I'm sorry this took so long. My computer crashed and I had to write this up from memory. Please Review.
Hermione drew her hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat. It took her a moment to realize where she was.
"I'm at Grimmauld Place," she whispered to herself. "I'm spending the rest of my summer holiday with Ron and Harry."
She gulped down the water she kept on the bedside table to soothe her sore throat, silently thanking Merlin that she had cast silencing charms on her room.
They didn't need to hear her screams.
Three years had gone by, and her nightmares had lessened, but that did not make them any less vivid, or any less terrifying on the nights they returned.
She dreamed of jettisons of colored light, of Voldemort chasing after her on a cloud of darkness, of men in dark robes and white masks, the deaths of Moody, Remus, Tonks, Dobby, and scores of others.
But there was one nightmare that persisted, one that haunted her above all the others, sent her reeling into realms of despair, as it had tonight: her torture at the hands of Bellatrix.
Hermione ran her hand over the scars, softly tracing the indentations; she could still feel the blade, the icy touch of metal as the tip danced along her arm, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She could still hear Bellatrix laughing at her pain.
She remembered Draco.
Harry, in a fit of rage, had uttered Voldemort's name, activating the Taboo. Within seconds, they were surrounded by a group of Snatchers headed by the werewolf Greyback, one of the Dark Lord's deadliest enforcers.
The Snatchers took them to Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters' base of operations, and Hermione waited fearfully as Draco approached them, encouraged by his overeager father, who was desperate to earn Voldemort's favor.
It was the first time Hermione had seen Draco since their sixth year, and it pained her to see him so haggard, so pale...so lifeless.
She waited with baited breath, fully expecting Draco to denounce them; he would finish his inspection of Harry's face (which she had thought to jinx prior to the Snatchers' arrival) and hand them over to his father.
It would happen soon, she knew, as Harry's face was slowly morphing back to its normal state.
But the moment never came. Draco had barely given Harry's face a glance before denying Greyback's claim. Even with prodding from Lucius, Draco never confirmed their identity; it was always, "It might
be them," and "I don't know, maybe."
Draco had gone out of his way to protect them, and Hermione had no idea why. What did he gain by protecting them?
What had been the point? He might not have turned them in, but he had done nothing to help them. When Hermione was being tortured, he stood there and watched, stock still and impassive. Their eyes had found each other's for the briefest of moments. She silently pleaded with him, begged him to help her, to make the pain end... but his eyes offered nothing in return.
Hermione shook her head to clear it of her thoughts.
"Lumos," she muttered. After invoking a nonverbal levitation spell on her wand, Hermione took out her manuscript, dipped her quill in ink, and began writing by wandlight, her thoughts slowly turning away from Draco, the boy she had tried to forget the moment she met him, but could never seem to banish completely.
It was no use to dwell on someone for whom you would never be good enough.
"Tergeo," Draco muttered, watching as the blood slowly disappeared from the bandage covering his arm. He carefully rolled the sleeve down again. He would have to do something soon. The damn thing would not stop bleeding,no matter how many times he performed the healing charm. It wasn't as though he could stride into St. Mungo's and demand treatment: the whole of the wizarding world thought him dead, and he wanted to keep it that way.
He had no currency here. The Ministry of Magic had seized the Malfoy fortune after the Second Purification, and used it as reparations for the families of the Dark Lord's victims, so he couldn't even afford a bottle of dittany to avoid scarring.
And he was not going to his mother. That was a conversation he wanted to avoid.
Draco heard someone chuckle behind him.
"Let it scar, Draco," Malfoy said. "That way, you'll have a mark to remind you of what you are."
Draco did not respond, did nothing to show his annoyance at Malfoy's words. Because he knew that Malfoy was right. The Dark Mark would always pain him, remind him of the suffering he endured at the Dark Lord's hands. But this new mark was different. Voldemort's mark would eventually fade, leaving nothing but a faint memory in its place. But coward was seared onto his skin; it would stay with him forever. For as long as he lived, it would remind Draco of his failings.
And that was much, much worse.
Draco checked his reflection in a nearby shop window, making sure his disillusionment charm was still in effect. This was his first foray into the wizarding world in three years, and it would not do to make a scene.
He walked along Diagon Alley, reveling it the memories it conjured. His Hogwarts letter. His first owl. Shopping for robes with his mother. All of them peaceful, all of them happy.
Draco scowled, his moment of serenity gone as he reached the turn that would take him into Knockturn Alley, where he hoped to find something to stem the bleeding, which had started again.
The memories that this place conjured were not so happy.
Malfoy sighed contentedly. "It's like coming home, isn't it?"
"Shut it," Draco replied. And for once, Malfoy listened.
Just as he was about to turn into Knockturn Alley, Draco staggered backward as someone bumped into him.
Unbeknownst to Draco, the jolt had been enough to shatter his concentration...and his disillusionment charm.
Hermione gasped. She had been about to apologize to the stranger for bumping into him when she saw Draco materialize out of thin air.
Draco, for his part, had frozen, too lost within his own mind to care that he had just been discovered.
He was very far away.
His father had summoned him. He made his way into the foyer to find Greyback and his Snatchers holding three people captive. He noticed Granger straight off, wishing he hadn't.
Draco always noticed Hermione. It unnerved him, how easily she seemed to draw and keep his attention.
His father was saying something, wanted him to do something.
Draco studied the man he was sure was Potter, though his face had been oddly disfigured. Granger's doing, no doubt. She was highly intelligent for a mud-...for a muggle-born.
He studied Potter's face intently, making sure he cast no glance in Granger's direction...or the Weasel's.
His father was still prattling, prodding. He wanted an answer.
Draco hated Potter. Everyone loved him because he was an orphan, because of that stupid scar. Everyone thought he was bloody amazing. Everything Draco worked for, he was simply given, yet he wanted none of it. It angered Draco that he could throw it all away without a second thought. That he could act.
Where Draco was taught to submit, Potter was taught to stand, and he hated him for it.
This was his chance to end it all. To end him.
Try though he might to push her from his mind, Draco was all too aware of Granger struggling beside Potter.
Potter was her friend, and if he turned them in, she might hate him more than she already did. For reasons Draco refused to acknowledge, that thought hurt him a lot more than it should have...
Granger was screaming, tears streaming from her eyes as his aunt carved that horrid word into her flesh. Draco looked on, his face a perfect mask, revealing nothing of the turmoil he felt inside. He stood rigid, his muscles tensed.
His right hand gripped his wand, and it was steady. The other was in his pocket, clenching and unclenching.
He could show nothing. He could do nothing. To act was to sentence his parents to death. That was why Potter was free to fight; he had no one left to lose.
Granger's eyes connected with his for a moment, silently pleading, asking for his help. It almost broke him.
Almost.
"Move, idiot!" Malfoy yelled. Draco blinked, bringing himself back to the present, and disapparated.