Chapter Two
A/N: So I was so overwhelmed and stunned by all the responses for the first chapter so I decided to post this one a bit early as I managed to get all my tweaking done today. Thank you all so much for your kind words about this fic so far I hope you enjoy it:) Another huge thanks to my beta closer-to-monkey!
One-hundred and twelve days later, Draco found himself in the same position. He sat in the same chair, at the same table, in the same kitchen, in the same house gripping the same glass with force. He felt worse than he did all those days ago, aching in agony, holding back groans every time he shifted in his seat or did something as simple as moving his arm. He was supposed to be on bed rest, but he had to do this, needed to do it. It'd taken him almost twenty minutes to get from his bed to down the hall into the kitchen, where he resided now, having fallen twice on the way there, cursing silently to keep from waking the other residents. Now that he was here, he felt unable to move from the spot, as if someone had put a sticking charm on the chair. He was stuck there, at least, until he finished.
He looked out the window on the wall opposite where he sat, seeing his reflection in it. He looked horrid, absolutely horrid. He hadn't looked this battered in a long time. His platinum blond hair was disheveled, as he hadn't brushed it after he'd washed off the dirt and blood that was caked in it earlier. He has a split lip that he's yet to heal, which burns every time he takes a sip of the substance in front of him, but he doesn't care, he has to keep going. He also had the remnants of a slice in his eyebrow, that hurt every time he tried to move it. His eyes had heavy bags etched into his porcelain skin, bringing forth the flecks of silver in his eyes, which were bloodshot from squeezing them shut harder than he ever had. He was sitting shirtless, his abdomen wrapped in tightly wound bandages to cover the horror scene underneath. The entirety of it was covered in an explosion of black and blue with tinges of yellow. The colorful display was garnished with gashes that had been healed only slightly by dittany. They were once again at a shortage for medical supplies, as if it were any sort of surprise by now. There was also an itch coming from underneath that he couldn't seem to satisfy, making him all the more irritable. Even where the bandages weren't, he was still covered in bruises, littering his usually immaculate pale skin in various discoloured shades. His face even had a scratch or two on it. He would most definitely have scars, not that it mattered anymore; he had more scars than he could count.
Tonight, he'd been too slow, a victim of the cruciatus curse by the hand of Thorfinn Rowle. He'd been one second too late to fire a curse at him, resulting in torture that lasted for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably about fifteen minutes. It was Aberforth who'd finally saved him, stunning Rowle from behind and pressing Draco's emergency portkey to his chest before anyone else could get to him in his weakened state, sending him back to the safehouse. He hadn't been hit with that curse specifically, since before he'd defected. It was a regular occurrence when he'd been living at the Manor, as he often fell short of what Voldemort expected of him. It brought back memories he had long since suppressed. Memories of the worst time, the last time.
He could still feel the metallic taste on his tongue as he coughed up blood onto the bright marble floor, his stomach contracting with each heave. He remembered feeling as if he couldn't move, as if his muscles had turned to liquid, leaving him laying on the floor for hours, sprawled out like a rag doll. It took him hours to muster enough energy to lift his head, and by that point, he'd been so dizzy from blood loss that he'd fallen back down, rendering him unconscious with a smack to the marble. Voldemort had used a new variation of the cruciatus curse along with the good-old fashioned original. It was meant to have the effect of boiling water running through your veins, scorching your insides until all you could smell was your burnt flesh. If Snape hadn't been there to heal him, he was sure he would have been dead. That was for not identifying Potter, Weasley and Granger when they were brought to the Manor and for letting them escape, his wand in tow. That was the worst he'd ever been injured, unable to move, to speak, after screaming himself hoarse, for over a week. He was in a potion-induced coma for the first three days. Compared to that, this was just child's play.
He swallowed hard, blinking a few times as he willed himself to look away from his reflection, knowing that it won't do him any good to look at how destroyed he was. He took down a large swallow of the drink, closing his eyes as it burned him. He bit his bottom lip, letting out a groan as the top one seethed. He put the glass down in front of him, placing his elbows firmly on the table. His head fell into his hands, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes before moving his fingers to his hair. He yanked on it, wanting more than anything to scream out in pain, in agony. Each breath brought a new pang of ache, forcing his bruised insides to move in and out as he needed air. It was all so overwhelming. It was difficult enough to deal with the physical pain and the memories, but what had happened after he'd been sent back made his head throb so intensely, he wanted to vomit.
