me, Draco. You know that. You're too selfish. I don't regret sleeping with you, please don't think that - although you probably will anyway. I really enjoyed it." She pats his arm as she says this, and he smiles because he knows she's telling the truth. "But you and me - it's wrong. I'm not going to waste time deluding myself that I can change you. You wouldn't let me, for starters. Even with your father gone, you've still got too much to lose. Let's be honest - this really shouldn't be happening."
A pause. He looks down, studies the hairs on his arm. Then studies the fainter, lighter hairs on her arm.
She's right, of course. Endlessly, infuriatingly right.
The hatred's still there, wriggling away inside his gut. Even that comment about her being cleverer than him ... even then, he felt the momentary impulse to slap her. She's right. The hatred's buried too deep.
But still ...
"So ... " He looks back at her and sighs. "What now?"
"We'll go back to normal," she replies. "You flinging insults at me and my friends across the courtyard. Me saying nothing, them fighting back. I'll tell them to lay off you, but I'm afraid it won't make much difference. They really hated your father, and so did I, I think." Suddenly she's out of the bed, getting dressed in a hurry, as if she's late for an important meeting. He watches her from the bed, trying desperately to put his feelings into words.
"But ..." He says it so quietly, she doesn't even hear. He wonders if it's even worth trying to stop her. After all, he knows she's right.
Suddenly she's dressed, and standing at the foot of his bed, looking like Hermione Granger again.
"I'm sorry, Malfoy," she says, giving his ankle a tender squeeze through the bedcovers. "I don't mean to sound cold, but I'm just being honest. And whether it means anything to you or not ... you really were fantastic."
"Thank you," he says sheepishly.
She winks at him, then spins on her heel and marches out of the room in a flash of bushy brown hair.
He stares after her. Something's still inside him that he couldn't understand while she was here, while she was in his presence. But now she's gone, it hits him like one of his father's earth-shattering blows to the head.
"But I feel happy."
END