Author's Note
I apologize for angst and any perceived egotism on Wednesday's part in this chapter. Other than that, I apologize for nothing. Unless she comes off as a Mary Sue again.
Also this chapter is really long. A lot of things happen…yeah. Wow. I wrote a lot. I'm pretty sure this is by far the longest chapter. Sorry not sorry.
Chapter Four
After their late night tête à tête, Hermione and Wednesday got a long more comfortably, although they would never be best friends. Wednesday was too solitary, and Hermione too busy, for a close friendship. On the other hand, the amount of time Wednesday spent helping Luna in the infirmary forged a friendship between them and between Wednesday and Blaise. In their quiet, unjudging presence, Wednesday found a modicum of peace, especially as Luna never asked her probing questions and Blaise followed her lead. Her experiences with Slytherins in Hogwarts had never been good, per se, but something about this one made spending time with him less of a trial. It probably helped that she never saw him treat the half-bloods and Muggleborns with anything other than courtesy, something that the other Slytherins in residence still struggled with.
Between Wednesday's experiences, Blaise's innate potions skills, and Luna's exemplary healing work, they made a good team. It was Luna who suggested writing all of this down, since she and Blaise, at least, sometimes ventured out onto the battlefield. This information shouldn't be kept only among the three of them; it was important, and it could save someone's life. The rest of the Order needed to have access to the healing knowledge they were accumulating. Thus, every evening after dinner they congregated in the kitchen, or if that was occupied, the living room, in order to record the day's observations and ideas in a thick, leather-bound volume that had once been a detailed history of the pureblood family trees. It had been Blaise's, and he had 'donated' it to a better cause. A few simple charms wiped the ink from the pages, freeing it to become their medical journal.
It was during one such session, this time an early Saturday morning one, since the night before had been devoted to an Order-wide meeting, when Neville Longbottom brought in several armloads of plants, as well as a dozen or so potted plants.
"I thought that you all might find these useful," he explained as he came in with his fifth bundle. "Harry mentioned you were running low on supplies."
Blaise became very interested in what Wednesday tentatively identified as a potted Mandrake (it had been a long time since Herbology) as Luna began peppering Neville questions, primarily on whether or not had had spotted any Straight-Horned Snorkacks hiding in amongst the Dirigible Plums (he hadn't).
Mrs. Weasley poked her head through the door. "Have any of you seen my Doxie repellent? They've gotten into the curtains in Professor Vector's room again."
Wednesday, recalling that she'd seen it on a shelf in her room the other day, headed towards the stairs. I think I saw it in my room.
Reaching the door marked R.A.B., Wednesday threw a cursory look around the room as she stepped inside, moving towards the bookshelf where she had last seen the bottle of Doxie repellent. A flash of light reflecting off of something shiny caught her eye as she turned towards the shelf, and she turned back to get a better look at it. There, on the windowsill, was a smooth, flat, oblong object made of what appeared to be gold. Frowning, Wednesday reached towards it, forgetting all of her lessons to check and see if something was dangerous before touching it. After hearing about the incident that nearly killed Katie Bell, she had been doubly cautions of things she touched in this house. It wasn't that she didn't trust that the Order had done a good job of clearing the house of Dark objects; it was more her past experiences with Dark magic that made her uneasy. Yet, with all of her caution, she reached out and picked up that strange gold pebble without a second thought.
As soon as she touched the golden surface, her mind was transported into a nightmare. It was familiar, yet not familiar, and she couldn't tell that it wasn't real. There was no lucid dreaming here, only terror. A nameless terror that roared behind her, driving to ever-faster speeds as she fled. From who or what, she didn't know; the only thought in her mind was to run. And as she ran, she saw things in the darkness around her, things she had suppressed and locked away behind her walls, so that no one, not even herself, could know what they consisted of. Stumbling, she fell, and suddenly she remembered those diamond-hard walls in her mind. The ones she had made to protect herself. It was a struggle, building those walls piece by piece, refusing to move even as the nameless terror drew close, a dark shadow that began to swallow her, feet first.
With an effort of will, she finished her walls, and then suddenly her mind was clear again. The shadow receded, held back by invisible shields, and she remembered the circumstances that had brought her here. With this realization, the darkness began to melt away, leaving her in her sunlit room with her fingers resting against the warm surface of a gold pebble. She snatched her fingers away as if it burned; what was that thing, and how had it gotten here? Better still, why was it here, and why had it brought up those memories?
Gathering her wits, Wednesday snatched up the bottle of Doxie repellent and fled the room, leaving the golden thing to shine innocently in the sunlight.
Here you are, Mrs. Weasley, she said, offering the bottle to her. And by the way – do you know anything about the object on my windowsill?
Mrs. Weasley frowned. "Was it something of mine, dear?"
No. I think it might be dangerous. Wednesday explained her experience, and Mrs. Weasley's expression turned alarmed.
"Don't touch it again! I'll have Henley take a look at it." Henley Reeves was an American-born, UK-raised Auror with nearly ten years of field experience. She had been hired right out of Hogwarts when she was seventeen, and held the record as the youngest person to become a fully-fledged Auror (age nineteen).
"What was that?" Henley herself strode into the kitchen, her coppery hair gleaming as she poured herself a cup of tea. "I hope you're not expecting me to help you de-Doxy anything, Molly. You know how I am in the house!" An excellent Auror she might be, but housekeeping and cooking were beyond her skills. If she did either, it was the Muggle way and not with magic. Household spells never worked well for her.
"No, dear, but Wednesday found something in her room that might not be, well, friendly. Would you mind taking a look?"
