.-.
Little Talks
Hermione had been right: Ronáld, the possessive and dangerous demon that he was, had been having a conniption when she hadn't returned Malfoy at the crack of dawn... or his crack of dawn, which was more around mid-morning. He'd nearly thrown a wobbly at Malfoy's healing via Pomfrey, but Hermione had simply simpered that when it came to evening entertainment, an unconscious, mostly-dead House-Wizard was a useless House-Wizard. He should be grateful to her, she'd said. After all, she'd fixed his toy for him.
She felt foul for simply speaking such words, but right now they were the best chance Malfoy had, and they'd worked, deflating a good portion of Ronáld's ire before he'd had to head to the Hunting and Trapping of Magical Creatures. Disgusting as the subject material was, Hermione was certain it would probably set him in an even better mood.
Even though she'd raced back to the Head common room to grab her book bag, she still skidded up to the door of the Potions classroom over twenty minutes late.
It took her another few minutes to calm down enough to close the gap between herself and the door.
Her mind was still running over the intensity of the twelve hours she'd spent with a very different Draco Malfoy: at how awful it had been - the extent of everything that the Sovereignty had allowed to be done to him, everything he'd been forced to survive, by himself - and, simultaneously, at how easy it had been: how, for the first time here, she'd been able to talk to someone and hadn't had to pretend to be somebody else, or put on a brave face.
How much she suddenly cared.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she focused on extinguishing the feeling burning inside her, repeating a mantra she never dreamed she would be: She could not afford to feel. She could not afford to care. She had to find out what this place was, how she was trapped here, how to get out of it. And if she herself wanted to survive, she couldn't afford to think about helping Malfoy more than she was able. Doing so could very well kill her.
And thinking about how she wasn't going to think about doing everything she could to aid a good and decent person who would no doubt continue to suffer long after she left...
Guilt tore at her chest. With concerning adroitness, she managed to snuff it out almost immediately.
No. She couldn't afford to think about Draco Malfoy at all.
Rapidly blinking back an undesired burning at her eyes, Hermione swallowed hard and focused on the Potions doorway with forced discipline. As she reached for the door, though, foreboding clenched her. Inside was Severus Snape, and if he'd been slimy and traitorous in her world, she could only imagine what he'd be like here, especially since he was still on the "bad" side as well. Like Filch, he likely danced so closely to the thin line between decent and despicable that his character probably hadn't shifted too drastically between alternate dimensions.
She steeled herself, griping the handle -
Unexpectedly, it turned abruptly, swinging open to reveal Snape in all his hawkish, black-clad glory. He glared down at her, looking as imposing as ever. "Well, well, well. Hermione Evans."
Her mouth dropped.
Oh bugger.
How had Snape known her real first name?
Snape examined her as if analyzing some curious, newly-discovered specimen of Ert's root, while Hermione held her breath, fidgeting under his gaze while trying to look irreverent. One thing was certain: if the Severus Snape of this world possessed some sixth sense, she was buggered.
"You do realize that students tend to learn better if they are seated inside the classroom," he drawled finally.
"Sorry, Professor, I-" She forced a carefree giggle, grasping for her prepared excuse, "I couldn't remember if this was the correct room."
Snape raised his eyebrows at her and stepped back into the hallway, looking above the door with exaggeratedly pointed motions. The words Potions Laboratory were clearly etched into the stone above it.
Hermione giggled nervously, and this time it wasn't forced - she'd thought My would be stupid enough to make that mistake, but perhaps she wasn't. "Oh. Right."
Snape rolled his eyes - actually rolled them- and heaved a sigh. "Oh, do come in, Evans; you've wasted enough of our time as it is." She let out small sigh of relief and followed him into the familiar classroom. He gestured flippantly to his right. "Take a seat next to Brown. I'm sure between the two of you, the eastern half of the room will be treated to a year of stunningly obtuse conversation."
His last sentence was so blatantly insulting that Hermione stared after him in astonishment. Lavender didn't seem to have noticed, and squealed as she approached. Hermione gave her a haughty smile back and lowered herself on the bench beside another person who didn't appear much changed.
As the class went on, though, she began to realize that this Snape had.
Time and time again, she had to school her features to stop herself from reacting to his strange Universe B counterpart, one that actually looked put together, his black clothing unbuttoned at the neck and more stylishly smart than stuffy. His normally greasy hair was short and clean, and his face held the ghost of a five o'clock shadow Universe A's Snape never had.
Vastly different from Snape's calculating drawl, this man was unnaturally garrulous, and he spent his time roving around the classroom, firing off comments a mile a minute, his words often dripping with biting sarcasm that many in the Remedial class obviously didn't catch, though Hermione certainly did. By the end of the period, she reluctantly admitted that, some of the time, he was remarkably droll.
His alert gaze, however, was far too observant for her liking.
Even though the potion he'd assigned them was so elementary she remembered learning it during her second year, Hermione kept her head down and focused on maintaining an appearance of utmost confusion. This was Remedial Potions, after all; she was clearly here for a reason.
So much for acquiring new and potentially useful information, she thought sarcastically.
Unfortunately, her lesson in learning new things came in an all too unwanted form two mornings later.
