Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark
Chapter: Ten
Author: Edie
Rating: R
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.
Chapter Summary: Draco comes to terms with what Hermione tells him, and chooses a side once and for all.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Malfoy's "victory or extermination" line comes from a Nazi speech, but I can't find which one.
Author's Notes: No, your eyes do not deceive you! I honestly have no intention of abandoning this story, and I appreciate everything that still comes my way because of this story. You guys truly are the best readers!
"It's filled with words once spoken by people everywhere
And I can hear all the whispers that have lived a thousand years
It just took me being open for them to reach my eager ears
Now they've reached my eager ears
And I hope I'll be ready
When my light, when my life, divides…"
- Azure Ray's "A Thousand Years"
With the darkness came peace. It was an odd thing, swallowing Draco and wrapping him in a dull sort of nothingness, an empty kind of paradise.
He was aware of a great number of things, however distantly. The clock on his mantelpiece was ticking louder than he could remember it doing so before. The air in the room was chilly; his curtains were open. The fabric of his sweater felt oddly itchy; the couch was too soft beneath him. Everything felt wrong, clouded by this darkness. Disjointed and off balance.
Wrong.
Hermione was beside him, he realized. Furthermore, he was holding her hand. She looked upset, stricken, and, though her mouth was moving, he couldn't make out the words. Couldn't hear her. Didn't want to hear her, not when her hand was squeezing his, not when she was so clearly waiting. The darkness folded itself around him, and, for all she was trying to say, the only thing Draco heard was a rushing in his ears.
He would not hear it. Could not hear it. She was babbling gibberish. The protective cloak around him shimmered, and he caught her saying, "I'm so sorry." He had an odd sick urge to smile at her. To pat her hand because her words were nonsense. And incorrect. A fool could see that. Idiotic things to say. His father—
His father--
Bile rose in his throat at the exact moment reality came flooding back. Again, everything felt wrong. Disjointed still, and too sharp.
Her words roared in his ears. All this time it's been your father. Bewildered, he looked at his notes, strewn over his table, irrelevant now. Hysterical laughter rose in his throat, but when he spoke, he sounded very calm. Felt very calm. He was a Malfoy, and it was time to remember that.
"That's absurd," he informed her, icily. Shook her hand off of his, and glowered at her, reaching for imperious. His stomach heaved, but he didn't need bloody shock to figure this out. Didn't need anything to see ugly lies, twisted and spouted out like so much refuse by a person who was so very beneath him. Anger felt hot, felt right.
He knew exactly what was going on, and wasn't he a blind fool, beforehand. Of course the dirty little Muggle had been lying to him every step of the way, manipulating him so easily it wasn't even fair. Alienating him from his peers, from his father. Befriend the enemy, a classic trick. The best sort of spy game.
They'll trick you, Draco. It is in their nature to lie, to deceive. They're greedy rats, always remember that. Offer them anything, and they'll bite the hand that feeds them. The lowest form of vermin, Mudbloods. His father's voice, out of nowhere, and oddly reassuring. Lucius Malfoy had never led him astray, never had turned his back on him. He'd been unfailing in his teachings, and so right about her kind. Lying filthy vermin.
And he'd felt bad for her. Self-loathing warred with anger, and combined, they tipped closer towards cold fury.
"It's hard to swallow, I know," she was saying, voice rich with pity. He could barely bring himself to look at her, she disgusted him so. "I don't know how you must be feeling, Draco. I cannot even imagine it, and I am so sorry! If this was my own father… that is to say, if my father—"
But he couldn't hear that. Rising from the couch, he glowered down at her, frozen to the bone with rage. She paled a little and stopped talking, but she did not shrink back into the couch. She looked stupidly prepared to deal with whatever he had to say to her, not at all impressed by the anger that had to be emanating off him in waves.
"Do not compare your Mudblood father to a Malfoy," he bit out, a command.
She did flinch then, at the word or at his tone, he couldn't tell. Opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
"Do not come in here and tell me lies." His voice was little more than a hiss. "Do not mention my father in the same breath as the slime who did this to you. I cannot stand the sight of you, Mudblood. Remove yourself from my presence before you force me to take extreme action."
We must have victory, son. We must remove every one of them from our society, before they pollute its very foundation. Victory or extermination, my boy.