They'd lost another, for the first time since Penelope, bringing the toll of the house up to nineteen. Oliver Wood bled out from a sectumsempra curse fired at him. No one knew who'd cast it, not many people knew that spell, but it didn't matter; Oliver was dead and someone had killed him. Apparently, Granger and Lovegood tried their hardest to get the bleeding to stop, but it wouldn't. It kept flowing out of him in pools of crimson until it didn't. He couldn't help but feel that if he'd been there, he might have been able to do something to stop it. Had Draco had been there, he might have been able to recall the counter-curse that Snape had performed on him so many years ago in the bathroom, but he was too incapacitated to have even known what was going on. He felt guilty, responsible in a way. He didn't even know until Marcus Belby had told him whilst Aberforth was tending to his wounds. If he wasn't so engrossed in healing then he probably would have hexed him for even mentioning it. Belby was Penelope's 'replacement', filling the physical hole left by her absence, not quite perfectly, as no one was every replaced fully, always leaving a gap, an empty hole that got bigger and bigger with each death. He had rushed into the drawing room, where Aberforth was healing Draco, covered in blood. He had carried Oliver's body back to the house, where Dean Thomas had laid him to rest in the gardens alongside the others who had bodies to be buried.
Now, he sat again at the kitchen table, a bottle of Firewhiskey in front of him waiting patiently to be drained of its contents. No matter how shitty he felt, he had to do this; he had to drink tonight, for Theo, for Oliver. They deserved it, they deserved to be remembered, all of them. He felt responsible for Oliver as he had for what happened to Theo. This was ritual for him at this point, even if it didn't help, didn't work anymore, it was something he had to do. It certainly wasn't making the physical pain go away, let alone the mental, emotional strife he was in constantly.
Not all that much had changed since Penelope died; the war still raged on with the Order on the losing side of it. They were winning the battles, but losing the war. Voldemort was too powerful, too strong to be stopped. Whatever Potter was supposedly doing, he needed to get on with it before everyone ends up dead. They were fighting with all that they could, pushing on so that one day they wouldn't have to fight any longer, but people were still dying left and right. They'd lost Oliver tonight and they'd no doubt lose more in the time still to come. He couldn't stand the thought; it put a sour taste in his mouth, causing him to throw back another gulp of whiskey.
He heard light footfall in the hallway and turned with great difficulty to see who was still awake. Just as the night Penelope died, Granger stood in the doorway of the kitchen, only this time, she was wearing a charcoal jumper that was two sizes too big for her and a pair of shorts that barely shown due to the length of her top. Her mousy hair framed her face, its curls still damp from her shower earlier that night. She'd needed one horribly after being soaked in all that blood. She seemed shaken, her eyes filled with lost hours spent trying to fall asleep. He raised his eyebrows at her, but the pain from the gash there caused him to flinch. He just couldn't seem to get a moment to himself; she was once again interrupting his night, his ritual. He'd just barely been able to shake off Dean, who was sent by Aberforth to watch him in case he'd decided to do anything rash. He suppressed his anger, knowing he didn't have the energy for an outburst tonight.
Her face filled with color as she saw him sitting there, wearing nothing but boxer briefs. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" She asked, biting down on her bottom lip as she struggled to keep eye contact. It seemed to be a habit of hers; he'd noticed in the months following the night where they'd talked in this very spot, that she'd constantly be biting at it whenever she was uncomfortable or nervous. Her eyes kept trailing downwards, but they flickering up to meet his eyes, looking quickly away in a pattern. He shrugged, but it ached to do so; he suppressed any form of a groan from coming out of his lips. "Probably. What's it to you?" He narrowed his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. "It isn't." She stated simply, but didn't move from her spot in the doorway.
Her espresso colored opals drifted down from his slate ones, roaming his body nervously, still chewing at her lip. "Take a picture, Granger. It'll last longer." He said, a smirk taking up residency on his face. Her eyes looked back up to meet his and she flushed a darker shade, giving him a guilty look. "Oh, I…" She drifted off and he took this as an opportunity to speak. "Nice to know that I still have that sort of effect on women, although I thought you'd be too prude to look at me like that." He mused, letting out a painful chuckle that turned into a grunt. She folded her arms over her chest defensively, continuing to gnaw at her lip. "I'm not a prude, but if you must know; I was looking at the bruising. You took a hard hit tonight, Malfoy." She said in a tone reminiscent of their interactions in childhood, moving towards the cabinet to pull out the pot she'd used the last time, the clatter she was making louder than her voice. Draco cringed as the pot hit the burner with a crash. If she kept this up, she'd awaken the whole house.
