Shout out to all my anon reviewers – I wish I could reply personally. And thanks to all the new people kind enough to share their thoughts. I'm, as always, thrilled that you are all reading. Here you go – maybe Draco is a savior after all. But not the kind we're used to. Warning – some uncomfortable imagery in this chappie. At least, I think so.
LCailan
CHAPTER NINE
The next day dawned clear, without a cloud in the sky. The sun, a large ball of buttery yellow in a cerulean sky, beat down on the earth relentlessly. It was hot - an irritating kind of hot that was as sticky as the clothes on everyone's backs. There was no breeze, not a sign of relief, and the sun made its trip along the wide sky, wrapping the world in a blazing array of light.
Hardly anyone moved back and forth through the alienage that day, hardly a bird flew across the brilliant sky.
And, locked in a small stuffy storage room, Hermione Granger Weasley lay helpless, shunned by all those whom she had reached out to help when they had needed it. They knew what had happened, but the battle between the right thing and fear had long been lost. To fear.
Ginny stared at Pansy Parkinson, horrified. The other woman sat at a massive desk inside an office which was blessedly cool, as it to spite the heat of the day outside. It was the main office in a building nearest the road leading to the city, and it had been dubbed the official's headquarters.
Ginny's eyes were wide with horror.
"She'll die in there, and she didn't do anything wrong!"
The woman in uniform merely glanced up, a blasé look flickering across her hardened features, making her violet eyes flash. Ginny's heartfelt plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.
"Let her be an example, then. No one crosses me, or any of those who work for me."
Her expression was one of boredom, and then she looked back down at the paperwork on her desk, her smooth, dark hair shining under the faint overhead lights.
Ginny stared in shock and horror, and her fist came up to her mouth to hold in a gasp.
"P-please. What happened was my fault. I-I'll…take her punishment!"
Ginny watched as Pansy put down the pen she had been holding, and looked back up at her, letting out sigh of long suffering. Her expression was one of barely veiled disgust.
"I've no interest in punishing you. She will be released at sundown, as planned. Now, if you don't mind, I have too much work to do."
Ginny stared, shocked. That was it – no arguing, no pleading, nothing. She took a few steps back, her eyes still trained on the tyrant behind the desk, a woman who looked just like any other woman sitting at any other desk in any other office. But she wasn't just a woman – she was everything evil incarnate that Ginny had ever imagined.
Cruel, heartless, unyielding, sadistic…
Hermione's going to die!
Her eyes filled with tears of rage and injustice.
The children were waiting right outside Pansy's office, sitting in three chairs obediently, and their eyes turned up towards their mother when she emerged.
"Is 'Mione coming back now?"
Lily's voice caused Ginny's breath to catch in her throat, and she swallowed with difficulty, but found it even more difficult still, to answer her.
"I don't know. But I'm going to try and make sure she's all right."
Unable to say more, Ginny gently led her children from the forsaken building, trying to be calm for them, but falling apart inside. The sunlight was so bright, they squinted, and just like before, Ginny was horrifically aware of the heat. The relentless sunlight.
Oh, Hermione. I'm so, so sorry.
Justin had told Ginny about what he had heard that morning. He had told her about the whisperings during the night, the worries that Hermione had been punished by being locked in the storage house without food and water. And on a day like today?
She fought a difficult battle with her tears. Suddenly, she stopped, a flicker of hope causing her heart to skip a beat. From the corner of her eye, she had seen him, his hair brilliant in the sunlight. A halo, almost.
Quite the irony, that the devil wears a halo.
Ginny shuddered, pausing in the center of the courtyard, her children stopping and turning to watch her quizzically. She took a breath, and took Lily's and Albus' hands in her own, motioning her oldest to follow.
Desperate, she moved towards Malfoy, not sure what she would say, but knowing that she had to do something…anything- or Hermione would die.
He was leaning against the building that served food to all who were stuck living in the alienage, and when he spotted her and the children, Ginny saw a flicker of something pass across his aristocratic features. She stopped, her hands locked tightly together, at a loss for words. He beat her to them.
"Move on. You know supper isn't for another hour. No loitering."
Ginny peered up into his face and for some reason, she sensed a tension there that should not have been. Swallowing hard, she spoke.
"You have to help her."
The words were a barely choked out plea. Her eyes bore into his, and the tension in his face grew, something in the depths of his unforgiving eyes flashing with light. Perhaps it was irritation, or perhaps, something else. Ginny had no time to think on it.
