A/N: It's Saturday (barely is for me, but still), and so I present you the fourth chapter of this little story. I know I'm bad at answering reviews, but you should know I appreciate and cherish every single one!
A thankful shout-out to my beta, MrBenzedrine. Read the 'Tango' update yet? No? You really should ;) Kyonomiko has released two juicy one-shots, 'Kitty Treat' and 'Unmasked' - so good. These writers are really outstanding!
It's the second day of the bright cycle when they take away Draco for questioning. Hermione can't stay still while he is away, and she knows what this means: she has grown accustomed to him, maybe even before she accepted him as real.
Her instinct is to push these thoughts aside. The comfort another human - he brings her… it could turn into hope. A hope that is destined to implode, if she takes all variables of her current situation into consideration. But strangely, the darkness taking hold of her finds solace in having company in what could easily be her final weeks or days. So is it a bad thing that she was glad she had him by her side? Is it a fault in her character that the only order in her mind was pushed into her by Draco Malfoy?
Her thoughts run in circles, tumbling through the depth of hell while wishing for heaven but always returning to the centre - Harry, Minerva, Ron, Ginny, Charlie, Arthur, the usuals, one could say, now enlarged to fit one blond wizard. Fate certainly owns a twisted sense of humour.
An hour or two later, she hears a commotion in the cell next to her. As soon as the doors falls closed, he starts screaming. Hermione doesn't even need to press her ear to the hole or push the brick aside to hear him, but she does nevertheless.
"They're coming! The Dark Lord! Potter lied, we've all been lied at! The battle was a farce!" The rattling noise that follows indicates he shakes the door, to no avail of course. The only result his reckless behaviour has is apparently a painful electro shock from the sound of it. Hermione jumps at his pained howl, feeling the ache as if it is her own.
He mumbles something incoherently then, and it suddenly dawns to her that he has been drugged. Strangely, this makes her afraid. Afraid because he has been her constant since she grew aware of him, even when she didn't recognize herself anymore. Angry and irate though he has been, but he's always himself.
She gathers the courage to peek through the gap in the wall for the first time, even though her eye waters upon the exertion.
The man she sees has the same, significant platinum blond hair she remembers, the same length even. The soft bangs fall over his face, his ears, reaching the collar of his non-descriptive brown shirt. How they have stayed this way in this environment is a secret to her. She can't see the silver eyes he has been so famous for among the females in Hogwarts, for his back is turned to her. His shoulders raise and lower in short succession. Is he crying? If so, he is quiet at it.
"Malfoy? Are you alright?" An incoherent groan is her answer. "Malfoy!" she repeats with emphasis.
"No. Be quiet," he moans, pressing his palms to his ears.
"I won't." Her answer is defiant. He was there for her. And now she would be there for him.
"You will. None of this is real. It's only in my head. Nothing is real…" And so his path through his hallucinations begin.
Hermione doesn't know what they fed him, but it has to be some heavy stuff, for his agonized screams accompany her through the night. Interrupted by phases of rest where she falls into a restless slumber against the wall, due to the brightness and Draco's suffering, he rages and yells through the hours, goes through different episodes, screams for his parents - and sometimes because of them. Even if this insane yelling only contains a spark of truth - the snobby boy and young man she remembers from Hogwarts has always been a facade for a highly sensible and vulnerable person.
And all Hermione can do is whisper words of assurance he probably doesn't even realize. The hardest part is when he relives that night at Malfoy Manor and her own name tumbles from his parched lips. Pressing her palm to her mouth, she suppresses sobs of empathy as it breaks what's left of her heart. He wails, bangs his head to the floor because he can't help her, and Hermione's final resolve snaps.
"Stop it!" she cries, uncaring if someone hears. "Right this instant. It wasn't your fault!"
Her good intentions seem to backfire when he jumps up and hammers his fists against the wall, close to where their connection lies. "SHUT UP! You're not real! You're an imposter! I'm sure you're polyjuiced!"
The tone of his voice unsettles her and demonstrates that Draco is as unhinged beneath the surface as she is. Taking a calming breath to steady herself, Hermione knows she has to take a different road with him. Maybe it was worth a try…? "Don't bullshit me, Draco!" She uses the insult to let her bossy personality shine through his haze. And then, seemingly out of the blue, she asks, "What's even necessary for brewing Polyjuice?"
She almost can't believe her own ears when he answers after three long breaths. "Lacewing flies, leeches, powdered bicorn horn..." he rattles the ingredients off effortlessly.
"How does one brew it exactly?" Again, he scores the perfect response. She knows because she, too, has the exact words memorized.
"When was the summit of the International Confederation of Wizards that led to the formation of the Department of Magical Game and Sports in Britain?"
"1692."
"Which clause was added to the Statue of Secrecy in 1750 and what does it say?"
She hears him starting to pace the room rhythmically, nervous energy transforming into answers to her questions. "Clause 73. It says each Ministry is responsible for the concealment of magical creatures within its territory."
The quiz goes on, Hermione rapidly firing one question at Draco after the other. She switches topics randomly, the facts getting more and more fastidious and demanding more concentration. She listens while he responds and is aware of how his breathing slowly evens. It continues for what feels like an hours, until he hoarsely answers, "It's the Second Principle of Herbal Transfiguration. And I'm back."
"Are you?" she asks back, not convinced. "Then I suppose you won't object to some more sensible questions."
"You will pose them anyway." A tint of sarcasm makes him sound more like himself already.
"Why aren't they using Legilimency against us?" This question has appeared more than once since her imprisonment. Of course, she has some theories, but it would help to have a second opinion.
There's a pause before he answers, and it's the longest span of silence since he has entered his cell again. "We're both hard to break, I suppose. And they'd have to change our attitude completely. But such a violent change leaves traces and marks and could still be apparent to a keen eye."
Hermione has pretty much the same point of view, so she goes on, "And you are an accomplished Occlumens, right?"
"Yes, my mother trained me herself since I was a teenager. She always told me it's because you have to keep a certain facade in the pureblood society, but I think she wanted me able to protect myself against Voldemort's advances," he explains solemnly, almost detached.
In the excruciating bright light of her cell, Hermione hums in understanding. Narcissa Malfoy had lied to Voldemort, after all. "Why not Veritaserum?"
"Easy to overcome when you're strong-willed, even if your Occlumency skills aren't stellar. But you knew that already, Hermione!" At some point in the hours and days of their imprisonment, they had switched to their first names, and Hermione could already decipher a dozen ways he implemented his moods in the way he spoke her name. This time, it is reproachful. Apparently, he finally has gathered enough control over himself for him to sit down right next to the hole.
"I only wanted to help," she whispers, stretching her hand out and placing it on his shoulder.
"I know," he sighs, and just like that, all the tension and pain and anger is lost, and a renewed feeling of hopelessness takes over the air between them.
"I wish I could do more. You know, something small. Like a conjuring a bluebell flame. Those were my speciality."
He chuckles, his hand covering hers, the pulse of his heart beating strongly against her skin. "A light in the darkness...that would be nice."
His touch grounds Hermione, and she closes her eyes, remembering how it had felt when she had accomplished to create those nifty little pieces of magic for the first time. It had been a challenge at first, but then, the picture was as clear as the day in her mind, and all she had to do was channel it through her wand…
"By Salazar, Hermione!" Draco's gasp made her memory dissolve.
"What?" She wants to pull away, but his grip on her hand tightens, and she feels a jolt of something vaguely magical coursing through her at this feeling. "You swot! You just made a bluebell flame appear in my cell!"