Henley drank deeply. "Of course. Anything I should know, Wednesday?"
Again Wednesday explained her experience, and Henley frowned. "A Nightcatcher, here? What on earth for?"
"A what?" Mrs. Weasley asked, putting a platter of scrambled eggs on the kitchen table.
"A Nightcatcher. It works like a Muggle Dreamcatcher is supposed to, but only for nightmares, not dreams. There's no real point to them, really, except to terrify whoever it is that they're keyed to. And you say you just found it on your windowsill?" she asked Wednesday. "I'd better take a look, then. You have no idea where it could have come from? It wasn't there before?"
Wednesday shook her head, adding It wasn't there this morning when I woke up, and nothing else has been disturbed as far as I can tell.
Henley chewed her lip, thinking. "Nightcatchers are pretty harmless, but if you don't know where it came from, that means someone might have access to your room, and they can be spelled with darker magics. Molly, would you check with George to make sure this isn't something of his?"
"If it is, he's in deep trouble! Scaring poor Wednesday like that!" Molly marched off, wooden spoon in hand instead of the wand lying by the sink, to investigate.
"I'll let you know if I find something," Henley said, taking her mug of tea and climbing the stairs to Wednesday's room. Wednesday helped herself to some scrambled eggs and took the sausages off the stove before they burned; a quick warming charm heated up the casserole of baked beans sitting by the teapot. Luna busied herself with making toast, while Blaise scratched his head and decided to lay out the plates and silverware. Cooking was not one of his strong suits, especially as a pureblood male.
Breakfast was a quiet affair; only Harry, Hermione, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Henley, Molly, George, and Wednesday were present, a contrast to the usually large group that congregated in the kitchen for meals. Arthur Weasley had been called into work to deal with a case of a biting toaster planted in a muggle thrift store, while several others had gone to do their own chores. As they ate, Henley explained what she had found.
"It's not malevolent, Wednesday, but I can't get a trace on it, which means it wasn't placed there by anyone in this house. However, the wards weren't broken, which means whoever did plant it has access to the house. It's all very bizarre, since I thought that only the Order knows the location." She took a bite of eggs, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. "It has no dark magic on it that I can tell, so it's safe to touch it, although I'd recommend either levitating it or using something to keep it from touching your skin, since it's keyed to you. Someone knows you're here, and who you are, otherwise they couldn't have keyed it that way. Molly, are there any Order members who have access to the house that I don't know about?"
Molly frowned, and shook her head. "I don't think so. It wasn't something of George's—"
"Why would I want to make something like that?" George wanted to know, his mouth full of sausage. He ignored his mother's disapproving look and continued, "It's not very unique. And I wouldn't leave it in Wednesday's room if I had made it."
"You've left your inventions out before," Hermione reminded him primly. "Don't you remember the punching telescope?"
He blanched. "I'm really sorry about that, 'Mione. No, really," he added as she raised an eyebrow. "It was meant for Percy to find."
"Now that I can believe," Molly huffed. "More beans, Harry dear?"
"No thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry answered, taking a deep draught of his tea. "Hermione, Ron, and I were going to go to Lesser Kingsboroug this morning to visit a retired antique dealer who may have had possession of Merlin's own signet ring once upon a time, to try and trace it. We're fairly certain that Voldemort acquired it some time ago and turned it into a horcrux since the Battle of Hogwarts, based on evidence given by a lower-level Death Eater captured by the Ministry. Kingsley Shacklebolt was the Minister for Magic, which put him in a precarious position fraught with danger, since he was the most prominently featured member of the Order in wizarding society. However, that enabled the Order to do several things, first of which was gain access to any convicted supporters of the Dark Lord in order to try and glean information from them.
"Be careful," Molly warned as she always did. "Wednesday, Blaise, Luna, did you have anything scheduled for today?"
"Luna and I were going to Diagon Alley to buy some more supplies," Blaise answered, finishing off his orange juice. "Wednesday?"
I was intending to go to Diagon Alley as well. Might I tag along? She didn't betray the fact that knowing that they had made plans without her hurt, just a little. She was well aware of the attraction between the Healer and the Potioneer, but even so, she considered them friends, and hoped that they considered her a friend, too.
"Of course," Luna said in her serene way. "You don't get out enough."
Wednesday recalled suddenly Draco Malfoy's words about her self-enforced seclusion. It's unhealthy, he had said, and he was right. There was more she could do for the Order, more skills at her disposal than just healing. Even if the others didn't consider her as one of them, she shouldn't sequester herself. The Nightcatcher had shown her her dark past, and it had been trigger enough to make her realize that she might never awaken from the nightmare if she didn't seek out a better way to spend her time. Thank you, she said, reaching out to include Malfoy in her thanks. He wouldn't be able to hear her at this distance, but she felt the need to express her gratitude for his words the other night, which had led her to this bout of self-introspection. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. He had access to the house, but of course Henley wouldn't know him. She stood up abruptly, her gaze resting on Hermione as she spoke directly to the other witch.
I need to speak to Malfoy. Soon. It was the only logical conclusion. She would examine the Nightcatcher herself to see if she recognized the signature, but she wanted a definitive answer. If it was him, why had he done it? Why risk getting caught by the uninformed Order members in order to plant such an item in her room? And the Nightcatcher's purpose – what was it?
Hermione frowned, and raised an eyebrow. It was the most she could do, since Wednesday's telepathy with her was one-way. The mute woman tried not to invade Hermione's mental personal space too much, which meant she didn't delve deep enough to read Hermione's mind. Then her expression cleared, and she nodded her understanding.