Hermione had spent her days gamely failing her Remedial classes and dodging Ronáld's, Harry's, and Ginevra's foul moods: Ronáld's sulking about her 'hard to get' act, which was lasting a lot longer than he'd expected it to; Harry's dark muttering about "ruddy pranksters" while wearing angrier-than-usual glares, his emerald eyes scanning the Marauders' Map when he didn't think others were watching; and Ginevra's stunted - and, to Hermione, overtly sexual - efforts to help Harry 'feel better,' which only seemed to send Harry into a fouler mood.
Luckily, this meant all three were too distracted to especially miss her, and Hermione didn't hesitate to spend every waking moment she wasn't in class in the one place she could always count on: the library. Each night had been a late one, but Hermione refused to give in until she found something, some kind of hint as to how she could get home or what had happened to her.
Nothing surfaced - or at least, nothing that seemed to match her particular experience.
The majority of Dark Arts curses that altered mental states through trapping the victim in their own mind seemed to consistently create varied artificial - but seemingly real - states of constant torture for the victim. While yes, being forced to live in a cocked up world built upon principles Hermione firmly rejected may have seemed like torture, it wasn't really, not compared to the real physical and mental torture Malfoy and others like him were experiencing on a daily basis. No, Hermione probably had a better social position than 99.5% of the population, so she'd had to rule out that possibility.
Much of the information on interdimensional travel was strictly theory involving advanced Arithmancy equations that postulated exactly how some universes could exist parallel to, or even in alignment with, each other. The mathematical frequency and location of wormholes were described in detail, though no one had seemed to have a direct experience using them. The handful of direct interstellar travel accounts (which she found in the Legends, Superstitions, and Magical Fiction section) suspiciously but consistently involved some strange combination of illegal time turners and Firewhiskey.
Another strikethrough on her list of possibilities.
Equally little information existed on House-Wizard bonds, and the more she dug, the more obvious it became that the Sovereignty seemed quite intent on keeping mum about the entire process behind it. What she did find seemed to imply that the slave-level bond was permanent, or at least something that could not be easily undone once it had been cast.
She'd tried to elicit some clues of the spell's mechanisms from Pansy, but the other girl had no recollection of it. She described being kept in a cell in the Phoenix beforehand - apparently Universe B's name of the physical location of the Ministry of Magic's Sovereign equivalent - and waking up in a cell in Azkaban after, and the only way she'd known something had changed was because she felt as though a part of her soul had been ripped from her: her ability to practice magic, with or without a wand.
After that, she'd been sold, and only then had she realized the full - and awful - extent of the bond.
Pansy was clearly trying to be supportive, but Hermione wasn't prepared to give up the secret of who she really was, not to anyone, not even Pansy, and she kept their conversations superficial, limited to the state of the world and how My Granger would normally act in given situations. At the end of them, Hermione always felt drained, especially because Pansy seemed to be drawing hope from Hermione's confident knowledge, even if Hermione didn't feel it herself.
And she... she missed them. Harry, Ron, Ginny, the Weasleys, her parents…
It would have been better if she'd been ripped to some alternative universe with complete strangers instead of one where she saw her loved ones' likenesses over and over again, and felt as though her heart was being ripped from her chest every time they spoke words of coldness and cruelty.
She had never felt so alone.
On Thursday, Hermione dragged herself into the Defense Against the Dark Arts - now, just the Dark Arts - classroom reluctantly, exhausted and frustrated.
She had already spent nearly two weeks in this world, which was more than she'd ever hoped she would have to, and it was looking more and more like she would be stuck for the long term.
During her first Remedial Dark Arts class - clearly, neither Harry, Ronáld, or Ginevra were behind on that subject because she shared the class with none of them - Lupin, which she had taken to referring to Remus' enthusiastically Dark Arts-focused counterpart because she couldn't bear to think of him as "Remus," had led an active discussion of what Universe B called "The Trifecta."
In Hermione's world, the Trifecta were called the Unforgivable Curses.
Today, she discovered they would actually be practicing them. She had known it was coming, but she hadn't expected it would happen so soon.
She felt herself begin to panic as a House-Elf cracked! into existence beside Lupin. "Five should do it, I think," she heard Lupin tell it.
The House-Elf snapped its fingers, and five House-Witches and Wizards appeared from thin air, looking startled and then terrified.
While the other members of the class tittered excitedly, horror rushed through Hermione as she realized what was about to happen, and it only doubled when she found she actually recognized some of them: Hestia Carrow, a Slytherin a year below her, a woman she vaguely recognized as Daphne Greengrass's mother...
Lupin took what must have been a lead from the House-Elf and then walked in front of the huddled group. When Hestia choked back a sob, he lowered his wand at her, shaking it slightly. "Now, now, be good little Fusties. Don't speak or move unless you're told."
He flicked his wand, and the five were flung to separate corners of the room, each of them landing hard on the floor. Lupin turned back toward the class and clapped his hands, smiling a pleasant smile that reminded her so much of the real Remus Lupin... but the compassion in his eyes was missing.
"Now. Who's ready to practice the Imperius Curse?"
Hermione certainly wasn't. When the students separated into five groups, she hung around the back to try to avoid it entirely, but Lupin must have caught on to her plan, because after the rest of the students had practiced - with mixed results - and Hermione made no effort to try it herself, he appeared at her side pulled her up to the front of the group.