He was a Malfoy. He was on the side of good. He had erred—oh, how he had erred—but enough was enough.
Something flashed in Hermione's eyes as she rose, but it was gone before he felt particularly inclined to try to read it. Shoulders ramrod straight, she headed for the door. Draco was sure his heart wasn't beating, was sure he wasn't breathing. Filth, he reminded himself firmly. Lying filth.
At the door, she hesitated. "I'm going to forgive you for this, Draco," she murmured, refusing to lower her gaze. "You are reacting out of shock, that's all. You can come find me when everything makes sense. I'm still sorry that I had to be the one to tell you."
The door slammed on her parting words before he could fire anything back. Shaking himself hard, he returned to the couch, and methodically began to pile up his notes. He would burn them, and in the morning he would find Zabini. Kiss ass until he was allowed back in, until he was allowed to know the plan, and then he was going to redeem himself in his father's eyes. Time to do what he always should have done. Time to claim his fucking heritage.
Time to break the Mudblood.
She was nothing but lying scum.
Closing his eyes, he lay down across the soft fabric, still feeling strangely cold. The clock remained ticking obnoxiously loud and his notes stayed on the table, ordered but unburned.
**
On his thirteenth birthday, Lucius Malfoy had taken Draco away from the revellers and let his son into his private study. That in itself was an honour, and Draco recalled hovering, afraid of moving wrong and spoiling the moment. Time alone with his father was precious; to be called privately was an absolute honour.
His father had rolled up the sleeves of his dress robes, had shown Draco the Dark Mark. In a rare moment, he had let his son touch him; had let him run cold fingers along the lines and harshly ugly patterns forever emblazed on Lucius' arm.
"This is our calling," Lucius had said. "Our destiny."
Draco had wanted that so badly—a destiny. Something equal to Potter's, something better than Potter's. Lucius' our had slipped through his lips like sweet heaven.
And then, when Draco had been sure he couldn't bear any more good news without bawling like a little brat, Lucius had said the best thing of all.
"You're a man today, son. I'll be proud to go to battle with you. Proud to stand beside the man you've become. You are almost an exact image of me at that age."
Today, now, the memory cut through Draco like a knife. He pressed his face hard into the couch, and tried to swallow his hurt. It was ridiculous to be upset about the fact that Hermione was lying to him, was ridiculous to imagine that he might miss her, when all was said and done. She was the only one in so long who had—
But no. He knew his father, and knew his father was above such plebeian acts as rape. The elder Malfoy didn't need physical force, not when he was of above average intelligence and so bloody brilliant with magic that Draco could hardly comprehend it. Draco would know and—
Lies about his father were an unforgivable offence. He'd hexed people for much less. Pulling in a hard sigh that was only slightly watery, Draco wrapped his fingers around his wand and counted to ten. He needed a cool head; needed to find out a way to alert his father of Hermione's plot, to tell him that—
"You mustn't tell him I'm telling you this, and please don't get mad at me! I can't bear it, Draco."
Pansy's voice cut through Draco's mind so clearly that, for one terrifying second, he was sure she was in the room. Of course not, only him, and only more sodding memories that he wanted no part of. Memories of that same birthday, ironically enough.
Images flashed through his mind lightning fast. Pansy joining him on the balcony, hand like ice in his grasp. An unnatural flush on her usually cool face, an odd panic in her eyes. Trembling, he remembered that. She'd been trembling.
"Your father," she had said on a hushed whisper, "cannot wait to have me as a daughter-in-law. Oh, Draco, how he looked at me when he said that! Have me, like he meant it."
Fear in her voice, but he had only thought it natural to be afraid of his father. Respect was garnered that way. Oh, how he looked at me! And Draco had looked too, he recalled that. Had seen her for the first time as something beyond childhood playmate turned someday wife, had seen her on the brink of womanhood, and known what a charmer she'd be. Not a beauty, never Pansy, but an enchantress, of sorts. Have me, like he meant it, and Draco hadn't thought a damned thing because he'd been floored by it too, floored by that first moment of wanting her. His father's words clouded by Draco's desires and—
What had he even said to her? He didn't remember anger, didn't remember much past the confusing feelings of budding lust. And he could see what had to have been obvious discomfort, obvious distress at his father's implications, and still have felt that way for her in that moment? Almost an exact image of me. Bile rose in his throat so fast that Draco barely managed to swallow it.