"You say that like you care." He said, into the glass before taking a gracious swig. "I don't. You should probably be in bed though." She said, not looking at him as she spoke. She slid the pot with a metallic scratching noise so that it was perfectly centered and lit it, taking out the milk and sugar. He thought about teasing her for making noise again, but thought better of it. "What are you, my mother ?" He said, the words meaning to sting. He was in a bad enough mood as it is; he didn't need her trying to parent him. "No, but Aberforth will be angry if he finds out you're not resting. Plus, we can't risk losing anyone else." She came back quickly, her eyes wide as she turned to face him, her back now against the countertop. Her petite frame looked shapeless in her jumper, but still somehow suited her. The ambrosia-like smell of the sugar milk filled the room, spreading around in a sickening fog. "Well, we just won't tell him then." Draco gave Granger an amused smile, which faded quickly as he dove back into his glass.
Granger filled her mug with the white liquid before sliding into the chair opposite Draco, the same one she'd sat in the last time. She took a small sip of her drink, blowing on it so that the steam rose in elegant swirls. He shifts in his chair and releases a groan while a pained expression spreads across his face. Granger's expression morphed to one of concern and it took him aback for a moment. "Are you alright? I mean, does it hurt badly?" She asked, shaking her head at the stupidity of her question. He raised his eyebrows at her, forcing a trademark smile. "Actually Granger, it feels bloody terrific, like I can go do a waltz with the bloody Dark Lord." He stated, a sarcastic twinge in his voice. She rolled her eyes, shooting him a glare. "I don't appreciate the sarcasm, Malfoy. I was just being compassionate. You should try it sometime." She said into her mug, taking another sip of her drink. "Alright, fine. It hurts so bad I can barely move. Oh, Granger help me!" He mocked, rolling his eyes. She just looked at him with disdain laced in her eyes. "Yes, of course it hurts badly. I've been worse, though. I'm not one of your charity cases. Is that what you wanted to hear?" He asked rhetorically, his eyes wide and his lips pulled into a thin line. She shook her head, releasing a sigh. "You're impossible." He flashed her a cocky smile that she pretended she didn't see. "I believe you mean witty and undeniably attractive." She let out a snort into her mug, using her hand to stifle her choke.
When she composed herself, she eyed the bottle in front of him and furrowed her brows into a line. He could see the cogs working in her ever-analyzing brain. "How did you even get this stuff? Alcohol's been on short supply for months. Only the higher ups get it and even then, it's rare." He just let out an arrogant snort even though it ached him to do so. "I have my ways." He said, lingering on the syllable before continuing, " I thought you were supposed to be smart, Granger." Draco took a pause and another burning sip of the liquid in question, making sure to smack his lips together, regardless of how much it hurt. She narrowed her eyes at him and he rolled his eyes but continued his explanation. "You see, there's this wonderful place called The Black Market, surely you've heard of it–." She cut him off immediately, her face reddening in exasperation as she spoke, "That's illegal, Malfoy! You could be reported for that!" Draco let out a huff of annoyance and willed himself not to roll his eyes again.
"How very Gryffindor of you to be worried about me getting in trouble over illegal alcohol. People are being murdered left and right and that's what you're worried about? You need to sort out your priorities." He shook his head and gave a half-mocking chuckle. "Besides, Granger, what are they even going to do to me if they find out? It's not like they could bench me for the rest of the bloody war; they need me. They can't afford to lose another fighter." He sipped his drink, flourishing it in the air in a lazy gesture of explanation. He could see that she was trying to come up with a way to clap back at him, but came up with nothing. She returned to chewing on her bottom lip, an irritated expression growing on her face, one that came with knowing that he was right. He was one of their best duellers, he often came up with foolproof battle plans and he knew more about the Death Eaters than most, having lived them for over a year. Even if they did find out that he'd been smuggling in illegal Firewhiskey, they wouldn't do anything, except possibly confiscate it, but even then, he'd just buy more, so it would be a moot point. It was his one reprieve from this place and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't take that away from him.
He slammed back another burning glass of Firewhiskey shamelessly, pouring himself more. As he placed the bottle back onto the table, he noticed Granger's eyes were gaping at something. She looked stunned at what she saw, but not quite. He followed the path of her eyes and it led him to the stain, the blemish on his left forearm. It burned greatly, as it always does, but he'd gotten used to it after all these years. He came to ignore it, but never being able to forget it was there. He felt nauseous as he looked at it and turned his wrist over so that she could no longer ogle at it. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that staring is rude, Granger?" He grumbled into his glass. Self-conscious would be an understatement when speaking about his Mark; he was ashamed, disgusted by it. It'd been years since it had been branded on into him and he still hid it behind long-sleeves when he could and the occasional glamour charm when he couldn't. He rarely let anyone see it. It was his biggest regret, his most absolute mistake. It was the thing he hated most about himself. That was what ruined him, what destroyed him.