As she accidentally met Hestia's terrified eyes, Hermione felt the breakfast she had unwisely eaten that morning threaten to projectile upward. "Oh, Professor, really, do I have to?" she whined. "It's so hard... I don't want to look silly in front of everyone!" she hissed snidely in a stage whisper.
Lupin shook his head and patted her shoulder with an almost fatherly understanding. "Don't be nervous, Lady Evans; I realize you've never particularly taken to the complexity of the Trifecta, but the Underlying principle of the Imperius Curse is one to which I imagine you can relate. Now, raise your wand. Come on."
Oh goddess. Oh goddess oh goddess oh goddess...
There was no way out. She couldn't pretend she needed to use the loo, couldn't faint convincingly enough for Lupin not to see right through it, and the only thing she could do was raise her wand, gripping it tightly. She couldn't bring herself to look at Hestia's face again, and she pointed it somewhere in the girl's direction.
"We've discussed the mechanical process of the Imperius Curse for the last two years, so I don't think I need to go over it again," Lupin was saying. "All you need to do is understand the mindset of the Curse, and I've no doubt you'll nail it. The Imperius Curse is about power, Lady Evans, feeling power over someone else, the power to make them do... whatever you want, really. Now, take a good look at this poor creature in front of you. Go on."
No no no no...
Hermione didn't want to, but she knew My wouldn't have hesitated, so she tilted her head impudently and returned her gaze to Hestia's trembling chin, sighing loudly. "And?"
Lupin stepped alongside her, looking at the Slytherin with an air of... could it have been pity? "Then think: What is she? A lowlife Old-Blood, a Sovereign traitor, a Fusty. She has no magic, no value, no use but to do what we tell her. Now think about who you are, Lady Evans. A Muggle-born, a Head Girl, an Elite. The world is at your fingertips. You already have plenty of power over her. Now you simply need to show her."
Unbidden, Hermione suddenly heard Draco Malfoy's voice, echoing from their limited interactions that she'd tried to put from her mind: 'I haven't been treated like a human being in years...'
It was the instructions of this man beside her, among many, Hermione thought bitterly, that had contributed toward empowering even the youngest students here to harm any others they perceived as lesser than them, often in devastating ways. But she didn't want to show Hestia that she had any power over her, mostly because Hermione didn't feel any power over her. So when she forced out the word, "Imperio," Hestia shuddered briefly, as if she was experiencing a seizure, but collapsed back to the ground after a few seconds. Nothing else happened, except a vile taste that exploded through Hermione's mouth at herself.
Lupin sighed. "Ah, well." He patted her on the shoulder again. "Practice will make perfect, I believe."
Shortly thereafter, Lupin decided to progress to the Cruciatus Curse, and Hermione panicked again. If she couldn't even complete the Imperius Curse, she absolutely refused to lift her wand for the Cruciatus.
As Lupin placed an demonstrative Curse on Daphne's mother, eliciting the most horrific of screams, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and was back on the floor in Malfoy Manor, reliving the most unimaginable pain as Bellatrix Lestrange stood above her and cackled; couldn't block out the pleading, the screaming, the constant howl of "TELL THE TRUTH, MUDBLOOD, TELL THE TRUTH!"...
Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. As the screams in the classroom worsened, she frantically wracked her brain and then subtly flicked her wand toward her bag, glancing around surreptitiously to see the rest of the students were simply watching the poor woman writhe in interest, while Hestia, ordered motionless nearby, had begun to silently cry.
Hermione nearly collapsed in relief when a small, paper-wrapped sweet zoomed into her hand. Immediately, she ripped the wrapping off the paper, tore the bi-colored sweet in two, and popped the red side into her mouth. The moment she choked it down, something wet and sticky began to gush from her nose. She held up her fingers to her face, and the hand she pulled away was covered in blood.
"Professor Lupin!" she bleated.
She began to breathe again when he pulled the curse off the woman. He glanced at her through the throng of students, and his eyebrows flew up when he saw her. "Oh goodness. What's happened?"
Lavender took one look at her and gasped dramatically, covering her mouth in alarm. "Oh, My!"
Several of her classmates quickly swiveled her way and reacted similarly, which was leagues more of a response than any they'd shown toward an innocent woman being tortured right in front of them.
Hermione fought back tears, and they weren't feigned. "I can't - I can't make it stop!" she whimpered.
"Well, go on to the Hospital Wing, of course. Do you need another student's assistance?"
Hermione quickly shook her head, scooping up her bag. "Oh no, I'll be-" teary hiccup, "-fine."
He nodded. "Very well. See to it that Brown catches you up once the problem has been, er - contained."
As soon as she was safely out of range of the classroom, Hermione unclenched her other hand and ate the white half of the Nosebleed Nougat Skiving Snackbox. Instantly, she felt the painless liquid pouring from her nose stop flowing. She scrubbed at her puffed eyes and then her mouth and chin, hoping she didn't run into any students as she practically raced through the Hogwarts hallways.
She had just used an Unforgivable Curse. On a fellow, innocent human being. No matter how terrible she'd been at it, she felt sick, disgusted, horrible, and even more abhorrence at how Lupin, at how all the students had treated the five victims - as if they were expendable, worthless. Subhuman.
How many others here had been persecuted in the same way - like these witches and wizards; like Malfoy - in the name of progress, of power, of education and innovation?