Suddenly, his heart was beating. Suddenly, he was breathing. Panicking. Pansy wouldn't lie, not about that. And Pansy's discomfort had been real, which meant—
Which meant—
Which meant someone else did it. Resolved, he ripped his notes off the table and flew through them, looking for something to indicate anything but what Hermione had said, anything but what Pansy had felt, anything but what—
"When he raped her, he Stupefied her, didn't he?"
Rosie's words, if that was Rosie at all. Too much knowledge of an event she hadn't known a thing about, too much knowledge for an outsider. What had she said? Something about not being conceived in love?
But surely not, never his own mother, and—
And—
And something else.
"And she'd be there if you felt you needed help in any way.
Pieces were falling together faster than Draco could keep up with. The room was spinning, and he felt truly and wretchedly ill. Scared, and afraid to move. Hermione's words thundered through his mind like something he might always have known, and yet he couldn't believe it. Gagging, he forced himself to stand. Hovered in the centre of the room for a moment, undecided, and then was off like a shot.
He didn't trust her, not for one second. Didn't trust his mother either, not really, but then he was only back in Hogwarts because of her, because of her ultimate betrayal of You-Know-Who. He owed her an ounce of trust, and… he had to know.
Had to.
**
Fleeing Hogwarts grounds took longer than Draco had intended, and he was out of breath by the time he was far enough to Apparate. It only occurred to him mid-word that his mother might have changed the wards to block him from entering the Manor, only occurred to him in that last perilous second that she might have betrayed him as fast as her master. And then he was there, appearing in a downstairs broom closet with a flash. A terrible misjudged landing—he was new at this, after all—and he hit the chair waiting for Apparating guests with his hip, tipping it and himself unto the floor.
Panting, he lay against the stones for a moment, trying to catch his bearings. He sensed that he had banged his hip hard, but adrenaline masked it. Masked everything he felt outside of two great all consuming fears.
Firstly, he was going to get off the floor eventually, and he was going to have to open the door. If it remained locked, he would know his mother had barred him, her failure son, from entering the home. Knew he'd be held long enough to cause him worry before a complicated spell he couldn't quite grasp yet shot him back to where he'd come from. And if the door was locked then… His sigh bordered on a gurgling sob, and shamed filled him. Then the half-truths he suspected, the rumours of her love, would all be lies too.
Secondly… well, that one seemed obvious. He had to know, needed answers like air, and yet his every instinct was screaming for flight. Praying for the inability to enter the Manor, the inability of talking to his mother.
The doorknob turned beneath his hand. He exited into an abandoned stone corridor in the bowels of the Manor, near where the house elves were kept. It was meant to provide an intimating walk upstairs. Luckily for Draco, he ran and saw nothing.
Ugly knowledge accompanied each footfall as he pounded up stairs and down corridors, growing more lit the further up he raced. Inescapable facts, like how his father had been the one to continue to torture Granger. How his father had known things, and—and how his father had abandoned him, left him to die at the hands of the brutes Draco once had called friends. How obsessive his father had always been with Potty and the Gang. Circumstantial evidence wasn't promising, and that wasn't even including his mother's testimony.
Because that he knew with blinding certainty as he rushed to find her. Her failings aside, Draco knew her well enough to know that she would never have sent a servant with sensitive information for McGonagall. Remembered how he and Hermione had worried about polyjuice, and would have laughed at their stupidity if it wouldn't have tipped him over from repressed hysteria to the real kind.
All it meant was that his mother loved him, and worried about him. Had actually seen him rather than sending sinister letters in a fucking tree. In the Forbidden Forest where—
The door to her bedroom loomed before him. Years of protocol demanded that he knock, but Draco had no time. Heaving on giant gulps of air that never reached his lungs, he shouldered his way in, never considering his mother's reaction.
He met with the end of her wand. She was saying, "You're not as good at this as you think, fool. I've heard you coming for floors", but she stopped when she saw just who she was aiming it. Doubt flickered through her eyes—no stranger to polyjuice, his mother—but then her hand shook and her wand disappeared.
"Draco?" she murmured, pressing a hand to her breast.
