Disclaimer: I don't own Harry potter – just a messed up mind.
A/N: Thank you to all of you who've favourite and followed.
Band for this chapter: The National
By Moonlight
3
Exile, Vilify
"I have no wand at the moment... I cannot defend myself."
"I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted..."
"No harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived... I can help you, Draco."
Draco couldn't help but hate the old man for his words. No harm had been done? All the harm in the world had been done, and Draco felt the weight of Albus Dumbledore's life acutely, where it rested on his shoulders. He may not have delivered the killing spell, but he had led the Death Eaters into the castle, he had disarmed the wizard, and had stepped aside and watched as he was carelessly murdered.
"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."
But he was, wasn't he? His actions had not been harmless. Not to any sane person.
Draco's thoughts span and swam in the bright, cool light of the waxing moon, the way they had each night he'd scaled the cold stone stairs and searched the sky for some sign of divine forgiveness. He'd made this trip every night since he'd been back at the castle, climbing all the way up here to revisit his memories. No matter the weather, no matter the lateness of the hour, no matter the amount of sleep he'd had (or rather, lack thereof), he dragged himself up out of bed and along the same corridors every night. By the end of the school year, he imagined the path would be worn into the stone, and the lack of sleep obvious in the bruises beneath his eyes.
It was the least he felt that he could give.
He was responsible for taking hand in ending a human life, after all. It wouldn't have mattered if it were Albus Dumbledore, a Death Eater, a mud— muggleborn, or a defenceless muggle child. Every life carried the same weight, in the end.
He felt like his soul had been ripped in two, and he could only now appreciate Dumbledore's words.
"I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe..."
There was movement in the corner of Draco's eye; he paused, breath still in his chest.
Of all things – the noise of her shuffling feet, the horrid, garish red thing she wore, or the click of the door behind her – it was her quiet sigh that announced to him exactly who it was.
The eighteen-year-old's pride wanted nothing more than to correct his defeated, slumped posture in front of the Gryffindor, but he didn't allow himself even that much. Here, he deserved this humiliation.
Draco deserved this.
He released the breath he had been holding in a long, billowing sigh.
The blond closed his eyes, the bright moon a bright flare, even behind his eyelids.
"Granger," he said by way of greeting, voice not much more than a mumble. He didn't turn to face her.
"Malfoy," she replied. There was no inflection.
A silence stretched between them. He reopened his eyes, re-familiarising himself with the pinpricks of distant stars, the dark velvet blue of the night and the haloed paleness of the moon above them. After the moment of silence passed, in which neither had felt it necessary to say a word, Granger apparently took his lack of hostility as unspoken permission to join him.
She padded quietly up alongside him and stopped only a few feet away.
Finally, he turned to her, annoyance beginning to bubble up through the ever-present grief and guilt. Her face was washed out, the few freckles on her nose darker than usual under the moon's glow, and bruises beneath hers eyes tell tale of little sleep. Her hair was such a mess around her head that he could practically feel the static in it.
"What are you doing here?" He'd intended to sound demanding, but it came out weak.
"What are you doing here?" Granger echoed, eyes flicking over his face.
"Mind your own bloody business." The furrow in his brow and the curl of his lips were merely shadows of his usual haughty scowl.
They both lapsed into quietness again, looking away from each other to study the night sky.
"I supposed I'm here because I wanted to see the stars."
He hadn't honestly expected her to answer his question, so when she did he felt a brief twinge of surprise.
"Hmph," was his only reply.
"Did you know that every single star in the night sky is another sun, in another galaxy? And every one of those suns is orbited by planets and somewhere, light years away, there's most likely other forms of sentient life?"
He hadn't known that – hadn't ever heard anything like it – but he supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the Know It All was going to try and shove her unwanted knowledge down his throat. Salazar forbid anyone go ten minutes without being reminded of her incredible intellect. It sounded like muggle gibberish anyway, and even if he didn't want them all dead, he didn't care for their outlandish beliefs.
"What's it to me?" The words slipped out of his mouth in a low mutter.
"I suppose it just puts our insignificance into perspective." She hummed tunelessly for a moment, before continuing. "Somewhere out there is another planet capable of sustaining life. Somewhere far, far away there are probably millions of them, actually. And all with intelligent, living creatures eating and fighting and sleeping."
Definitely muggle propaganda. He grunted in order to communicate his tired disgust.
Granger began to speak again after the small noise, like it had been encouragement to continue rather than antipathy. "Some people even believe that there are parallel universes out there. That there are mirror images of us living, breathing... Perhaps making different decisions under the circumstance we are given.
"Don't you think that's fascinating?" She turned to look at him again, and there was little of anything on her face that gave away her intentions. All she did was stare up at him with an intensity that made him want to move away. "That somewhere out there, there might be another you, and that mirror of Draco Malfoy might be an entirely different person. He might have done things differently.
"He might be better."
For some reason, the words hit Draco like he'd been struck. He flinched, spinning to pin a glare on the Gryffindor.
But she was turning away and shuffling in her fuzzy green socks towards the door, and the spiral staircase beyond.
With that she was gone, just as swiftly as she'd arrived.
He might have called after her— "How dare you, Granger, talking about things you could never understand? How dare you vilify me?!"—but the words stuck in his throat. They lodged themselves there in a knot, and the very moment the door clicked shut behind her, Draco choked on a dry sob.
He didn't cry, because quite frankly he didn't have it in him. That wasn't to say that it didn't hurt, though. Especially not in his self-inflicted exile.
...
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(Edited 22nd Jan 2017)