She wanted to cry but forced herself to keep a straight face in case she passed anyone. Luckily, it was in the middle of a popular class period, so the hallways were empty. She couldn't go back to her common room - Merlin knew that she couldn't bear to watch gentle Pansy's reaction at what was being done to people she probably knew.
Sweet Morgana, Hermione had never wanted - no, needed - Harry Potter so desperately since she had arrived in Universe B as she did then. He would understand; he would know the right things to say, to do, or at least quietly be there for her as her support until she came to terms with what she'd just experienced.
But Harry Potter didn't exist here.
No, she was by herself in this horrific, barbaric world.
When her feet stopped moving, she wasn't at the Hospital Wing, but the Fat Lady's portrait. Hermione only hesitated briefly before she pulled her Invisibility Cloak from her bag and threw it over herself, just to be safe. But when she quietly stepped inside the Gryffindor Common Room, her mind still reeling from the Dark Arts class from which she had escaped, she saw she didn't need it - the room was just as empty as the halls had been.
Except for one.
Hermione surveyed a young girl that the map had labeled "Cassiopeia Longbottom."
That was unexpected.
She hadn't encountered many entirely 'new' people in this Universe, but she supposed that, if Neville's parents hadn't been tortured in the war, of course they would have been able to have more children. As soon as she had entered, the dark-haired girl had quickly stood stiffly in the shadows of a corner of the room far to Hermione's left, her back pressed against the wall as she stared worriedly toward Hermione and the portrait hole.
Hermione glanced down to ensure the Cloak was still on; satisfied that it was, she shifted her attention from the girl and silently moved about the common room, searching for Malfoy. When her search turned up little, she frowned.
The Marauders' Map had shown he was still here…
Suddenly, she heard soft voices to her left. Hermione swiftly look back toward the dark-haired child to see that she had turned toward a stretch of the wall that was partially hidden behind a group of the common room's armchairs.
Quietly, Hermione stepped closer, peering over the back of the chair. A square slab of the wall no higher than her knees nor wider than her shoulders had been cut away. In its place were bars.
Malfoy, Hermione realized in relief, though the size and location of the tiny prison simultaneously made her ill and enraged.
Cassiopeia Longbottom was pushing what looked like food through the bars, but from the angle at which she was standing, Hermione couldn't see inside. She couldn't have been older than a first or second year, dressed in Gryffindor robes, with wavy, almost wild black hair and a square, unconventionally pretty face that reminded Hermione so strongly of someone, she just couldn't put her finger on who, though she couldn't quite say it was Neville Longbottom.
Why would a Longbottom be helping a Malfoy?
Hermione couldn't distinguish what either of them were saying, but the exchange seemed friendly enough for her to decide to make the first move. Whatever followed could at least provide some insight into the direction of her own excuse for being there.
Still standing to one side of the chairs, she took off her cloak, slinging the visible side of it over one arm. The girl didn't notice - Hermione made a note to teach her the Muffliato Charm, if she was a friend - before she silently performed the charm around them herself and pointedly cleared her throat.
Immediately, the child gasped and jumped like a startled rabbit, scrambling backward. Her wide, dark eyes stared up at Hermione with what could only be described as terror. "Please! I'm sorry! I know I shouldn't be here; I'm sorry!"
Oh goddess…
Her reaction send a chill down Hermione's back; she swiftly crouched down, holding out a hand reassuringly. "No, no, no. It's alright, I promise you, it's alright. Please just calm down," she implored hastily, trying to sound soothing and not panicked herself.
Her reassurances fell on deaf ears. "Please, please don't make me forget!" the Longbottom child pleaded, lacing Hermione with an expression of pure dread that nearly exactly mirrored that of Hestia's, and Malfoy's before that, and Pansy's as well.
Nausea washed over her. She had never wanted anyone to look at her like this again, and two times in less than one hour was more than she'd counted on. "I'm not -" her brow furrowed in puzzlement as she repeated the words - "I'm not going to make you forget anything. I'm not going to do anything. It's alright, sweetheart, really it is."
"Peia."
Now that she was closer, Hermione could see Malfoy's partially-obstructed face when he shoved himself against the cage door, a faint clink of chains accompanying the movement. The girl - Peia? - looked back at him immediately, her wide eyes filled with tears.
"Draco, I don't want them to hurt you," she cried, her frightened gaze darting back to Hermione.
"No, love, she won't," he said quickly, and Hermione again had to shake herself at hearing that tone of voice exit Draco Malfoy's lips. For a moment, Malfoy's gaze shifted up toward Hermione before he focused back on the little girl. "Peia. Peia, please, look at me, won't you? Can I have your hand?"
Peia finally tore her gaze from Hermione, sniffing. After a moment, she inched back toward him, reaching a small, shaking hand through the bars, where he took it in both his chained ones. "There you are, love; it's alright now. It's alright. You're safe."
Unlike Hermione's efforts, his words were even soothing her. She had never been particularly good with children - as an only child, she'd just never had the experience of what to say to them, and how to say it - but Draco Malfoy seemed to be doing an especially good job with this one. As he continued to speak quietly to her, she could literally see the fear sliding off Peia's face.
Watching the two of them, she held back a frown. How was this girl related to Malfoy - on extremely familiar terms, even?
Then she heard Malfoy say in a shockingly lighthearted voice, "That lovely lass there? I'll be just fine if you leave me with her. Now, are you feeling better? Can you run off to class?"