"Wednesday? Is everything all right, dear?" Molly asked, her expression worried.
Wednesday forced herself to relax, and smiled at Mrs. Weasley. I'm fine. I just…I'm going to go and see if I need anything else. She left the kitchen after putting her plate by the sink, her general air of unease stopping Mrs. Weasley from frowning at her uncharacteristic behavior. Wednesday always helped to clean up.
When she reached her room, Wednesday reached out towards the Nightcatcher with her magic, trying to feel its signature. All magic left a signature. It was merely a question of whether or not she could identify it. Her experience with Malfoy's magic was brief, but she knew the feel of his mind after his investigation into her past at Hermione's request. She recoiled with a hiss. It bore the imprint of his magic, yes, but also someone else's.
Someone whose magic she knew well, along with the pain it caused. Her hand strayed to her chest, and then the back of her head.
Wednesday burst into the kitchen, causing Henley to drop the dirty plates she was carrying. Molly automatically caught them with a flick of her wand before they shattered on the floor. They all stared at her.
Hermione. Wednesday spoke directly to the witch. Hermione, that…that trinket bears the magic of Voldemort himself. Where is Draco Malfoy? Her telepathic voice was frantic, bordering on furious hysteria. He must have told Voldemort where I am. Why else would that thing be keyed to me?
"Excuse us," Hermione said hastily, grabbing Wednesday by the arm and leading her to the living room, where she locked the door and silenced the room so that none of the others would be able to hear them "What do you mean?"
Has Henley ever felt the magic of Voldemort?
Hermione shook her head. "No. Why? What do you mean, the Nightcatcher has his imprint on it?"
I know the feel of his magic and Malfoy's both. They're both present on that stone, which means they both had a hand in creating it. Your precious spy is a double-crosser, Hermione. His concern for my mental health stems from the fact that they want me out where they can take me, don't you see?
Hermione blanched. If Malfoy had been the one to put it there, under Voldemort's orders…Her chest felt tight. "I'll ask him to come and meet me tonight. Will you come?"
I intend to wring the truth out of him, Wednesday snarled. Why a Nightcatcher, I don't know, but it must be some kind of test. They only know that I can resist the Cruciatus Curse; they must be testing my shields. Why they didn't stop the Nightcatcher, I don't know, but that doesn't bode well for me. If they can figure out how to use that against me, they won't need to break through my shields. They'll circumvent them completely, and then you'll all be in danger.
Hermione frowned. "I don't think that Dr—Malfoy put it there—"
If he didn't, who did? The wards let them through, and there are no signs of forced entry. It can't have been a Muggle, and none of the Order would betray you like that. I know it's hard, but you have to accept that he is the most likely suspect, and if that is the case, then he needs to be dealt with. Wednesday's gaze was fierce and hard, her mouth a thin line as she paced. Do you remember how concerned he was that I was always here, behind these protective walls? Don't you think that maybe he was trying to goad me into leaving this safety, into revealing myself and giving them the chance to take me again?
"Wednesday, I don't think you understand Dr—Malfoy at all. He—"
You cannot deny the evidence, Hermione. Don't let love leave you blind until it's too late. Wednesday's eyes shimmered with tears. Don't delude yourself into thinking everything's okay. Never take it for granted. Because the rose-tinted glass of love will shatter with you when reality comes to call. Hermione got the feeling that Wednesday was talking about more than Malfoy. That she was talking about her mother.
She bit her lip, knowing that the older woman was right. She couldn't rule out the possibility that Malfoy had betrayed them, despite how much the thought of it bothered her. "Meet me here at midnight."
Very well. Wednesday turned and all but raced up the stairs, to the practice room where she sealed the door and collapsed to the floor, emotions swirling; fear, anger, sorrow, bitterness, hope, betrayal. She had believed that she would be safe here, that she could help the Order, but now she doubted even that. Malfoy had been right; she was a liability. She should not have let herself stay. She should have escaped, to America, or somewhere else where Voldemort's shadow had not yet fallen. Frustration at her stupidity ate at her; she should have known that once word got out that she would be a target. If it was only her life on the line, she would give herself up to save the Order in a heartbeat, but she could not. A sacrifice like that would do nothing but hurt them. She was too useful as a weapon.
She pounded the floor in her frustration, trapped in the knowledge that she was now the Order's greatest weakness. She wasn't proud enough to think that she was their only weakness, but surely no one else had such a double-edged sword the way she did. She could probably break anyone they brought to her, seize the knowledge in their mind like a handful of berries waiting to be plucked, but she also held their secrets, and her strength could be turned against them in the worst way. How long could they last if Voldemort gained her as a weapon, with the ability to find the information he sought at no cost to his followers? Harry Potter was the figurehead of the rebellion and Voldemort's greatest enemy, but if he was captured, it would end there. His capture and subsequent death would only slow the rebellion; lower their morale for a time, but she was sure that Hermione was more than a suitable general to marshal their troops and seek to destroy Voldemort without Harry. Wednesday had never taken the prophecy at face value. The cause and effect of that prophecy was too vague for her satisfaction, and she had decided that Harry's death would not mark the beginning of Voldemort's immortal reign of terror.
Her capture would not merely end in her death and a lowering of morale. Her capture would lead to a betrayal of the Order.
White-knuckled fingers gripped her wand tightly as she closed her eyes began to whisper a spell, one that was more complex than any she had ever attempted.
If she had to, she would die to protect the Order from herself. There was one thing she could yet do to guard them. But only as a last resort.