"She's going to die."
The corner of his mouth twitched, and Ginny would have sold her soul to know what he was thinking. Her last words were a whisper. He was most likely her last hope.
"Please."
Hermione's eyes flew open with a jolt. Someone was coming – she sensed it, but could do nothing in preparation.
She was laying on the floor of the storeroom, soaked in her own sweat, the heat around her heavy with the stench of urine. For a moment, she was disoriented, until the pain of the previous day came rushing back at her, rendering her shocked and terrified.
How long have I been here?
That, she did not know.
A part of Hermione wished she had died yesterday afternoon, for everything hurt. Her poor body was too weak for even movement, and her face was still tender where Malfoy had slapped her. Her mouth was sandpaper dry, and she detected the stale, metallic taste of dried blood. To her left, she could see a faint light creeping in under the wooden door, and the faint chirping of what she thought was crickets.
So, it was nearly evening.
Why can't I just die? I want to die!
Hermione had fallen into a pain riddled sleep and had awakened that morning to an incredible heat that only grew worse as the day lengthened. She had lain there for hours unmoving, glad that at least, she had gotten a respite from the torture of the previous day, but soon enough, the heat of the day and the need to relieve herself had grown much too insistent.
Having to crawl to the remotest corner of the small room and relieving herself there had been humiliating, but there had been no other choice. Afterwards, Hermione had crawled back towards the door, lying close to it in hopes of getting a breeze on what she soon found was a stale and dead day. The heat and the burning thirst that replaced the need to go to the bathroom had been too much, and finally, blackness had come to end her torture.
It was footsteps that had awakened Hermione, and she stirred then, moving her weary head on the dirty ground, her mouth too parched to even make a sound. When she tried to sit up, she found it impossible, for all her strength was gone. Even when she tired to muster up the anger that had helped her before, she found that she had nothing left from which to hone that anger. She was completely spent.
The door that Hermione was lying next to opened, letting in a faint rustling of sweet evening air. She opened her eyes, hoping for salvation. What was there, however, caused her heart to plummet.
He stood facing her, the fading light of the sun at his back, casting his face into sunset shadows.
She knew it was Malfoy – she could tell by the halo of silvery-white hair that framed a face in the shadows. He stood there, staring down at her, and she likened him to some sort of dark angel, although that was the furthest thing from the truth. He was as black as the mark on his forearm, and nothing would change that. He was branded forever, just as she was.
Death Eater. Mudblood. That's all that mattered now.
"Get up."
His voice was fuzzy in her ears. But Hermione was unable to move, to speak, to do anything but lie there, her eyes turned up towards him in supplication. For a moment, she could see him clearly, and then, everything went fuzzy and faded altogether. She hoped she would never awaken again, but in some strange way, she was glad to hear his voice. It meant she would not die alone.
Draco decided in that moment, that he hated Ginny Potter nearly as much as he hated Mudblood Granger. But not as much as he hated himself for caving to this incredible nonsense. Draco was well aware that he should not have been there, checking on the Mudblood, because this was her punishment, this was what she deserved, but somehow, he had convinced himself that he would not have her death on his hands.
That was it, because, surely, he didn't care for her. Sure, that fucking smile reminded him too much of all the goodness that he had been given a long time ago, but that wasn't reason enough for his conscience to rear it's ugly head, was it? Draco didn't know, but either way, he found himself standing over Granger's limp body in the shadowy storage room.
She wasn't moving. In the darkness, Draco couldn't see what was wrong with her, if anything. The room was stuffy – too stuffy – and stank of urine and sweat.
Merlin's beard.
Crouching down, he reached out to help her yet again, feeling a flicker of guilt.
Draco checked himself – outraged at the fact that his emotions seemed to do whatever they wanted – and he stopped moving.
Get a grip, Draco. It's not like her death is going to be on your hands. Get her some bloody water, make her drink it, send her on her way, and then you can forget any of this stupidity ever happened. But don't you feel guilty. There's nothing to feel guilty about!
He took a deep, shaking breath. Guilt was a pointless emotion, and only a fool would feel it. He had taken years to master control over it, and now was not the time for that sort of nastiness to be the unwelcome guest.
A strange sound issued from the back of his throat when his fingers wrapped around her thin arm. She was burning up. Draco stopped, something icy slithering in the pit of his stomach, and then the snapshot of his son-
"Get up," he hissed, this time his voice colored with shades of panic.
