Author's Note: Hey guys, so it's definitely been a while (*cough cough* four years) and I am SO sorry about that. But, on the bright side, I decided to take this story off hiatus! I'm super excited about this, I even wrote up an outline (alright, it's pretty vague, but I'm trying!) which is something I normally don't do, and probably why I'm never able to finish my stories. So, I cannot guarantee frequent updates (hey, at least I'm being honest!), but I PINKY PROMISE that I will finish this. And as soon as I do that, I will be on to my other story "Something That Rhymes With Witch"! I'm extremely excited about that one as well (sorry about my shameless promotion). I just wanted to say thank you to anyone who is reading this, especially those who favorited this and are returning after the crazy long hiatus. I want to apologize and thank you from the bottom of my heart! And to those of you just starting, you're awesome as well. Please, feel free to review and tell me what you like, dislike, or anything you would like to see happen! I'm totally open to suggestions and constructive criticism. Last thing, I promise- I updated the first two chapters- nothing major, but if you need a refresher (who are we kidding, you totally do, I even did) make sure to check those out. Okay, I'm done, sorry about the long author's note. I hope you guys enjoy!
Disclaimer: Not Rowling.
A Chance For Revenge
Chapter Three: The Weasel in Weasley
"Malfoy?!" Hermione exclaimed, confusion and surprise melting together in her falsetto.
She knelt down in front of the slouched man and gently brushed his wheat colored fringe from his eyes, attempting to gain a better view of his face. His skin was ashen and there were dark circles marring the delicate skin around his closed lids. His cheeks were almost hollow, giving him a skeleton-like appearance and making his sharp cheekbones even more prominent. His skin was feverish to the touch and his breathing shallow, his chest humming with the difficulty of each breath.
Harsh cracks began to fill the air and voices could be heard in the distance, disturbing the former silence of the pre-dawn world. Hermione panicked and with a quick glace behind her made a split decision. Without hesitation she grabbed the thin arm of the befallen man before her, and with a quick intake of breath sent them both spinning into oblivion.
A pale golden light filled the room, filtering from behind the gossamer curtains lightly billowing in the breeze. He squinted his eyes against the light, a sharp pain zinging through the back of his head as he did so.
"Bugger," he mumbled as he dragged a calloused hand across his eyes and down his face in a half hazard attempt to block the faint light.
Draco heaved a sigh and attempted to sit up, but was deterred when a dull throbbing ripped through his abdomen. With an intake of breath he slowly looked down to survey the damage. Wrapped around his bare stomach was stark white gauze, tinged a dark brown toward the center. Confusion clouded his memory- what had happened? And more importantly, where was he?
A slight panic began to creep over him, tightening his chest and his throat as his eyes whipped around the room, struggling to take in his surroundings. The wall to his left was covered in a floor to ceiling bookshelf, each shelf completely full of different colored spines glinting in the midmorning light. Overflowing with volumes, books were waywardly stacked atop each other, each stack more precarious than the next. Glancing to his left, he noticed the other wall was littered with picture frames of different sizes and shapes, all fit neatly together as if pieces of a puzzle. Some of the pictures moved, the occupants waving and beaming down from their frames, while others curiously sat still, the moment permanently captured in complete tranquility.
Although Draco knew that this was the Muggle way of photography, it was not often that he had seen both mobile and immobile pictures placed together in such harmony. It was an odd sight, but not completely unheard of. Rather, it seemed to represent the changing outlook of the Wizarding community as more time passed since the War. At one point Draco would have scoffed at the progress being made, his teenage mind clouded by the propaganda and Muggle hate that poisoned the hearts of the Pureblood supporters of the once Dark Lord. However, times had changed. When his family had abandoned the cause at the Last Battle, he had abandoned his previous convictions as well. At the time he had believed that these ideas were not worth risking his life over, but the past five years in hiding had afforded him plenty of time to think. Not only did he realize that these views were archaic, hateful, and just plain wrong, but he also realized that his own belief in them had never been resolute. These ideals instilled in him from an early age were not his own, but rather the product of his misled parents. He knew that they cared about him and their intentions had never been to put him in danger, but the very core beliefs of the Lestrange and Malfoy families that his parents had followed to the letter were the exact reason his childhood was wrought with darkness and hate. He had realized that he simply did not care about Muggles or Purebloods or Halfbloods or whatever other silly titles the "elite" ascribed to those thought to be less superior, because when it came down to it, it was wrong. Blood purity was merely a fabrication created by those who aspired to maintain a purely superficial status in the Wizarding World, and he had met many powerful witches and wizards during his time at Hogwarts to prove this tenfold- he had just been too blind at the time to see the proof right in front of him.