Wednesday knocked once, a sharp rap that echoed her tightly wound temper, before she pushed the door open. Draco Malfoy stood before the empty fireplace, his pale face inscrutable as he waited with his hands in his pockets. Hermione stood near the window, her fingers twisting together nervously. The door shut with a click that was audible in the tense silence as Wednesday locked it.
How much have you told him? Wednesday asked Hermione, pressing into the witch's mind so that she might hear Hermione's response without the need for verbal communication.
Nothing. I told him only that you needed to speak with him.
Very well. Wednesday turned her attention to Malfoy, who met her gaze with calm eyes. Reaching into her pocket, Wednesday withdrew the Nightcatcher, wrapped in a pillowcase. She unwrapped it and held it out to Malfoy, watching his face for his reaction.
"So you found it, then."
You did not try to hide it.
"No, I didn't. I had hoped that you would find it."
Why?
"The Dark Lord seeks to circumvent your mental shields. It was suggested that we try indirect magic to affect your mind; he liked the idea, and tasked me with finding a way to get it to you. He thinks that I planted it on one of your Order members for you to find. Of course, he forgot one crucial detail; there was no way for him to determine how the magic of the Nightcatcher affected you." Malfoy's voice never wavered; his gaze was steady, and his pulse regular. If he was lying, he was very, very good.
Then why did you plant it, if you knew that he could know if it affected me or not? She did not trust that they had not placed some kind of tracking spell on the object.
Malfoy shifted, his body language becoming almost imperceptibly tense. "I wanted to know."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed. You have misused your right to be here. You betrayed Hermione's trust in you, and the Order's trust in their mysterious spy by planting such an object for your own curiosity. You may need to pretend to be our enemy, but that only extends so far. You needn't have placed the Nightcatcher in my room for me to find, did not need to obey Voldemort's every order. Are you a double agent, Malfoy, sent to pretend to be our spy in order to provide Voldemort with key information about the Order? Perhaps you have been playing us all along for your Dark Lord's twisted sense of humor, stringing this war out so that you could pick us off one by one like ripe fruit, eating away at our morale and preparing for the crushing blow that would end it all?
"You accuse me of things you have no knowledge of," Malfoy declared, his voice hard. "You have not seen his rage—"
Do you really think so, Malfoy? I have. I have seen his rage, felt it as it burned into the minds of his own followers, as he struck them down in the most painful ways possible for some imagined slight. I have seen your fear, your pain. Did you think that mine was the only mind open that day when you tested me? You let down your walls so foolishly when you perform Legilimency. I may not have seen everything, but I saw enough to know that your Dark Lord is a madman. He turns on those most loyal to him, ravening for power and authority. Yet you have betrayed him willingly – or apparently so. I ask again; how do we know that you are not a double agent?
"You don't. You just have to trust me."
Not good enough, Malfoy. Give me a reason, or I tear your mind apart looking for the answer. She wouldn't hesitate to do it, either. All of the pent up emotion that she had stored away ever since she had arrived here, all of the love and respect she had for the Order members that she had met, combined to harden her heart and drive her to seek this answer before it was too late.
"Granger. Give us a moment, would you?"
Hermionewavered, her desire to mediate warring with common sense. Finally she nodded and left the room, locking the door behind her. Malfoy strode over to Wednesday, putting his face close to hers.
"You shouldn't threaten a Malfoy, Wednesday. I know spells that would make you wish you were dead."
So do I. Wednesday glared right back at him. Malfoy—
"Fine." She had been laying pressure on his shields throughout the conversation; now he let his shields drop just enough to let her see the memories he wanted to show her.
He wasn't supposed to see the way that the bright light played with her hair, wasn't supposed to want to run his fingers through her hair, wasn't supposed to want to know what it was that made her smile so dim. In such a short span of time, she had captured his imagination and his fancy, pulling on his heartstrings with the depth of sorrow in her gaze. The way that her face fell into weary, world-worn lines that marred the delicacy of finely drawn bones and those large eyes that were at the same time full of warmth and cold as ice drew him in, made him want to take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be okay. He didn't even know her name.
Because he couldn't make that promise. Nothing was okay, and he could not change that. He was just a pawn in this game, and he held no power that could save her.
All these years, he understood now that he had been shallow and selfish. In a moment of time, she had changed his vision of the world; in this brief span of time, their one and only meeting, she treated him not as the enemy, but as a friend who had taken a wrong turn somewhere, who needed the guidance that she offered. But he couldn't take it. And he couldn't risk her ever sharing that she had found him here, or the Dark Lord would see him for who he really was, and destroy him for his betrayal.
He raised his wand and pointed it at her face, and he could see the sudden fear in her gaze as she made no move to protect herself.
"Obliviate!"
Wednesday took an unsteady step backwards, collapsing onto the chair behind her. You don't love Hermione?
"What? Why on earth did you think that—"
It was the only logical solution. You specifically requested her as your Order contact. Not only that, but you had no other motive I could think of that was strong enough to drive you to betray Voldemort. Wednesday shrugged. But I was wrong.
"You don't…" Malfoy appeared to be struggling with his words.
I can't. And neither can you. She loves you, you know. Hermione. And she is better for you. Wednesday turned away, gazing unseeingly out of the window. You Obliviated me.
"Yes."
It should not have worked. She folded pleats in the fabric of her skirt, avoiding his eyes. But then, I've never had someone try to Obliviate me before. She knew now where the memory had come from; she had met him before, in a muggle church. She had been seeking solace in the quiet; she did not believe in any god, Christian or otherwise, but the sense of peace that pervaded holy places seeped into her, soothing her tired heart. The memory, long repressed, came to life in her mind once again.