She was ready for bed, he noticed dully. Distantly beautiful even in her night robes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been allowed to see her in such a personal moment. Couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her hair undone, falling loose down her back. She looked older than he remembered. Lines shadowed her eyes, framed her lips. A lifetime of frowning, he thought with just a touch of hysteria. The sudden urge to cry nearly blindsided him.
Nearly blindsided Narcissa too. He could only imagine what she wanted to ask him, and she did indeed dither, hand fluttering uselessly in the air, not quite reaching out to him. She stared at his face, looking for answers, and paled at what she saw there. And then she did something she hadn't done in years.
She touched him. Hesitatingly, slowly. Soft fingers rested against his cheek, not quite caressing. She was afraid, he realized. Afraid like he'd been in his father's study, terrified of rejection. Lip trembling, he leaned into her touch.
Narcissa went too still. Absolutely froze in front of him. Eyes that were the exact shade as his waited, gauged reactions. He looked like her, he realized, and wasn't he shit for inappropriately timed thoughts. Only, everyone had always said he was Lucius' younger self. And Draco had never even fucking looked at his own mother.
She was a small woman. Tiny in all ways. He imagined her at his father's mercy, imagined her Stupefied and terrified and—
And she'd hated her husband so much she'd wanted to destroy his unborn child.
Trembling, Draco choked back a sob. It caught in his throat and came out clenched, wet and warbling. Narcissa flinched back, but then her other hand was framing his face. Her arms were trembling.
When she spoke, there was no hint of pretence. Like she'd imagined he'd put the Rosie connection together a long time ago. He was such a disappointment in so many ways, he thought dumbly.
"She told you." Her tone was dead, flat.
Staring into his mother's eyes, Draco waited for her denial, for her impassioned, "Mudbloods lie!" spiel. A slap across the face maybe, because his doubt must have been written all over his face, and one shouldn't doubt one's father. He was a fucking awful son. Deserved to be raked across the coals, to be cursed to death, to… to…
Deny it, he thought. Deny it, deny it, deny it.
Silence. Her entire body joined her arms in trembling. Pale skin flushed unusually. Draco was choking, couldn't breathe again, and he knew he couldn't hold it together much longer. Not in the face of what he saw. Not in the face of the absolute truth in his mother's eyes.
The sob tore through his lips unexpectedly, but then his mother was there. He felt her arms clamp around him and clutched at the silky fabric of her robe with embarrassing desperation as his entire world crumbled. She was crying too, he realized distantly, and Narcissa Malfoy simply did not do that. Had never done that, not in front of him. Nothing felt real, and yet, at the same time, it all felt too vivid to be anything but.
Unable to hold him and herself, she guided him to the floor and pulled him into her lap as much as she could with a boy his age. Feeling all of two, he hid his face in her shoulder and let her stroke his hair as agony ripped through him. Let her ground him like an anchor.
"You're not like him," she was saying, rocking gently back and forth. "You are me, Draco. You are my son. You are not him. You are not him."
**
It was a rare and perfect moment of happiness, as far as Pansy Parkinson was concerned; she was usually right about such things. Fingers tickled across her stomach, under her blouse, and lips brushed gently down the line of her neck. Warmth filled her as she felt him behind her, so close that nothing could separate them. Bliss. That was what this was.
Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of sandy coloured hair and a face that was smiling even more broadly than she was. He made a face at her, distorted by her angle, and she laughed before flopping onto her back. He didn't move, hovering over her still.
"A world without Zabini!" she giggled, surprised at the feeling of being able to. "Do pinch me, Seamus! I cannot believe such a thing is possible!"
He did not smile with her, and she regretted spoiling the moment. Gently, she touched his cheek, running her hand back into his hair. After awhile, he stopped glowering and let his eyes close, sighing at her touch.
"A world without Zabini is entirely possible, love," he promised, "if you'll give me five bloody minutes alone with him."
But five minutes would ruin everything and they both knew it. Sighing, Pansy was put out to realize that she'd somewhat spoiled the moment for herself as well. The thought of Zabini sickened her; the thought of his over-the-top scorn, of the sick glare in his eyes when Granger's name was mentioned brought her up short. She had to tell Draco. She had to make him see beyond what he already might have seen because—
Because she was sitting on something terrible, she could feel it. Zabini would tell her, she supposed, Zabini with all of his misguiding bragging rights. That kind of mouth would get him killed in the end—or at least she prayed it would. Kisses for secrets, that's how it had gone thus far, and she shuddered to think what she'd have to do for that.