He forgot to try and control his guilt, his emotions.
Was she dying? Had he inadvertently killed her? The truth was, Pansy would most likely have killed her the previous afternoon, but Draco himself had only meant to punish her. He felt a frisson of fear scurry up his spine, and it made him shiver suddenly. He blinked, his eyes burning as he stared down at her.
Why should I give a grindylow's ass if she lives or dies? She's nothing to me. She's nothing to anyone. She's nobody's concern, nobody's love, nobody's girl. She's a mudblood. And I don't really care. I don't. I can't. I wouldn't. I won't.
Granger moved, a sigh escaping her.
Without thinking, Draco dragged her out of the darkened storeroom and into the evening sunset. Even swathed with brilliant reds, oranges and pinks the sun created on the journey towards the distant horizon, her face was ashen; a strange, frightening gray color. He noticed the sweat that had dried in her hair and along her clammy, fevered face. She looked horrid – worse than anyone Draco had seen in a long time.
Dead. She was nearly dead.
Let her die. They want you to, and you don't really care, do you? What's another life when you've already taken so many?
He had just convinced himself to turn on her, to run and never look back, when her eyes opened. Those eyes caused him to feel something, just like they had that first time, in the streets.
Bloody hell.
Draco willed his fingers to stop trembling as he fumbled for his canteen, but it was in vain. Moving quickly, using the waning sunlight as a guide, he brought the bottle to her lips.
"Drink," he whispered roughly, eyes wide as he knelt down next to her, pulling her limp head into his lap. "Drink."
He stared, horrified, when at first those ochre eyes stared up at him dumbly.
Merlin's sodding ass cheek, what if I've killed her?
"Drink, damn it!"
He realized that the demand was most likely falling on deaf ears, and the insistence only due his fear that she would die because of him – and he didn't know if he could handle that. Draco considered sending up a plea to whatever God existed when suddenly with a strange, raspy sound, she opened her mouth.
And drank.
She drank in long, parched gulps, choking, coughing, but not letting up on the canteen, her hands gripping it weakly. It slipped then and she moaned, but Draco moved forward to hold it for her as she pulled the water in greedy gulps. He felt weak-kneed with relief watching her drink. When the canteen began to slip once more, Draco held it so that she wouldn't have to, his fingers wrapping around it securely. As he stared down at her warily, one of her hands wrapped around his own – and he was aware of how soft her skin was, how tiny and delicate her fingers were. Draco found himself gazing at that hand, pondering over how many it had reached out to help. How many lovers it had touched, and how many tears it had wiped away. He thought impossible, crazy thoughts.
As his eyes travelled along the length of the fingers that gripped his own so securely, he decided somewhere in the back of his mind that, had she not been a Mudblood, he would have found her touch comforting.
Draco was glad that his thoughts were still…his own, for he wasn't comfortable with them, and he was puzzled and unsure what was going on in his mind anymore.
Behind him, the sun began to set on a horizon of purples and pinks. It was nearly nightfall. He looked away from her momentarily to stare up at the darkening sky, glad for the coming night. Then, he watched as she drank until the canteen was empty, and only then did her fingers loosen from around Draco's, falling to her side listlessly, and startling him from his confusing thoughts.
Draco stared down at her, waiting; wondering what would happen if they caught him like this. She was so small, burning up with fever, so helpless…
Gods, if they knew…
He wouldn't let them know, that's all. This would be a one time thing, and the next time her stupid mouth got her into trouble he'd let her die. Yes, he'd let her die.
Draco's eyes flickered over her small body and the tiny hands lying limply on the dark, dusty ground, and he prodded her.
"Up."
She didn't move, her eyes having fluttered closed, and she still burned up, burned a high fever, so hot that he could feel her through his uniform. Her breathing was even, but too shallow to be called normal. Somehow, he knew that. He knew she wasn't all right.
He couldn't leave her there – she was too sick – but neither could he risk being seen with her, for then they would think him a fool. They would kill her; put her out of her misery. Once more Draco prodded her, this time with growing insistence.
"Look, you have to move. Do you hear me? You have to move."
She twitched slightly and moaned, but would not move.
She can't bloody move! You killed her, Draco, the voice in his mind whispered.
She was lying there just like-
He got to his feet, staring down at her in shock, and all she did was lie there. The panic, which had abated a little when she had begun to drink, closed in on him, causing his heart to race and his palms to sweat.
Just a Mudblood, that's all. That's all she is. If she dies, who cares? I don't.