Peia must not have looked convinced, because he added quietly, "I really will be alright, love."
"Promise?" she asked unsteadily.
In the shadows of the cage, Hermione couldn't quite make out Malfoy's reaction, but a pregnant pause met Peia's words before he said faintly, "Cross my heart." At her crestfallen expression, he nudged her hand. "C'mon, Pei. Give an old bloke a smile before you go, won't you?" A smile had reappeared in his voice, despite the fact he was imprisoned in a wall cell that appeared to be only slightly larger than a coffin.
Peia giggled softly and did, somewhat shyly. Moving closer, Hermione could see that Malfoy remarkably was still smiling himself, as though he hadn't a care in the world. She hadn't the slightest idea of how he was managing it.
"Go on, now, love," he said. "Be safe."
"You too," she said sternly, pulling her hand from between the bars and standing. After a moment, she looked over at Hermione, still crouched at her level. Her slightly untamed features held a mixture of apprehension and resolve. "You won't - You won't hurt him, will you?"
Hermione felt something inexpressible twist inside her chest. "No, Peia. I won't hurt him."
Peia scanned her face, her dark eyes searching Hermione's with surprisingly forceful depth. "D'you promise?"
"On my heart and everything holy," she replied solemnly.
After a moment, Peia nodded and stepped away, picking up her bag at the foot of one of the chairs and exiting the portrait hole. Hermione let out a breath, wondering what in the names of Merlin and Morgana had just transpired between Neville Longbottom's little sister and Draco Malfoy before she figured the best source of clarification would be Malfoy himself.
Oddly, his own attention was already intently drawn to something directly below her face.
Frowning, she tipped down her chin - and saw that dried blood covered her chest and the entire front of her white uniform blouse. She'd been so distraught after leaving the Dark Arts classroom that she hadn't even noticed.
Merlin. No wonder Peia had been terrified of her.
"Oh. That's not mine," she said quickly. "I mean, it is, but -"
How in Godric's name could she explain that story quickly?
She opted instead to lift her wand and cast a cleaning spell on her blouse, and, on second thought, the skin of her neck. "There. Good as new." Like Malfoy had with Peia, she forced a cheerfulness she didn't feel into the words.
But the good nature he'd shown Peia had vanished from his face, and an unreadable gaze searched hers, as if he didn't believe her. Hermione shifted uncomfortably, evading his searching stare. The events that had led to those bloodstains had been the very reason she'd come to him, but now, the last thing she wanted to do was complain to him about something so seemingly petty when he was trapped in a tiny hole in the wall at the mercy of a violent family.
"Erm… Can I get you anything?" she asked awkwardly, changing the subject.
A ghost of a weak smile that lacked the energy of his for Peia crossed his features. "A pillow'd be a bloody relief. Joking," he added quickly when Hermione's gaze swung back to the common room, scanning for an adequate target. Scrunched up with his knees pulled to his chest in a space that appeared it would hardly hold his full height in its length, he gingerly leaned against the wall, his cheek still pressed against the bars between him and the Common Room. "What brings you to my castle, Granger?" he mumbled, not quite meeting her eyes.
Hermione cast a few more security charms around them before she answered, then settled herself on the floor, tossing her Invisibility Cloak around the edge of her shoulders and setting the hood at the very back of the crown of her head so she could pull it about her quickly if someone entered the Common Room. Her gaze landed on the bar latching his cage and narrowed, studying the lock, but Malfoy shook his head.
"Still aural. Unless you suddenly turn into Weasley, which I pray to Merlin and all the gods you don't, I'm not going anywhere."
Hermione's attention shifted to him in surprise, but he appeared to be studying his knees rather than her. Only Harry - her Harry - had the ability to consistently guess exactly what she was thinking. But he'd known her for seven years, not three days, and this wasn't the first time this version of Malfoy had voiced a thought for her, either. "How'd you -?"
His chapped lips stretched into another taut, dull smile that didn't reach his eyes, gaze still fixed on the frigid-looking stone floor beneath him - a stark contrast to the plush common room carpet upon which Hermione sat. "Doing nothing all day... you learn to notice things."
Hermione wasn't entirely sure she believed that. After a moment of silence, she gestured toward the bars. "Do you have any idea if the security spells on this extend beyond the lock? I could cast a few charms on the floor inside there to make it a bit more comfortable, but not if it could cause problems."
Incredulousness crossed his features, and he finally looked over at her. "I- I don't. I... wouldn't risk it, though." A shadow abruptly deadened his expression. "There are worse things than a hard floor." He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, then added haltingly, "But... thank you. For that offer, and for not... For letting her go."
Hermione quickly realized who he meant. "Malfoy, of course," she said in surprise. "I would never hurt her. Or any child, for that matter."
"Then you may very well be the only one." He shakily raked both chained hands across his face and let out a long breath, his next words muffled by his palms. "Merlin, that scenario has been one of my worst nightmares since she started at Hogwarts. If it had been anyone else standing there instead..."
Hermione was honestly shocked with how open he was being with her - never mind not fixating on the fact that she wasn't acting like My at all. She tilted her head, curious. "Who is she?"
Malfoy lowered his hands and glanced over at her. He seemed surprised by her question. "My cousin."