Quiet footsteps approached as she sat in a pew, her hands folded in her lap with her eyes closed. She knew without looking that it was a wizard; the feel of magic was palpable in the air as she heard him settle himself in the pew adjacent to hers. This was an old church, with beautiful stained glass windows that threw jeweled tones over the impressive, gothic interior. It was an interesting mix of styles, she had to admit. So imposing with its grey granite walls, yet at the same time whimsical, those panes of glowing glass scattering the light and lending everything a sparkling cloak of vibrant color.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned to meet his gaze. She saw his surprise at the scar on her face, although he hid it well, and watched as his eyes flickered briefly to her blind eye. He was young, perhaps three or four years younger than her, with blond hair that was so pale it was nearly white. He wore a Slytherin pin on his lapel, a silver snake curled into an elegant S, tiny emeralds glittering in the dim light of the church. She gave him a small, courteous smile, unable to keep the melancholy she felt from touching her lips even as she pretended to be gracious. Today had been a trying day, and she had come here to meditate. She was about to turn back when she noticed tear tracks glittering on his cheeks as he stared fixedly at the figure of Christ on the cross. White knuckles clutched something in his lap, a small object that reflected the scattered light that touched it.
A ring.
She recognized him now, this heir of the Malfoy name. What had brought a Death Eater's son to a muggle church? He caught her staring at him, and attempted to summon fury, but she could see it die in the face of his misery. Slowly, she stood up and approached him, settling herself gingerly on the bench beside him. She said nothing – of course she didn't – but she laid a hand over his and squeezed gently. She did not look at him, but gazed at the rainbows that lay scattered on the altar.
"Do you know who I am?" he rasped. "You wouldn't offer me comfort if you knew what I have done."
She traced her fingers over his sleeve, placing her fingers directly over where she knew the Dark Mark to be. His sharp intake of breath made her smile. Withdrawing a pen and the little notebook she kept for writing messages to those who could not understand sign language, she penned a message.
Who you are can change. There is forgiveness to be found in even the darkest of places. The choice is always yours to make.
He stared at her message, then at her. "Who are you?"
No one of importance, she wrote. Her head tilted forward, letting her hair form a curtain between them as he stared at her. They sat there for several minutes in complete silence, each of them contemplating the things that had brought them to this place.
"My name is Draco Malfoy."
I know.
Wednesday looked up at him. Why did you Obliviate me? It wouldn't have changed anything if I kept the knowledge of who you were.
Malfoy didn't answer. He turned away, his hands in his pockets as he stared at the empty fireplace. The tired lines of his shoulders, the hanging of his head – she remembered them now, against the backdrop of cold granite walls and scattered rainbows. "That day, the Dark Lord tortured my mother so badly that she didn't recognize me anymore. She thought she was my father, and she cringed away from me, pleading for mercy. Pleading for me not to strike her. I had never let myself face the truth of his attitude towards her, but I knew in my heart that he beat her. But to see that terror directed at me…She never fully recovered. Even now she is broken, and I can't do anything to help her, because I already begged for her life. I bargained for her life, but she isn't living. She doesn't remember me, doesn't remember that she has a son."
At least you know she loves you, Wednesday said, with only the merest trace of bitterness. She chose her path, Malfoy. And she chose love. She loves you; you are her reason for staying there in that house when your father beat her until she begged for mercy. She remained in her seat, her fingers smoothing out the creases she had pleated into her skirt. Malfoy. I am no good for you. You need someone strong, someone who sparks your fire and fans the flames of your passion. I am not that person.
"What, and you think Granger is?" His voice was derisive, masking his hurt at her blunt rejection.
Perhaps. Wednesday considered her next words very carefully. She did not want to renege on her promise to Hermione—to keep her relationship with Draco Malfoy purely platonic—but she did not want to push him so far as to cause him to betray the Order's secrets. That she was the reason he had made such a dangerous decision…it humbled her, pulled at her heart. No one, except her father, had ever been willing to sacrifice their life for her. She had never had someone to fight for, not with the only person she loved lost to her and the one person who should have been her rock her greatest enemy. How had she had such an effect on anyone, let alone a Death Eater born and raised? Your stunt with the Nightcatcher, and the alteration of my memory, have told you what you needed to know about me. You have betrayed my trust, not once, but twice. How do I know that you won't betray it a third time, and inform the Dark Lord that a weapon with which he can destroy the Order, and Harry, once and for all is within his reach? That the chink in my shields would make it easy to destroy me without ever needing to shatter my mind? She winced; the words were harsher than she had intended.
"Everything I have done, I did it for you!" he shot back, spinning to glare at her.
She shook her head. No, it wasn't. It was for you. Your hopes and dreams, your heart. You are still protecting yourself, despite your noble sacrifice to the Order's cause, not me. You are infatuated with the idea of me, not with me myself. And that means I can't let you go back.
"Try and stop me," he snarled, drawing his wand.
Wednesday's heartbeat stuttered. This was not how she had intended this conversation to go. Not only had she betrayed Hermione's trust, she was risking the Order's secrets by pushing Malfoy to these limits. But she didn't think he truly cared for her; she had merely been the one to show him kindness in a dark time, had been the one who happened to be able to comfort him in his moment of grief. Where others might have offered violence and anger, she had offered empathy. Perhaps she had been one of the first to show him such kindness apart from his mother; she didn't know.
Stupefy! He struck down that spell and retaliated, his spell ricocheting off of the mirror above the fireplace as it rebounded off of her hasty shield. It slammed into the candelabra sitting on the little table by the door, causing the trinket to explode with the sound of shattering glass.