The only person who he'd let see it was Theo, his best and only friend and now he was gone. It was one of the things they had in common, their marks. A horrible commonality, but one that brought them together. He missed Theo, he missed everything about him, especially on nights like these. He missed his crass humor, the annoying way he would hug Draco just to make him uncomfortable, his stupid fucking lopsided smile, his womanizing ways that would make the wall they shared shake, the way they could sit in a comfortable silence, one not all too common in the middle of a war, down to the fact that he'd been a damned good friend and Draco didn't deserve him. He'd been his brother, the one who's seen him broken down in a way that no one but his mother had, prior to defecting. It was that Mark that brought them together, but also the thing on the skin of the very person who murdered him.
Now, Granger saw it and would judge him for it, just like everyone else. She was knocked out of her trance as he moved his arm, her eyes looking back up to meet his. She gave him an odd sort of look, her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes wide. He was confused, she didn't look scared, she didn't look repulsed by him. Instead, she put her hand out, grabbing his wrist firmly and turning it over so that she could study the wretched scar before he could do anything. Her small fingers wrapped around his wrist, warm from the mug she'd been holding moments before. He tried to pull back from her, but her grip was too tight, her nails digging in. "Did you not get a good enough look at it before?" He grumbled, feeling his face get hot, his emotions falling into a place halfway between anger and embarrassment. She shook her head, her eyes trailing down towards it. "Calm down, Malfoy. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just looking at it." She whispered, rolling her eyes. He huffed, a look of disdain coming across his lips, but he didn't try to pull away, even though he probably should have. He tried to release tension, to relax, but he couldn't feeling so uncomfortable under her warm touch.
Her fingers gently traced the snake's path, causing him to shudder under her touch, but not completely pull away. "You know, when I first heard that you defected, I didn't believe it." She paused, pressing her finger into the snake's head. "Yeah, well no one really did. I don't take it personal." He deadpanned. He looked down at her, at the way her curls fell perfectly in front of her face as she looked at the darkest part of him, save his mind. He set his jaw, releasing a slow, somewhat shaky breath. "Even when you came here, to the house, I couldn't believe that you had actually changed, that you were here to help us. For once, I couldn't wrap my brain around the idea of it. But you have changed, greatly, in fact. I mean, you're still a prick, but you've mellowed; you're manageable." She took another pause, her gaze trailing up to meet his. His eyebrows were furrowed, confused at why she was telling him this, confused at the dizzy feeling he was starting to gain. "I'm really humbled by your kind words Granger." He said, rolling his eyes for effect. She shot him a glare, but kept talking nonetheless, ignoring him.
"You've really changed. You haven't called me a mudblood in years," He flinched at the word involuntarily, causing her eyes to flick up at him. "See, that's what I mean, Malfoy. You would call me that word every day, without hesitation, and now you can't stand to even hear it. Just the fact that you're sitting here with me, that you're letting me touch this, tells me that, tells me that I was wrong not to trust you in those first few months. I guess you'll have to excuse that though; I had my reasons; we all did. You were cruel to me in the past, how could I have not been suspicious? But I was wrong and I know that now." She offered him a half-smile, as if she'd said something that could have been considered amusing. "I think I really knew when I really saw you on the field, fighting. The passion that you dueled with, the… determination in your eyes. I could see it, that we were fighting for the same reason. You hated the Death Eaters as much as I did, maybe even more. But I think what really convinced me was Harry. He told me what he saw in your memories, about what had happened to you sixth year and onward. Not everything of course, but some. The torture you'd gone through just to stay alive, to keep your mother alive and some of what you'd been forced to do."
Of course Potter told her, he wasn't even surprised. He was more surprised that that they didn't have a laugh over it, talking about what a coward he was, or had been disgusted by him, by the things he'd been forced to do, the people he'd been forced to torture. He wanted to be angry, to yell at her for bringing up such a sensitive subject to him. He never spoke about his mother, not to anyone. He was almost positive that she'd been killed after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she'd lied to the Dark Lord about the death of Potter. He brushed the thought out of his mind, swallowing it down with some more Firewhiskey.
He didn't really know what to say, what to do, so he just looked at her, really looked at her. She was closer to him than she'd been in years, maybe ever. So close that he could see the amber and golden flecks within her deep brown eyes. She was so close that their noses were almost touching, a mere few inches away from each other. He could almost feel her breath on his skin. He could smell her shampoo, sweet, like strawberries and vanilla, as it invaded his nostrils. He wasn't surprised; it was undoubtedly Granger to smell such a way.
