A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TEN

truth and fury

"One moment, Miss Granger."

Hermione held back, puzzled, as Harry and Ron and the rest of the Transfiguration class was freed for the period. They gave her a sympathetic look and headed out, promising to save her a seat in the Great Hall for lunch.

She approached McGonagall's desk cautiously. "Yes, Professor?"

"We can't help but be concerned." The stern witch looked over her spectacles at the young Head Girl, calculating but worried. "You and Mr. Malfoy seem to repeatedly be appearing together, more and more often. At meals, in classes, in corridors occasionally, even. It's very unusual..."

"You wanted this to be a success."

"Wanted, but expected? I think not, Miss Granger. You should know...last year, Draco Malfoy became a..."

"Death Eater. Yes, I know, Professor."

Minerva McGonagall stared, hard, at Hermione, who looked pale but determined and not at all frightened. "I know I'm not supposed to know, but Harry, Ron and I had our suspicions last year," she continued. "And, well, I saw his mark, first week of term. And he told me about it."

McGonagall nodded very slowly. "And you are...fine, are you, with this development?"

"I was terrified, at first. Hardly slept. But if he meant harm...and at this point, Voldemort gone...why would he have any motivation to harm me?"

McGonagall sighed and stood up, her robes rustling around her in a menacing sort of way. "Do you know what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named asked Draco Malfoy to do last year, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Professor?"

The old woman began gathering papers. "I suggest that, at some point, you discuss the matter with him. For the sake of your own knowledge."

Hermione, recognizing the dismissal, left the room, her head filled with puzzled, confused thoughts.

…

"What did McGonagall want today?"

Hermione froze, one foot on the stairway up to her room. She had finished her homework, it was one in the morning, and she'd quite like to sleep, but Draco had seen her get up, and his eyes were watching her as she turned slowly to face him. She forced herself to keep her hands still. "Oh, well. She just...wanted to warn me."

"Warn you? About what?"

His smile was mocking. He already knew. Bollocks.

"About...you being a Death Eater."

"Oh, that was it?" He scoffed, rustling the Evening Prophet as he turned a page.

"That wasn't it."

He reappeared over the top of the paper, getting to his feet. His face wore a deep frown. "What else?"

"The Dark Lord gave you a mission."

She'd gotten into the habit of saying "Dark Lord" rather than "Voldemort" around Draco, just to save his blood pressure. This time didn't appear to do the trick, however. The colour went out of his face. "Did she tell you what it was?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes on his. He approached her, his stride careful. "Do you actually want to know?" he asked. His voice was quiet, as though she were a rabbit he didn't wish to startle.

"Well, yes. Just out of curiosity. I'm sure it wasn't anything important..."

"He ordered me to kill Dumbledore."

She backed into the wall. "Wha...What?"

"He told me he'd kill my whole family if I didn't. If I failed." He continued to close the distance between them, and grabbed her wrist when he was within a foot of her. "Drop the wand. I'm not going to hurt you." Her fingers were clenched around the strip of wood, knuckles very white. With an effort, she let it go. It clattered to the floor. He dropped his, as well, and it rolled away on the carpet. "There," he said, forcefully. "Not so difficult."

"How could he expect you to manage it?" she whispered, mortified. "Not even...he couldn't even kill Dumbledore."

Draco flinched. "It was punishment, for my father's mistakes. He expected me to die trying."

She gazed up into his face, scared and awed. His silver-blue eyes looked back at her, calm, not a flicker of fear behind them. "And...and you would have done it?" she whispered.

"I would have provided the means, but faced with the task, I may have found it impossible," he said, his voice quiet. His hand was still wrapped around her wrist, as though to keep her still.

"He's dying anyway."

He blinked, staring down at her. "What?"

"Dumbledore. He's dying. The curse on his hand, it's going to spread. There's no stopping it."

He stared down at her. "He didn't know."

"Apparently not," she whispered. "Dark Lord or not, Dumbledore is going to die."

His hand had loosened on her wrist, but she could still feel his pulse, bounding wildly, close to her skin.