Hermione's eyebrows flew up, quickly reviewing what she knew of his family tree. She didn't think Andromeda had had any children beside Tonks, and Tonks was definitely too young to have a child that age, so that only left…
"Bellatrix?" she asked in disbelief, though with Peia's wild black hair and dark eyes, it made perfect sense. Swiftly, her mind jumped to her perusal of A Brief History of the Modern Wizarding World; as far as she knew, Bellatrix Black had most certainly not married a Longbottom, so how…?
She stopped thinking when she noticed Malfoy's eyes narrow slightly - the first time in awhile he'd shown suspicion of her - and mentally berated herself for potentially making the situation more confusing than it was already was. It seemed it was far easier if everyone thought she didn't know anything about this world at all, rather than random facts about various people and things.
"What do you know of my aunt?" he asked cautiously.
Hermione shrugged. "Just that she is your aunt," she said honestly - her extensive knowledge of the crazed Bellatrix of her world would have no bearing here.
For a moment, the Slytherin didn't speak; he appeared to be weighing his response. "Yes. She's Bella's child," he finally said quietly.
Hermione frowned. If she recalled correctly, Bellatrix had been one of the Conservative leaders during the Second Intervention. So how had her child become a Longbottom who was still trying to help Draco, unless…?
"They took her own daughter away from her?" she asked in horror.
Something tightened in his expression. "Not exactly, but you aren't far off. They were separated during the… war. As I understand from Peia, the Sovereignty began a 'reform program' for the younger Conservative children it had taken instead of turning them into - House-Wizards." His voice hitched on the word. "Felt they were still impressionable, that they could still be swayed to their side. So they were given to Sovereign families to raise. The Longbottoms took in Peia."
Hermione was too emotionally exhausted to conceal her emotions when for a moment it seemed she didn't have to, and she was well aware her dismay must have been sprawled across her face. "How'd they go about 'swaying them' to their side?"
Malfoy shrugged limply. "Showering them with gifts. Lying that their real families had left them behind. Brainwashing. Your guess is as good as mine. I'll be eternally grateful they didn't place them in - conditions like mine, but -" He took a breath, shaking his head. "Peia hates it. She's a fighter. She keeps trying to visit me, even though I keep telling her not to, and I'm just -"
He stopped speaking abruptly, blinking rapidly.
"Just what?" she asked quietly.
Slowly, his chained hands moved to one of the bars, gripping it. His eyes briefly closed. "I'm just… so afraid they'll find her out one day and Obliviate her. Or worse," he whispered, his voice weary.
"That's what she meant," Hermione realized. "When she asked me not to make her forget."
He nodded, looking over at her. "I think she already gives them more trouble than most of them would tolerate. I have no idea what they'd do to her if they found out about this."
She felt another promise creeping into her throat, but she couldn't bring herself to stop from voicing it. "I'll try to keep an eye on her."
His gaze shot to hers. "No. I couldn't ask that of you, Granger."
"That's why I offered."
"I think you have enough problems to worry about as it is."
Hermione certainly didn't need a reminder of that, but she was curious as to what he thought they were. "Such as?"
"Such as if someone catches you here."
His tone held warning and something she couldn't quite name in equal measure, and for some reason it caused her temper to flare. "D'you think I'm not aware?" she snapped.
Malfoy looked down, his knuckles tightening around the bars. After a moment, he glanced back over at her, his expression more shuttered than it had been a moment before. "Why are you here, then?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but shut it when she thought better of what she'd been about to say. She sure as shite wasn't going to tell him that after dealing with a horrific experience, the only person in the entire world she'd wanted, needed to see had been her best friend, but since the awkwardly sweet, caring Harry Potter of Universe A didn't exist here... the only other person she could think of to go to was him.
"You... remind me of someone," she said finally, and she didn't mean his appearance.
Of everyone I miss.
If her statement was at all strange to him - and by all rights, it should have been - he didn't show it. He scrutinized her. "Good bloke?" he asked after a moment.
Hermione's eyes began to burn, and she forced a wavering smile to cover the misery that suddenly welled within her. "The best."
Malfoy continued to study her silently. She was well aware of it and did her bloody best not to look at him. She didn't blame him for being suspicious, and wondered what she would have made of it had she been in his position. If Universe A's Draco Malfoy suddenly became a flower-holding hippie and proclaimed his desire to be her best friend, she'd probably hex him into tomorrow, or, at best, keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and his true pernicious plot to reveal itself. She couldn't say some part of her wasn't still half-expecting that from him here.
Yes, she again marveled, he was handling her unexplained transformation very well, all things considered, and she found herself wondering why.
"Why did you have blood on your blouse?" he asked finally, interrupting her thoughts.
The reminder of that morning's twisted events was the cherry on top of her personal pity party. "The bloody Dark Arts," she couldn't help but mutter darkly.
When he stiffened, something akin to fear flashing through his eyes, she held out a hand, hoping he didn't think that meant she'd been willingly doing the Dark Arts. "No, no, I mean - I was in the Dark Arts. The class. We were supposed to-"
She stopped speaking abruptly, remembering why she hadn't wanted to bring this up to him in the first place. Malfoy probably knew the House-Witches and Wizards that had been in that classroom. How would he feel holding the knowledge that such horrible things were happening to his own friends, and he was absolutely powerless to stop it? If she were in his position, would she want to know?
"You were supposed to what?" he whispered, dread palpable in his tone.