And she would have to find out, she knew it. A final act of goodness to cement her relationship with Seamus, to prove that she wasn't Death Eater scum. Saving one third of the Golden Trio had to guarantee points, and besides, Pansy had her suspicions about Granger's importance to Draco. And Draco's happiness was almost as important to her as her own, as Seamus'. Much more important than gaining Potty Points.
But how much could she sacrifice?
"Seamus?" she asked, softly.
A cloud crossed his face. Worry, she read. Jealousy perhaps. Resignation.
She could barely make herself say it. "What would you be able to forgive?"
Seamus went still beside her. Heaving a groan, he moved onto his back but not before finding her hand and squeezing it tightly. He really did love her, she thought dismally. More than she deserved.
"Depends." He tried for a cheeky smirk and failed utterly. "What have you done?"
Pansy couldn't look at him. Shifting her weight, she stared hard at the ceiling. "Kisses for secrets," she confessed. "Zabini has a big one, Seamus. I know it. It could help you and it could help Potter. I don't know what to do! The thought of… of giving more makes me feel ill and I… I…" Couldn't finish.
Seamus' silence was ugly, and long enough lasting to scare her. She clung to his hand, convinced that if she let go he'd leave. And rightfully so.
"Fucking sacrifices!" he swore, pounding his other fist into the ground. "I want to kill him. How's that for stopping any plan? The next time he touches you--"
"But if I have to." Tears flooded her eyes, and she tried to blink them away. "If I have to give it all."
But it was Seamus who sounded near tears. She felt his frustration and anger so acutely they were hard to distinguish from her own emotions.
"This could change the course of the war?"
"I don't know. He won't tell me just yet. I just know it's something we need to know, Seamus. Something Harry needs to know." And she grimaced on his name, thinking only of Draco.
"If I am alone with him, Pans, I will rip him to shreds. Hell, even if I'm not alone, I think I might." Deadly serious. "Secrecy isn't worth this shit. Tell your mother, tell them all. I'd rather have to fight them off than have you even think of laying with that piece of—"
"But then we'll never know, and who knows how things will end up? What if we lose and all because I've missed a head's up? I want to be good enough for you."
Seamus swore again before running his free hand through his hair. "You already are good enough, love. Too good, by half. But the thought of you as his whore--"
Pansy flinched at the word; felt nauseous at its implications. "Just a little while, Seamus, and then this will all be behind us. Just tell me you'll love me afterwards. That it won't matter."
"It does matter, but not in the way you mean." He laughed without humour. "I don't want to tell you I love you because that feels like permission, but you know I do. I love you no matter what this war makes us do. It just makes me so mad that it's you having to do it."
Before she could respond, Seamus was there, nudging her cheek with his nose and seeking out her mouth. She tasted urgency, and tried to return it tenfold.
"Seamus?" she asked, when he broke away from her for air.
"I'm afraid to ask what," he said.
Blushing despite herself, Pansy fiddled with his tie and cleared her throat. "I might not go through with all of that, but if I do… I want you to be first."
He missed her meaning, she sensed that. Suddenly shy, she found herself incapable of voicing her desire past that. Instead, she wiggled her hips and smiled in a way that she hoped got her point across.
Seamus blinked, and shook his head. "What? No way in hell am I finally going to get to be with you only because of—"
"Because I love you."
"Because of the wrong reasons," he returned stubbornly.
But Pansy was shaking her head. Touching his face, she said, "I'd want to, regardless. What if we died tomorrow, Seamus? Everything is so uncertain and about to start, do you know what I mean? What if something happens and I never get to know you like that? I love you, and that's all that matters. I can't think of better reasons."
Seamus said nothing, and Pansy took it as a momentary truce. Worked at the buttons on his shirt with a wicked smile, and let him run his hand along her thing. Not tonight, she thought, but soon. And she loved him so much. Gently, she smoothed away the worried line between his eyes.
"No bad thoughts, please. I've found us paradise, remember?"
Snorting, Seamus glanced around. "You've found us a storage closet."
"Yes," she agreed, not put out in the slightest, "but it's a very abandoned storage closet, isn't it?"
"Oh yes," he said, laughing genuinely. "There is that."