Hermione threw open the door, her wand drawn and her eyes wide as she stared at them, frozen now with a witness to their temper.
"What on earth is going on?" she asked, moving slowly into the room and shutting the door.
Both Malfoy and Wednesday were silent for long moments, their gazes locked in a stalemate the Wednesday broke. She turned away, pocketing her wand. Mr. Malfoy was just leaving. You might want to rethink who you trust, Hermione.
Malfoy glared daggers at her back and she retreated, leaving him with a bewildered Hermione.
"What on earth happened, Malfoy?"
"Nothing," he ground out, storming past her. "Don't expect me to come back. I'm finished with this farce."
"Mal—Draco, no!" She hurried after him, grabbing his sleeve. He shook her off, rounding on her.
"This is all your fault! She thinks—never mind. Just keep your nose out of my business, Granger! Do you think you can do that, you insufferable know-it-all? "
"Wha—I have never interfered in your business! What on earth would make you think that I felt the need to meddle in the affairs of a ferret?" she snarled. Oh, how that man made her furious! "Tell me what happened with Wednesday—"
"That's private. Can't a man keep his thoughts to himself, Granger? You might want to go and learn how to keep your mouth shut, Mudblood, or it will get you killed one day." Malfoy left with that parting shot, slamming the door as he went.
Hermione fell to her knees, struggling against her tears. She had never thought he would utter that word again. She had thought he had changed. Apparently not.
Wednesday took her rage out on the Nightcatcher that night. She did not try to sleep, her temper too tumultuous to even consider that peaceful escape. Sealing herself in the attic, she proceeded to burn, shatter, melt, reduce to nothingness the object that had brought about tonight's events. Fate was cruel. How was it that Malfoy would think himself in love with her, when he had met her for only a quarter of an hour, and then Obliviated her so that she would not even remember their meeting? How was it that he would meet him again, in such a way, when she needed to do all she could to stay away from him, for Hermione's sake?
With the Nightcatcher a pile of smoking ashes, her mind turned to more troubling matters. She could be Obliviated. The Nightcatcher bypassed her shields. She was not invincible; she had known that, but to have the fact so forcefully rubbed in her face not once but twice in the course of twenty-four hours shook her. She had always relied on the shields of her mind to protect her from many attacks, like the Cruciatus Curse; with the knowledge that she could be Obliviated came the knowledge that for some reason, there were chinks in her walls that she had no idea how to seal, which left her vulnerable. Especially because she had gotten so used to relying on her shields that she did not try as hard as she ought to in order to defend herself from attacks. Now that she had driven him away, Malfoy would go to Voldemort with his knowledge. She needed to get away from the Order. The more distance she put between herself and them, the less likely it was that Voldemort would be able to use her against them. A little voice whispered And the less likely it will be that you will ever see Draco Malfoy again.
She would need to travel without magic. Magic was easy to trace. Making her way back to her room, she packed a bag with a change of clothes, and then snuck into Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's room to steal the muggle money that the Order kept stashed away for when they needed to go 'undercover.' She left behind the key to her Gringotts vault; she couldn't use that, either, and at least that way she could repay them for the money she had stolen. In the kitchen she managed to not wake Kreacher, packing a loaf of bread and that muggle jerky that Arthur had grown so fond of. At least it wouldn't rot.
At the doorstep, she turned to look at the house one last time before she Disapparated. She was being such a coward, but she couldn't see any other way. She needed to protect the Order from herself, and despite the measures she had already taken, she didn't want to die to do so.
Let them forget about me, she whispered. She would go into hiding, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and never come back. They would be safe from her then. That little voice informed her that she was running from Voldemort as much as she was running from facing Draco Malfoy's feelings for her, but she squashed it down. Those feelings weren't real. They couldn't be. She refused to believe it.
Goodbye.
How could he have been so stupid? Why had he risked himself like that, opened himself to her, shown her that he had a weakness, and that weakness was her? A Malfoy had no weaknesses…that was what he had always been told, that was what he had always needed to pretend was true. That day in the church, she had shown him forgiveness before he had forgiven himself for who he had become. That day in the church, he had realized that he had had enough of the constant terror, enough of inflicting pain for the sick, twisted pleasure of it, but most of all, enough of waiting for that fateful day when the Dark Lord struck down his mother. She, and that mysterious, half-blind woman. He wanted to protect them. She was right. The choice always yours to make.
And now he had opened himself up, laid bare his heart for her to see, and she had taken the blade of her rejection and twisted it like a knife, simultaneously tearing his heart apart and reinforcing his desire to protect her. Her refusal to acknowledge his feelings for her hurt, but what else should he have expected? Hugs and kisses? He was a Death Eater, born and raised, and he would die a Death Eater. There was no removing the Dark Mark from his skin, no way of bringing the dead he had slain back to life.
He wanted that serenity he had found in the church beside her, wanted to go back to that escape and never leave. Maybe she had been right. Perhaps it wasn't her he wanted; it was the olive branch that she had offered him. It didn't matter. She expected him to run to Voldemort and spill the Order's secrets. He would not prove her right. He would pretend that nothing had happened. Although he would not return to spying for the Order, he would not divulge their secrets. It would as if his time with the Order had never existed in the first place.
Muggles were blissfully ignorant of who and what she was as she mingled with tourists in the train station. She had bought a ticket that would take her to Paris. From there, she intended to rent a car or buy a bicycle or something to get herself further away from civilization. Maybe she could find a house to rent from some muggles, somewhere deep in the countryside. France was a beautiful country. She had been there, once, when her family had been whole and happy…long ago, in a golden time full of laughter and warmth.