She couldn't tell him. She couldn't.
"Granger." A steely edge had unexpectedly entered Malfoy's voice. "I can handle it."
Hermione forced herself to look at him. Though his body was gaunt and his features dirtied, he evenly returned her gaze with an unflinching resoluteness that emanated from the depths of his tired gaze.
It didn't matter what she would do were she in his position, she realized.
He wanted to know.
She took a breath. "We were supposed to practice the Unforgiv- the Trifecta." As she relived the class in her mind, she felt her anger rising. "On House-Witches and Wizards. On bloody people," she spat.
He didn't even blink, but his expression darkened. "And then?"
Hermione shook her head. "Then nothing. I couldn't do it. And I certainly couldn't sit there listening to their screams knowing I couldn't do a bloody thing to help them, either." She scrubbed at her face, cradling her forehead in her palms. "Some... friends of mine invented extraordinarily useful sweets that can make your nose bleed, so I took one and got out of the class before we started on the Cruciatus. That's how I got blood on my shirt."
For a long time, he was silent. In a rush, she regretted telling him; he had enough to deal with as it was without having to worry about what was happening to the people he cared about.
She sighed, lifting her head from her hands. "Look, Malfoy, I shouldn't have -"
"Don't," he said suddenly, his voice quiet.
Her brow furrowed. "Don't what?"
He looked up at her, his features unreadable. "Don't call me Malfoy. They call me Malfoy. And I just... I'd much rather you called me Draco."
Hermione's lips parted in surprise. Of all the things he could have possibly said to her then...
"Alright," she said slowly. When he raised his eyebrows expectantly, she added, "Drrrraco," rolling the word off her lips as if it were foreign, which, in a way, it really was.
The expression that Mal - Draco, Draco Draco Draco - gave her wasn't impressed. "Pronunciation needs some practice, I'd say."
She crossed her arms irately. "Well, if you want me to call you Draco, Draco, then you aren't allowed to call me Granger, or Lady Evans, or My, or any of those absolute rubbish names."
His lips twitched upward slightly. "Whatever shall I call you, then?"
She held back a triumphant smile. "Why, Hermione, of course."
Who needs the pronunciation practice now? she couldn't help but think smugly.
But her complacency faded instantly when all amusement fell from his expression, and he seemed to freeze entirely, his grey eyes locked on hers. His abrupt reaction was so extreme that even Hermione froze, fearing the worst - that someone had snuck up directly behind her. But then Draco jerked slightly, shaking his head, and his gaze quickly shifted away from her.
"I- I'm sorry, what -" his faint voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, "what did you say?"
She swiftly looked behind her; when she saw the common room was still empty, she let out a breath of relief. "Erm…" Briefly, she placed a hand over her pounding heart. "That... 'Hermione.' It's my real name." She frowned. "Contrary to popular opinion, I actually like it. The idea of you thinking of me as My is just disturbing."
"What, have you suddenly become un-My'ed?" he asked sardonically, his strange behavior gone as quickly as it'd come.
She snorted slightly, slowly relaxing again. Am I bantering with Draco Malfoy? "You don't even want to know."
"Well then." Draco pulled himself up, looking at her intently. "Are you alright, Hermione?"
Her name rolled off his lips so accurately, it startled her. At best, most people took a few hours to sort it out; Viktor Krum, at worst, had taken months... not to mention it was the first time she had ever heard Draco Malfoy's voice say her given name, and without an ounce of scorn. "That came to you rather easily."
He smirked slightly. "I'm not quite an idiot." At that, Hermione's lips tugged upward before she could stop them, but his expression shifted back to seriousness. "You didn't answer my question."
She sighed, her faint smile vanishing as well. "Am I alright about what?"
"The Dark Arts. Everything."
No.
No, she absolutely wasn't. But she didn't want to give him - give anyone who knew she wasn't Moronic My - the impression that she was anything other than at least halfway in control. She certainly couldn't tell Pansy; the girl clung to her with her eyes as if Hermione, whoever Pansy thought she was, was going to be her people's salvation. And now Draco, who was kept chained to this prison cell simply awaiting the next time Ronáld got angry or intoxicated or bored, was asking if she was alright?
"Fine," she managed to bite out.
"Hermione," he said chidingly, just like Harry would when she was holding something back, as if Draco knew her, somehow, even though there was no way that was remotely possible.
The thing was... he was right.
She stared at her lap. "I hate that I didn't do something," she mumbled.
He immediately shook his head. "You couldn't have."
She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "I could have. I should have."
"No, you shouldn't've. I mean..." Draco sighed and clasped his hands, his expression becoming pensive, distant, visibly searching for what to say. "Hermione, you have to understand... the worst sort of atrocities have been committed here for far longer than the time it's been since you saw me in the courtyard. It won't... make much difference if it all goes on a bit longer. But you..." He looked over at her, "You're important. There might be a time and a place for you to help, but I suggest you wait for the most effective moment if there is. One that won't get you arrested and other things you can't even imagine for simply opening your mouth."
At the emotion that choked her throat and relief that washed over her like a flood, Hermione suspected she'd been waiting for someone, anyone to tell her those words from the moment she'd fallen onto the Hogwarts Express in Universe B.