"All he had to do was wait," Draco breathed. His breath flitted across her face. She very nearly closed her eyes. Her heart felt as though it were swelling inside her chest. It's just the proximity, she told herself frantically. It's just giving you delusions. Delusions you wouldn't entertain, except for that he's touching you.

"This is infuriating. Absolutely infuriating." He ripped away from her so fast and was across the room so quickly that she blinked, uncertain as to whether they'd been so close in the first place. "Unbelievable!" he shouted. "I risk my neck for something that doesn't even need to be done, he threatens my family for no reason other than his own...his own...his own sick enjoyment, and the old man's going to die anyway, what was the point, what was the PURPOSE?"

The last word tore from his throat as though it were being ripped from him; he aimed a kick at the side table but Hermione got in the way quickly enough, and nothing toppled over. His foot barely grazed her leg. "What?" he snarled, glaring down at her frightened features, "what do you expect me to do? Be pleased? No point in him dying now, is there, it's not going to save my neck if the Dark Lord comes back from the dead again, it's not going to help my family!"

"There are other people who can help your family," she whispered. "Please, Draco, calm down."

The sound of his first name seemed to deflate his rage; his shoulders slumped, and his grey eyes looked away from her, towards the scuff marks on the hardwood floor from his frenzied dash across the room. "You call me 'Draco' now," he muttered, his hand lifting to press to his temples, as though a headache were building there.

"You...called me Hermione."

His head snapped up again, and he stared at her. "I...when? Did I?"

She nodded stiffly. "The other night. When you were demanding to know why I was showering at two in the morning." She shook her head. "Does it matter?"

He seemed to hesitate on the point of speaking, his grey-blue eyes searching her brown ones. For a long moment, they looked at one another, until her hand flitted up to touch his shoulder, a calming gesture as light as a butterfly's wings. He didn't pull back from her touch. Instead, his hand lifted, and, his eyes still on hers, his fingers brushed over her skin, pulling her hand into his own. There was silence as their fingers intertwined, the two still looking at one another, appalled, surprised, disoriented.

"You're right," he answered, finally. "It doesn't."

At the same moment, they both glanced down to see the strange reality that was materializing: his hand cradling hers, as though to protect it. She looked back up at him, and her eyes suddenly welled with tears.

"Don't," he murmured, "don't cry – "

But it was too late; her free hand lifted to brush the droplets away as they fell, darkening her lashes, streaking down her cheeks, silent, glittering, glistening. "They can protect you," she whispered, staring beseechingly at him even as the tears continued to gather and fall. "Please, please, just go to Dumbledore. Ask him for help. You don't have to be a Death Eater. If he comes back..." she trailed off, wondering why she cared.

"Alright," he muttered, his voice sulky but soothing, as though trying to calm her. "Alright. I dunno why you're so worried, anyway. It wouldn't kill you if I was dead."

"Don't say that," she snapped, her voice harsh, made even rougher by her tears. "I don't wish you killed, you insufferable little—"

"Hermione. Please. Spare me the hysterics." His hand slid along her neck, fingers threading through her hair, palm splayed against the back of her head, and he pulled her against his shoulder, pressing so lightly that she could have imagined the embrace, but the hand that had been holding hers was now against the small of her back, holding her in a momentary, fleeting gesture of comfort. "Why you care, I've no idea," he murmured, releasing her before she even had time to return the embrace. "But I'll talk to him. Satisfied?"

She blinked, and he was gone, whirling up the stairs to his room, the Evening Prophet he had been reading left discarded on the couch. She picked it up and glanced through it, not seeing the print or the images until one in particular caught her eye. It was a picture of Lucius Malfoy, typically sleek hair dishevelled, cloak and robes ragged, prison black-and-white. He had been called before the Wizengamot to answer to the charges of accused Death Eater, and by the sounds of the article, he was no longer denying the accusations.

She glanced up the stairway. Draco was banging about in his room, as though in a still-foul temper. With a heavy sigh, she fed the paper into the flames, and made her own way up to bed.