Rain pattered against the window as she leaned her head against it, watching the landscape blur as the train picked up speed. She ignored the other travelers in the carriage, her bag clutched in her lap. Her wand was buried at the bottom in two pairs of socks; she didn't want to leave it behind completely, even if she intended to pretend she was a muggle. She had bought a rather expensive muggle newspaper from a stand outside the entrance to the station, and now she unfolded the paper, needing something to distract her. It was soothing to read about the muggle news, where Voldemort's name didn't leap out at her in every article.
There was, however, an article on the mysterious disappearance of the muggle Prime Minister, and she couldn't help but shiver. He was likely a victim of Voldemort's. Perhaps he would miraculously appear, a puppet leader under the Imperius Curse until Voldemort had decided he'd had enough of hiding in the shadows and toying with his prey.
When she arrived in Paris, she was mildly surprised to find it cool and breezy, with a clear sun illuminating the famous city of lovers. With a bit of difficulty—her French was very rusty, and not many people read sign language, so she had to write everything down—she obtained directions to a currency exchange stand, where she exchanged her English pounds for euros. That done, her first act was to purchase some cheap, inconspicuous clothes from a small thrift shop in the more run-down areas of Paris. A black dress did not offer much in the way of movement, and it made her stand out in this fashion-forward city. Not that shabby jeans and an overlarge blouse were fashion-forward, but they were certainly more casual than a black dress that made her look like a mourner.
In a local drugstore she bought a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye. The cashier looked at her clothes askance, but only pointed out that she would need peroxide to bleach out the black before dyeing her hair, so she bought a bottle of that, too. Then in a public bathroom she proceeded to alter her hair as best she could. The woman who emerged from the bathroom had haphazardly chopped brown hair that brushed her earlobes; she could do nothing about her scar or her eyes without magic, but she figured that this was good enough for a casual disguise. She didn't intend to stick around very long.
Consulting a tourist map, she decided to take a taxi to one of the rural villages further north, and from there see if she could rent a holiday home in the off-season for a while. Depending on how expensive it was, she had enough money for a month or two of rent, and she hoped to find some kind of job. She could have stayed in Paris as a street performer, but that would draw attention. It didn't help that she couldn't speak. No, it was safer to be inconspicuous.
A week later, Wednesday was settled comfortably in a small, one-bedroom cottage whose nearest neighbor was more than half an hour's drive away. It had belonged to a widowed farmer who had recently passed away, leaving the cottage to his son, who of course prided himself on being a la mode. He had sold the cottage to Wednesday for pittance, eager to be rid of the place where there was nothing for him. It had even come with its own small farm, run down and barely functioning, but a farm nonetheless. It was easy to duplicate muggle money, which is what Wednesday had done, to her shame. But it was so perfect, this little cottage tucked away in the sunny hills of northern France, with nothing but the sounds of nature around her. There was no electricity or running water, but she was used to lighting candles, and the well water was pure and clear.
She had bought supplies in the village before moving out here, enough to keep her for a long while. Her fears about using magic had abated a little, enough for her to allow herself a few spells to ensure that she would have food and shelter; repairing the leaky roof and cracked windows, for example, and duplicating the food she had bought and stocking the pantry. She took to taking meandering, day-long walks, her newly shortened hair ruffled by the breeze as she reveled in the silence. It was an idyllic sanctuary, a place where she felt safe and at peace.
After nearly a month, she had figured out most of her new life; how to scrub the floors without magic, which plants to keep and which ones to discard, where the wild onions grew, even how to take care of the two chickens she had bought from the market in the village, half a day's walk away. She had refused to buy a car, but she was considering a horse, if only for something other than herself to care for. The chickens required little maintenance as long as the predators were kept out of their enclosure. Or perhaps a cat or a dog.
She had adapted rather easily to this new life, a life without magic. Although at first she had kept her wand with her, more and more often now it was to be found in a drawer in her desk, gathering dust along with the parchment, quill, and ink she had brought. She had sent no word to anyone, and she had warded her new home well enough that they would not be able to find her without alerting her. The heavy books that had come with the house—mostly farmer's almanacs and a handful of dusty French classics—had been repurposed as flower presses; bunches of dried or drying herbs hung in the kitchen, reflecting off of freshly polished copper pans hung on the wall. There was really so much in this little cottage; she had been surprised when the son had said he did not want any of it. Not the clothes, not the books, certainly not the quilts his mother had so lovingly made. It made her sad, to know that he did not appreciate his parents. For a girl who had spent only a few, brief, glorious years with both parents who loved her, it was nearly unfathomable.
The chill of winter was finally setting in, and she knew that soon she ought to expect a crisp layer of frost on everything. There was no heat source here but for the old gas stove and the fireplace, so she decided to make one more trip to town to stock up on fuel. Bundled in a thick winter coat that had come with the house, sturdy boots on her feet, she set out on foot, wondering if she had enough money to buy a companion to keep her company. A horse was likely too much, and it would be difficult to take care of such a large animal properly over the winter, but surely a cat or a dog would be suitable. As noon approached, she arrived in town, and she breathed in the scent of freshly baked bread, the sounds of children playing and dogs barking. While the silence at her cottage was what she needed, sometimes the sounds of normal life were a pleasant change.
Making her way to the local store, where you could find everything from seeds to needles and thread to tractor oil, she walked by the bakery, inhaling the delicious smells. A small sign in the window caught her eye. Free kittens, it said in French. Inquire within.
Well.