She broke the long eye contact with him, looking back down at his forearm, which she was still holding in place. He took his right hand off of his glass and moved it to grab her arm, pulling it next to where she held his in place. He wasn't really sure what he was thinking by doing it, maybe an eye for an eye, or maybe it was just the alcohol talking once again. He was probably crossing a line, but in the moment he didn't care; she'd already crossed one. No one had touched his mark (with the exception of Theo), not even when he shagged girls. It scared them and he didn't blame them; of course Hermione sodding Granger wasn't afraid of anything. Bloody Gryffindor. He looked down her forearm, studying the marking there. The scar was prominent; it was the first time he'd seen it up close since it happened. The skin was puffed up, the skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. The word made him sick, 'mudblood'. It'd been years since he'd thought of uttering it, meanwhile, for years he'd let it flow out of his mouth without a second thought.
He swallowed hard, biting his lip hard as he remembered the day that she got it. He could never forget it. Standing by on that day was another one of his biggest regrets that he was still trying to atone for, though he knew that he never truly could. He knew that it was his fault that she had that. He ran his finger over the letters, feeling her pull away from him slightly, but he tightened his grip, not enough to cause discomfort, but enough to get the point across. She stopped, letting out a sigh of resignation. It was only fair, she had felt his. "I'm sorry." He said, not really knowing if his apology was directed toward the specific moment the scar was left on her body or for years of unjustified torture and hatred. She just shrugged, staying silent for a moment. "You know, I don't blame you. For that." She said, gesturing down at her scar, which he was looking at so carefully, as if he thought his stare would hurt her. "You should. I did nothing to help you." He said under his breath, almost regretting speaking. This was towards the top of the list of things that he would never forgive himself for. He couldn't fathom how she could possibly forgive him for doing something so horrible. Sometimes, doing nothing is the worst thing to do.
"It's not like you had a choice in the matter. You would have died if you tried to stop it." She said, shaking her head. "Before you defected, before I really thought about it; I was mad, upset, but I've come to realize now how scared you actually were. You were just a boy, a child. You were raised into that, forced into it." No matter what she said, there was nothing she could tell him that would convince him that there wasn't more he could have done, that he could have been better, done better. "When you had the opportunity, you made your choice; you left them and came here. You gave up everything, including your family, to fight for what's right. You left everything that was comfortable, everything you knew, and came to a place where no one trusted you, no one understood why you were there, but you stayed anyway, fighting on, pushing on, not caring what anyone else thought about you because you had your own reasons for being here, just like I have mine. I think that's brave, honorable even." She breathed out, her hot breath on his arm. His expression softened as he looked at her look at the Mark. He'd never seen anyone look at a mark like that before. She seemed indifferent towards it, yet fascinated. He'd never heard himself mentioned in the same sentence as the word brave. He'd thought of himself as a sniveling coward, someone who didn't deserve her forgiveness, or anyone's for that matter. He certainly wasn't brave. "You shouldn't blame yourself, Malfoy. You're not evil." She said softly, her raising her eyes to look kindly into his. He felt frozen there, not knowing how, or even if he should reply to her.
She released her grip on his arm and he pulled it back towards himself, finding it within him to let go of her with his other hand. Her cheeks were colored a light pink as she leant back in her chair, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. Draco leant back as well, but with difficulty, groaning quietly in the process. He picked up his glass drained the Firewhiskey from it, without hesitation. She pushed her chair out, giving him a amiable smile as she stood up. She'd never smiled like that towards him before; it was kind, gentle, friendly. "You think you can get back to bed by yourself, or do you need help?" She said, pulling her jumper down, then crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll be alright. If I need help, I'm sure you'll hear me cursing." He said, pouring the last of the Firewhiskey into his glass. There was no way he was going to accept help from anyone, let alone Granger. She nodded, pressing her lips into a thin smile as she exited. "Goodnight then, Malfoy." She said. "Goodnight Granger." He whispered, looking towards the empty doorway at where Hermione once stood.
He almost felt disappointed as she left, almost. He was confused, but right now that didn't matter; he was in too much pain to think about it. He sighed as he looked at her mug, which still sat on the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, swallowing hard as he released a groan of exhaustion. He picked up the full glass and held it into the air, as if he were making a toast and whispered into the vacant room to no one but himself, "Oliver Wood; may he find the peace we're all seeking." He downed it quickly, wiping the droplet that was slipping down his chin with the back of his hand. He took a breath and braced himself for the immense pain that was to come. He forced himself to stand on his shaky legs, preparing his sore muscles to walk to his room.