Not only did he now hold these convictions to be true, but when it came down to it, he simply did not care about others when his only focus was survival. People could live their lives however they pleased, because the reality of it was that it just did not affect him. It may have been selfish, but Draco frankly did not give a flying Hippogriff's arse about what other people thought, if people even thought about him anymore at all. The only people who knew he was in hiding were his parents, and he hadn't spoken to them in at least six months. All of his old friends, if you could even call them that, from his Slytherin years, were locked up, dead, or in the same predicament he currently found himself in. It was a miserably lonely life, but Draco was no longer the same self-centered brat he had been at Hogwarts, and he realized his past actions had consequences, for which he was now paying.
Draco, lost in his thoughts, continued to blankly stare at the wall of photographs. Blinking, he shook his head a little, attempting to clear the muddle of thoughts overtaking his brain. He was still extremely sensitive to the light and a long stream of consciousness was not exactly helping his headache. Instead he began to examine the photographs in an attempt to figure out where in Merlin's name he was, his eyes growing wider as they bounced from frame to frame. Recognition slowly pierced through his clouded conscious and he bit back a soft groan as he leaned back into the pillows propped up behind him.
"Good Godric," he mumbled to himself, "I must be at Granger's."
After Apparating back to her flat with Draco in tow, Hermione immediately began to bustle about, reveling in the distraction at hand. She had levitated the unconscious man into her room, settling him comfortably in her bed and tending to the splinch that had taken a good chunk out of his abdomen. "It was a good thing he was already unconscious, or he surely would have passed out from the pain," Hermione thought to herself, recalling the way the skin around the wound had hissed and effervesced as she had applied the essence of Dittany to it. With a quick flick of her wand the skin had neatly sewn itself shut, leaving a thin pink scar that trailed from just above his left hip up the center of his chest. She had wrapped the wound in gauze to ensure Malfoy would not upset the stitches and tucked him into her bed.
She had then set about collecting Ron's miscellaneous belongings throughout the flat, struggling to keep her emotions in check as she did so. The past twelve hours had been an emotional rollercoaster that did not seem to be ending any time soon. She flashed between extreme anger, dismay, disappointment, dejection, and right back to anger with milliseconds in between. Although keeping busy helped, each object she picked up represented some memory, a time when they were actually happy and in love, or so she thought. But all of that had come crashing down on her last night, in the Burrow of all places.
It was a typical Sunday dinner, with the entire Weasley family as well as honorary members in attendance, as demanded by Molly. The War had taken its toll on the family, and since it ended Mrs. Weasley had gone about picking up the pieces and healing the still smarting wounds in a way she knew how- with food, warmth, and laughter. Fred's death left a gaping hole that could not be filled, however Percy was welcomed back with open arms, and the occasional appearance of Lee Jordan helped the Band-Aid stay in place.
Ron had been acting strangely the entire evening- he only spoke when spoken to, he barely touched his food (something very uncharacteristic for Ronald Weasley, who was normally onto seconds before everyone else had settled in), and he would not stop fidgeting in his seat, despite the strange looks thrown at him by everyone at the table.
After dinner was finished he had shot out of his seat like a rocket, pulling Hermione up the stairs and to his old bedroom. He had claimed the guilt was "eating him alive" and he was "so, so sorry Hermione" and that it was "the biggest mistake of his life" and that surely it would "never happen again".
Hermione took a deep breath as she tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill out of her eyes and onto her flushed cheeks. She was determined not to cry over Ron, but she couldn't help but feel betrayed, and that was what hurt the most. After all they had gone through together, over a decade of friendship and what she had thought was love, destroyed in a single thoughtless act. What made it worse was that Ron had been her first love, and the only man she had ever been with. But if he had never loved her, as the situation seemed to hint to, then the past six years had one big lie. A sham. If that was the case, then what was love? And the bigger question: would she ever be able to really experience it?
Hermione shook her head and wiped her face. Getting over Ronald was not going to be easy, but it had to be done. She stood up straight, rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and with a deft wave of her wand, summoned all of Ron's belongings from every corner of the house into the living room. With a swish everything neatly packed itself into four large cardboard boxes and slid over to the front door in anticipation of Ginny's arrival later in the day.
She turned back to the kitchen to ready some food for Draco- not only was he severely injured, but he also looked extremely emaciated. She paused in the doorway, glancing back at the boxes with a small smile slowly tugging at the corners of her mouth. Pulling open the nearest drawer, Hermione grabbed a thick black magic marker and strode across the room toward Ron's possessions. A few moments later, accompanied by a few squeaks of the marker, Hermione had written across the top of the box in big loopy letters: 'To the boy who puts the "weasel" into Weasley. Here are you things.'
With a satisfied smile, Hermione capped the marker. "Well, if I'm going to have Malfoy around, there's no harm in bringing back some of his old insults."