She pushed open the door and was greeted by the friendly woman who owned the bakery.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle." Wednesday smiled, and then produced her notepad. The baker laughed, recognizing the quiet girl who had taken over old Monsieur Rousseau's farm, and waved her around the counter, pulling out a cardboard box that held seven kittens, their eyes sleepy as they napped in the warmth of the bakery. She reached out a hand, gingerly, and stroked the nose of a black and white one, who sleepily tried to gnaw on her finger.
In French, the baker told her that the kittens were six weeks old, and she couldn't keep them all, despite how much her nine year old daughter wanted to. As she was speaking, the smallest kitten, pure white with blue eyes, crawled over her siblings to curl herself into Wednesday's hand. She brought it up to her face, and smiled when the kitten licked her nose.
With a frown, the baker informed her that they thought that kitten was deaf, but Wednesday didn't mind. She had no words to share with her new companion, so what did it matter if the kitten couldn't hear words that were never spoken? She left the bakery with a loaf of crusty bread and the kitten in a basket lined with soft towels, along with a small bottle of milk at the baker woman's insistence.
When she arrived home that evening, she settled the kitten in front of the fireplace as she cut herself a slice of bread and some smoke-cured ham. They sat in companionable silence, the kitten curled in Wednesday's crumb-covered lap as the witch nodded off herself.
Winter passed, and with the coming of spring came Wednesday's first experience with the spring planting. The villagers were happy to help her choose crops to plant, with the understanding that she intended to grow only enough to feed herself, and to store over the winter if necessary. She had been away from the wizarding world for nearly five months, and only sometimes did she pick up the dusty wand from her desk and roll it in between her callused fingers, wondering how the Order was faring. Part of her wanted to go back, to help the people she had called her friends, but another part of her warned her that surely Voldemort knew exactly how to manipulate her now, and that her presence could destroy all that the Order had fought for. She had put her magic heritage behind her and embraced fully this muggle life she had made for herself.
So it was a surprise when Draco Malfoy appeared at her door late one April evening, his face gaunt and the skin around his eyes a bruise purple that belied nights of sleeplessness.
"Wednesday." For the first time in his life he itched to say it. Darling. It didn't matter if it was just her name. That he even considered it was monumental.
She stared at him, her mouth open in shock as she tried to form words that would never come. He was leaning against the doorframe, bracing himself with an arm as he leaned towards her, a hand reaching out as if to touch her face. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and dropped his hand.
"Wednesday…" he said again, and at that, she snapped out of her paralysis. She scowled at him, her obvious displeasure at seeing him making him falter.
'What are you doing here?' she signed. She didn't care if he didn't understand. He had invaded her haven, not once, but twice now, and she had had enough. She cursed her laziness in failing to renew the wards on her new home. At least then she would have had warning.
"I came to find you." He stepped closer, forcing her to back away to maintain the distance between them. "You don't know what it's been like—the Order needs you!"
'I left so that I wouldn't endanger them. Why would I return now?'
Malfoy shut the door and grabbed her hands in his, tight enough that she could not jerk away. "They have Granger. Potter's about to storm the Riddle House in search of her, and you know he can't."
Unconsciously, Wednesday slid back into her old way of communicating. So you want me to rescue her? Is that it?
He shook his head, releasing her and sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs. "I can't reveal myself to the Order. Not now. Our position is too precarious, and Granger—"
Fine. I'll come back. Wednesday's agreement surprised him.
"But—"
You came here to convince me to go back. What else do you want? Her eyes flashed at him. Is there something I don't know?
"I don't want you to die."
Any of us could die, Malfoy. This is war.
"But what if he catches you again?"
I've taken measures to ensure that he will not be able to manipulate me. Her jaw was tight, and she avoided his gaze.
"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to catch her eye. "Wednesday. What do you mean?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
She remained silent, and Malfoy all but growled at her. "Wednesday. Tell me what you meant." He leaned in until she could not help but meet his angry eyes.
If I choose, I can trigger a spell that will put me beyond Voldemort's reach. This was what she had done that day when she had found the Nightcatcher and realized that her weakness was so simple. A last result, in case she failed to avoid capture. Even if they stripped her of magic, she had woven the spell in such a way that all she needed to do was trigger it. As long as she was conscious, she could trigger it. The only problem would be if they rendered her unconscious before she could complete it.
Malfoy's fingers tightened painfully on her shoulders as he shook her savagely. "No. No! Promise me you won't do that, Wednesday!"
She wrenched away, her gaze furious. I will do no such thing! This is what is best for the Order, and the war. I owe you nothing.
He yanked her to him suddenly, his lips landing on hers with bruising force as he pressed her body against his. She pushed against his chest, her voice cutting through his shields with painful, diamond-edged outrage.
Let go of me! He flinched, and she seized the opportunity to twist out of his grasp. Before he knew what was happening, she slapped him hard and fast across the face. You are no better than them, those Death Eaters who take such pleasure in inflicting misery! Should I fear you, now, like I did that day in the dungeon?
He blanched, his face going white first with dismay, and then fury. He didn't say anything more, but slammed an envelope on the table before jerking open the door and disappearing into the night. Her emotions a swirling storm, Wednesday picked up the envelope with trembling fingers and opened it, seeing that it contained a schematic of the Riddle House along with the location of Hermione and a handful of other prisoners. A note mentioned that she had only two days before either Harry's suicide mission or Hermione's murder.
Wednesday sighed, looking around at her quiet surroundings. It was time to stop hiding. She collected the handful of belongings she wanted to take with her, tucked Minette into a basket lined with soft towels, and Disapparated.