Burning emotion filled her eyes, blurring her vision. "I've - I've thought of that as well," she admitted thickly, and cleared her throat. "But it doesn't make holding back any easier when I've seen so many basic rights trampled on and so many people who are no longer even considered people just... suffering."
Something shadowed passed behind Draco's expression. "I know."
And from the weight with which he voiced those two words, he sounded like he truly did.
Several moments of silence passed between them, the common room still thankfully empty in its midday slump, and Hermione had to wonder how long their luck there would continue. She sniffed, quickly swiping at her eyes. "Sorry to have put that on you; I realize you've got more than your fair share of problems already."
An insulted expression crossed his face. "My fair share of problems? My life's far easier than yours, I'll have you know. No rent, no taxes, no laundry, no homework… It isn't half bad, really." His half-hearted smile didn't reach his eyes, though. It faded after a moment, and he visibly hesitated, then spoke. "The next time they make you practice those Curses - and they will - the best thing you can do is get good at them."
She stared at him. "What?"
"I mean - so when you do have to cast them on someone, and I repeat, one day you'll have to, you can cast it fast and hard, so they pass out. So they don't have to feel the side effects of a poorly cast spell. So they don't have to endure an endless stream of suffering and inept idiots before they finally lose consciousness, or worse." He lowered an inscrutable gaze on her. "Believe me, Hermione. I know. It may be the greatest kindness you can ever do them."
Hermione literally felt the feeling of helplessness shift in her mind at the terrible truth to his words - something that she had never considered, never allowed herself to consider before. It didn't mean she had to like or use the Unforgivable Curses any more than she had to - and she still didn't know if she could cast them at all. But at least it made sense.
If she couldn't change this dark world, if she had to pick up the curses to survive, then the least she could do was learn how to cast them in such a way that people suffered less.
She focused back on Draco with new respect. He visibly hesitated, then lifted both of his chained hands and placed the right one flat on the bars, his long, pale fingers spread wide. "You can do it, you know. I had to. I'd like to think I managed to preserve some goodness inside me through it all."
Hermione glanced between his face and his hand, remembering his interaction with Peia and realizing what he was doing now. "It's not that; it's - brilliant, really, I just… I have to think about it." And she did, though she knew she didn't have much time until her next Dark Arts class, and she certainly couldn't skip them forever.
Draco's lip quirked slightly. "I'd expect nothing less."
After a moment of indecision, she reached over, holding up her own hand, and placed her smaller palm to his warm one, barely touching through the thick bars between them. "How's your…?" With her other hand, she gestured at her torso, and the burns she'd never seen fully healed.
He gave her a small, tired smile. "Still doesn't hurt anymore."
She smiled back weakly, but couldn't bring herself to summon any of the easy wit and humor that this Draco, incomprehensibly, seemed so ready and able to conjure even in the very worst of situations... even if it was, as she strongly suspected, a veil to cope with something far darker. "Thanks," she said quietly. "For listening to my whinging."
"I'd hardly call it whinging," he responded just as softly, the kindness in his voice as effective as a healing balm.
Real amusement arose in her then, and Hermione felt what was perhaps the first truly relaxed smile since she'd arrived here at all tug wide at her lips and crinkle her eyes. "Then you're a rare specimen, Draco Malfoy."
For a moment, he only stared at her, then bowed his head without reply. His chest had begun to rise and fall more rapidly, his fingers clenching slightly, and an instant before Hermione could ask what was wrong, he and the chains at his wrists abruptly hit the bars below her hand with such force that the sound of metal striking metal caused her ears to ring. "Damn it!"
Hermione jumped, then placed a hand over her pounding heart, reminding herself to breathe. "Draco?" she asked sharply, but her startlement turned to concern when she caught his anguished expression, his eyes glistening.
He took a slow, deep breath, as if he was trying to calm himself.
"This is the first time," he said slowly, "the first time in a very, very long while that I've felt this - this... this angry." He ran tense hands up and down the slim metal barriers between his prison and the world beyond before he bowed his head, gripping them tightly. "I shouldn't. I shouldn't feel this. I shouldn't feel…" He trailed off, his jaw clenched. When he looked back at her, his gaze was smoldering. "I suddenly – I just want to get out of here so bloody much –"
Abruptly, the portrait banged opened, and Hermione flung the Invisibility Cloak around her completely as a boisterous mob of students tumbled in. As if someone had pressed a button, the fight in Draco's thin shoulders deflated before her eyes to give way to a slumped posture of exhaustion and despair. He swiftly shrank away from the bars, though his hands still clenched them.
For a moment, the Cloak shimmered as Hermione's hand flashed out from beneath it, catching his own and and curling perfectly manicured fingers around his. She leaned toward him, her voice low, but loud enough that he could hear her over the chatting students.
"There's a time and place to feel nothing. But also there's also a time and place to feel everything," she whispered. "Save your emotions for when you need them the most. But when you do - Feel, Draco. And not just anger or hate, but most importantly, love. Feel love. That'll keep you alive, that'll keep you human, when nothing else does, when no one else is."
His fingers abruptly tightened around hers, and through them she willed the determination that had carried her through seven and a half years of helping Harry battle Lord Voldemort. Of surviving the Second Wizarding War at all.
When Hermione left the Gryffindor Common Room, Draco's shoulders didn't seem quite so sunken; his face not quite so crushed. And for a witch who was determined to return to her world no matter the cost, that meant more to her than she cared to admit.