And then his mouth was on hers, moving with an urgent desperation and a wish for months from now when storage closets wouldn't be necessary. When she would be his, and this would all be nothing but a strange nightmare.
Pansy Parkinson let Seamus kiss her, and let herself forget.
**
Draco Malfoy was never going to be able to forget anything.
Lying in his childhood bed, he had never felt further from sleep. He imagined he could hear the blood in his veins, rushing and whooshing along, life ensuring. A rapist's blood. A rapist's son.
He could hardly make himself think it, but there was no denying it, he knew that. Dots connected, things added up, and he had never been so sure of something so terrible in his whole life. He told himself it was a mission from Voldemort; not really his father's own fault, but then… Then Lucius was still taking a sick sort of pleasure in it, his letters indicated that much.
Break the girl. Get her so emotionally low that killing her would be no problem.
In the dark, Draco sniffed. Seemed the coward's way out. Do something so terrible, and then refuse to even fight her fairly. Seemed like fear, not victory. Good thing Hermione had him on her—
Well, not on her side. Not now. Not when it was his fucking father, whom he could never go against, not really. Save all that brave splitting with your family shit for Pansy; it wasn't his cup of tea, thanks ever so. The thought of honestly fighting along side a rapist made his skin crawl, but it was an inevitable choice.
Perhaps rape in the face of war wasn't as bad as—
But then he couldn't even finish that thought without feeling lower than dirt. Rape was rape, and it was now his family legacy. Draco thought he might be ill.
How was he to look at his father again without vomiting all over Lucius' pristine robes? How could Draco see him and know what he had done, and do nothing? Siding with him, helping him, had to be almost the same as committing the act himself.
And yet, if he sided with his father, how could he ever face his mother? How could he ever face Hermione?
Groaning, Draco shoved his face down into his pillows, and melodramatically prayed for death to take him before morning.
**
Draco found his mother at the breakfast table, sitting regal before an elaborate spread of food he would never be able to stomach. His eyes ached from crying. His stomach churned, and his head was pounding. At her own seat, Narcissa didn't look much better. Her eyes were red rimmed and all that regal posture was ruined by an exhaustion he didn't want to know, but felt as though he already did.
Good morning was a fucking stupid thing to say, and so he said nothing. Pulled his chair out with a loud scrape.
"You're going to miss class," was what she said, equally inane. "We'll have to get you back right away."
Panic ripped through Draco. Back to Hogwarts. Back to normality, where he had to pretend. All the time pretend. Failed to kill Dumbledore? Never happened. Son of a rapist? Couldn't be. He felt himself pale, and hated his own weakness. Hated everything about himself, really, but that weakness thing was pretty high up there.
"You have a lot to think about." And then, before he could roll his eyes at that vast understatement, "I'm sorry this has happened to you. I take the blame for everything."
But the blame was not Narcissa's. Anger was back, and anger was familiar.
"I wanted to help Hermione kill her attacker," he spit out, blind with too much of everything. "Kill him, Mother!"
A brisk nod, and then Narcissa was buttering her toast like they were discussing the weather. Now that the shock had worn off, Narcissa was a better pretender than her son. She'd had years, after all.
"I will not blame you, Draco, no matter whose side you decide to be on." A deep breath. "You're my son, and I love you."
That sparked an impish smile from his mother, like saying the words was the greatest fucking gift ever. They spread warmth through him, and that was unusual. Not entirely unpleasant.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," he admitted at length.
Side with the rapist? Side with his father? And then he was no better. But siding with her was betraying his father and… and Lucius was his father. A rush of dizziness made him moan. Too much, it was all too much. More than Potter had to bear, he was almost certain. At least Potter Senior had been a decent human being. More than Zabini could begin to imagine. His own burden.
His, and Hermione's.
Guilt stopped the dizziness in its tracks. Froze Draco cold. His own father. She had cried on his shoulder, made her burdens his, and the price was too much. Entirely too goddamned much.
Draco wished his head would explode. Spray guts all over his father's beautiful dining room. Ta da, this is what your son is good for! Self destruction!
How disgusting that he still wanted to please his father. That he couldn't truly imagine aligning with Hermione against him.
And she was Hermione again, he noticed. No more Mudblood shit. That was yesterday's vitriol. He felt uncomfortable thinking about how he'd spoken to her. What he'd accused her of. He had so much to atone for, no matter what way he threw the dice.