Draco swallowed hard, staring down at her in poorly veiled terror, unable to believe such a lie.
She was like a rag doll when he lifted her, hoisting her in one fell swoop, because she was so light. Her head fell back, and that impossibly curly hair hung over his arm, her own arms swinging at her sides as if she had been a puppet who lost her puppeteer.
"Lumos," he whispered and watched as his wand burst into light.
He then looked towards the shadow swathed courtyard and the darkened buildings beyond it. He knew that all those who were forced to stay within the alienage would not help this girl – in spite of everything she had done for them. They feared Pansy too much, they feared punishment and death. If he was to find help, he would need to find Potter.
And in the meantime, he would risk Granger dying on him.
I should have just made Potter do this,Draco thought with irritation.
But wishing he had done something he hadn't was futile, and when he reached the fencing that surrounded the courtyard, Draco put her down.
"Aguamenti."
Draco found himself surprised over recalling a conjuring spell that he had always thought would be so useless, but he felt a sense of triumph at the sight of pure, clear water gushing from the tip of his wand.
Stumbling and falling to his knees, Draco yanked his sweaty uniform jacket off and used it to make a cool compress for Granger's forehead, though each application seemed to help little, for her fever burned so high. She lay prostrate on the dusty ground as the night fell around them and by the light of his wand, she looked even worse than before.
His heart thudded steadily within him, but he felt dizzy, strange.
When she stirred, moaning something unintelligible, he reached down to brush water logged curls away from her overly fevered face. She jerked at the touch of his icy fingers to her heated flesh and moaned again. When still she did not stir, he finally got up, heaving a sigh.
Then he turned, rushing towards the main building in the alienage.
I'm going to be so bloody sorry I did this.
But he did it anyway.
Ginny spotted Malfoy long before he saw her in the throng of people that milled around the cots in an unruly mess. He was tall and rigid, holding himself steady amidst people who cowered in fear and uncertainty. And those eyes, cold and sharp, as they searched for someone in the crowd.
He's looking for me! Hermione! Please, let her be all right!
The children sensed Ginny's sudden alarm, and watched as their mother stood and pushed her way through the small spaces between the cots. The went to follow her, but Justin held them back, gently leading them to their cots, promising that their mother would return soon, that she was going to find Hermione.
Ginny moved with purpose, standing in front of him, her eyes round with anxiousness.
"'Mione?" she breathed.
"The courtyard," he growled, unable to meet her eyes, that strange, distant look on his too pale face remaining intact. "If you know what's good for her, go. Go now. Go, and don't speak of this to anyone."
Ginny moved without hesitation, not wanting to waste another moment, feeling her throat close and her breathing hitch. Once she reached the doorway, she watched for a second as the last bit of orange sun disappeared over the horizon, and the moonlight bathed the courtyard completely.
He was behind her, and she nearly jumped when she realized she was not alone.
"There."
His wand lit up as he pointed it in the eastern direction. Ginny took four running steps towards a dark, crumpled form lying in one of the corners, and then spun around, breathlessly.
"Thank you."
She didn't know why she was thanking this man. He had tormented her husband, brother and her best friend. He had done nothing but make all their lives miserable, and nothing, not the changing world, not time, had made him different. Or had it?
She searched his face and saw a flicker of change there when she offered her thanks – something he fought to hide. Ginny swallowed, catching her breath.
"Thank you. You…probably saved her life."
He grunted, his face twisting into a familiar scowl, as if determined to be hateful.
"She's not saved yet," her uttered without emotion and it was too dark to see into those strange, distant eyes. "And I'm no one's savior, Potter. Don't ever let her think that. Don't ever let her believe I saved her."
Or that I'm mad, because I'm actually considering the fact that for some inexplicably irritating reason, I actually might care-
He moved, head high, into the darkness and Ginny turned around, rushing towards her fallen friend.
Under the cover of the warm, velvet night that had fallen, Weaslette never saw him stop and turn again, watching anxiously to see if Granger would survive.
Draco told himself he simply didn't care, but the image of the fallen, fevered woman who had made lodging in his arms would not leave him. Her face, her eyes…they stayed with him and he did not find peace until Potter's widow lifted the Mudblood's head, resting it against her bosom.
Granger stirred. Potter whispered something.
Then, that smile. Faint, but very real in the moonlit darkness. In that smile, he felt the familiar flicker of hope within him.
She'll live.
And only then, did he disappear.