His mother's voice was soft but perfectly controlled. He sensed she'd figured out what he was going to do, even if he hadn't.
"I'll be there for you, Draco, when the time comes."
He wanted to ask his mother what that meant. What she thought he should do. But he knew. Knew where his mother's allegiance was now. She'd managed to free herself from Lucius at last.
And what if it was the death of her?
Forcing himself to stop thinking, Draco choked back some coffee and pushed around the sausage he didn't remember putting on his plate.
The father or the girl? Right or wrong? Did he want his mother's pride, or his father's? He wished he wasn't involved, but he felt like he'd been caught in this maelstrom his whole entire life. Felt like—
Narcissa's hand curled over his.
He had his mother's pride no matter which way he went. Her pride, and her help.
Always his father's son. Carefully, and to himself, Draco tried out a new sentence. Draco Malfoy, his mother's son. Draco Malfoy, just like Narcissa. A mirror image of her, at this age.
Well, they were both on the edge of a fucking precipice seventh year, anyway. Perhaps it was time to jump.
**
A strange calm settled over Draco as he made his way up the winding corridor, past his rooms, and in the direction of Hermione's. He had not made a decision, had not come even close to it, but his words had been beyond awful. Brutish, even, calling a rape victim a liar. Their tentative truce made his utterance of Mudblood horrific. She'd been there for him all year, and it was too much. If he couldn't make a decision, he owed her an apology all the same. A farewell, if it came to that. May the best man win.
He knocked on Hermione's door, eyeing the area around him for her bodyguard Auror. Half expected him to pop out of nowhere, to thrash the living daylights out of him. But the Auror did not know the half of it. Only he did, he and Hermione. Even his mother wasn't aware of everything they'd shared. Of the countless times he'd broken her trust, proved himself inferior. Of the countless times she'd forgiven him.
If his thoughts were leaning in a particular direction, he pretended not to notice.
Hermione put him through the usual twenty questions before opening her door—he was surprised she opened it at all. Stepping back, she allowed him access to her rooms, eyes scanning his face at the speed of light. He couldn't meet her gaze. Focused instead on Crookshanks, dozing on the couch. Oblivious and wonderful, the cat.
After a moment, Hermione cleared her throat.
Draco chanced a glance upwards, and wished he hadn't. Hermione looked scared and uncertain, like she half thought he'd come to finish her off. He remembered her in the snow, wrist slit with that Mark, and robes torn. Remembered how long she'd hid in the bathroom, how afraid she'd been by the sight of him—and rightly so. Tried to imagine what she'd been thinking when it had been he who found her. Surely, she thought death was imminent, found by a Malfoy.
Bleeding on the snow—
"I'm sorry." It rushed out before he consciously thought it. "For everything. I don't know how you can stand to face me. I don't know how I can ever make what he did right. I don't know how I can--"
And then Hermione was moving, closing the distance between them. He felt her arms loop around his waist, felt her face bury into his shoulders. Stiffening, Draco forced his own arms around her. She felt very warm to him, just then. Soft and vulnerable. Nearly broken by his father. Nearly broken by him, by the Malfoy men acting together.
When he thought of those letters—
Tentatively, Draco rested his cheek on her hair. He could feel her trembling, and spread his fingers wide in an attempt to stop it. Or maybe it was him trembling. Shaking with new anger, with new hate. Was it a decision at all when he looked at the greater picture? At everything Lucius had done to him, to his mother, to this girl right here? Innocent, all three of them, and then.
Perhaps he'd known all along and hadn't wanted to see.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
Hermione said, "Me too" and held him closer. "I don't blame you, Draco. You are not your father."
The same words, yet again. He could almost believe them. Could almost feel buoyed by them. Gasping for air, he pushed his hands under her robes until his palms rested against the small of her back, separated by her sweater but closer still. The urge to make everything better was astronomical and astonishing.
Draco Malfoy didn't condone rape. Not a decision at all, not this time. This time, Draco Malfoy was going to make the right choice. He was going to fix things.
Still, asking the question was harder than he thought. He stopped and started, struggling for words, nearly dying on the final hurdle.
And then, just like that, it was his old life that died on it.
"Tell me," he asked slowly, "your plan."
TBC...: With a lighter note. :) And soon. Must get story out while inspiration is a-rolling!