Draco woke early that fateful morning, to the smell of breakfast wafting out from the kitchen. Groggy, puffy-eyed and disoriented, there was a dull, thudding headache pounding behind his temples from a bit too much Firewhisky imbibed sullenly and alone the previous evening; and his limbs were cramped and stiff from yet another night spent on the library couch. He could, of course, have easily transfigured the couch into a bed, but had repeatedly failed to do so, feeling on some deep level that these awful, achy, bleary mornings were a justly deserved punishment for the crime of abandoning his marriage bed – something he had never done before these past few, miserable days.
He was lying on his back, one arm flung over his face, shielding his eyes from the light streaming in through the library's windows – this room, not normally intended for sleeping, lacked the heavy drapes that filtered the morning light in his bedroom. With a groan, he sat up, his bare back peeling, unpleasantly, away from the leather of the sofa. He'd slept in only his jersey-knit pajama bottoms, but had still become overheated in the night, judging by the way he was sticking to the leather. Ugh.
Swinging his feet onto the floor, he planted his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands, fingers clenching in his tousled, silver-white hair. He sat this way for a long time, then dropped one hand to the coffee table, groping blindly for the tee-shirt he'd discarded when lying down the night before.
Draco Malfoy was not a happy man.
Something needed to be done.
He didn't understand how Hermione could turn on him like this, demanding the expulsion from their home of not only the person who'd saved Seth's life, but his own long-lost brother, whom he was only just beginning to know and enjoy on a personal level.
Yes, there were two incredibly compelling reasons that he was absolutely not going to toss Luke out on his ear; he'd saved Seth, and he was blood. Each of which was strong enough on its own, let alone in combination. And the fact that Hermione had asked him to, in all seriousness and fully aware of all of this, felt like a tremendous betrayal by his wife.
It had hurt. In fact, bugger had; it still hurt. It hurt like hell. And the time she'd picked to go and raise the issue – over their unconscious son's hospital bed, for Christ's sake – what in the hell was the matter with her lately, anyway?
He was angry with her. Really, really angry with her. But they couldn't go on like this. This was torture. Actually, it was killing him. And she wasn't looking so good either these days. In fact, it looked like she was making herself sick over this, and that wasn't what he wanted either. For Merlin's sake, it wasn't as if he didn't love the woman, as infuriating as she could sometimes be – she was his… his… soul, the person who had taught him about love in the first place. He would do anything for her… anything except give up his only brother – the only blood relative he had left, who had fallen into his life from the clear blue sky like a… a gift. And it just staggered him that she could be selfish enough to ask him to.
But this little… dance of avoidance they'd entered into could not be sustained any longer. They had to face this thing head on, and talk through it.
His hand closed around the wadded fabric of the slate-blue shirt and he pulled it over his head. He got it on inside-out the first time and had to redo it, swearing vehemently under his breath as he yanked it off and then back on again, his hair now crackling with static electricity. It was only a small frustration, but small frustrations loomed large when his marriage was suffering. He just wasn't himself without Hermione; he needed her in order to be himself; to be whole.
The kids should still be in bed, but he had a feeling that she was probably up and about. She'd been sleeping less even than he had himself of late. In fact, he was pretty sure he could hear her moving about in the kitchen. It was time to find her and hash this out, right now. And after that, he was going to track down Severus and ask the older man's opinion on what might have happened to him in the Ministry, the day Seth had been hospitalized. He'd meant to go to Severus right then, until Ginny had appeared in the testing room wearing that expression that would haunt his most troubled dreams for the rest of his life – everything had changed in a heartbeat, then. Then it was all about Seth.
But not so anymore. Seth was recovering from whatever mystery ailment had struck him, and Draco once again had the luxury of time on his hands to spend worrying about something other than his son.
To wit, his own magic.
Something was going on with it – again.
And that was scary. There had been several months there, at the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts, during which he had been forced to live without any magic whatsoever – to live as a Squib – unsure of whether any magical ability would ever return to him at all. With the single glaring exception of holding Hermione's lifeless body on the front steps of the Hogwarts castle the day he'd rescued her from Malfoy Manor (some rescue – she'd bloody well died on him –) those months had been the absolute lowest point of his life.
He had no desire to revisit them.
Oh, his "ordinary magic" was just fine, thank you. (So far.) He could apparate, conjure, transfigure, what have you, with no problems whatsoever. It was the deeper, more ingrained stuff – the reflexive, and incredibly powerful, magic that he barely needed to even consciously think about – his "essential magic," as he'd mentally dubbed it when it had first materialized within him at the age of seventeen, nearly ripping him apart with its force until he'd learned to control it – that seemed to be abandoning him now.
The first sign had been, of course, the fact that he'd been knocked on his arse that day at the Ministry. There had been others since. He could no longer touch the consciousness of others, for one thing. He'd tried it with Luke not long after Hermione had implied that his brother may have had something to do with Seth's sudden illness – that "everything had gone wrong" since he'd come into their lives. He'd hated himself for invading Luke's privacy that way, hated it hated it, but he'd felt a driving need to discredit Hermione's outrageous allegations once and for all. It had all come to naught, though, in the end, because he hadn't been able to 'see' anything. Wondering if, perhaps, the students at Durmstrang were taught some sort of blocking technique – something that had never been introduced at Hogwarts (for everyone knew that certain… fundamental differences… existed between the curriculums of the two schools) he had tried it again, this time on Hermione, while she'd slept fitfully on the first night she had Seth had been home from St. Mungo's. But he'd fared no better.
Luke wasn't blocking, he'd realized with a shock – it was him, Draco – he'd lost the ability. He felt a cold, sick wave of… something… something disturbingly akin to foreboding… wash over him at the thought. Yes, he needed to seek counsel from Severus – today.
But first things were first.
He was long overdue for a talk with his wife.
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He was still groggy as he stumbled into the kitchen, making straight for the icebox and the carton of fresh orange juice he knew was there. It wasn't until he'd downed a tremendous swig of it, straight from the container, that he trusted himself to speak.
"Hermione," he said hoarsely, not bothering to turn around, "we need to talk."
And was astonished to hear not his wife's, but his daughter's voice from behind him.
"Erm, dad? I think mum's still in bed. And… we have, um, company."
"Ronnelle?" He spun on his heel almost guiltily, orange juice carton still in hand. "What are you doing out of bed so early?" And then, a heartbeat later – "Matt?"
He liked Matthew Potter. Really, he did. He even approved of Ronnelle seeing him – inasmuch as he was capable of approving of his only daughter seeing anyone. Still in all, though, this was hardly an appropriate time of day for the boy to be in the company of his daughter – even in as innocuous a setting as the family kitchen. (God help him if Draco had discovered the two of them anywhere else in the house.) His pale eyes narrowed.
"Matthew Potter, what – " he began, but lapsed into silence as Hermione really did enter the kitchen. She looked like – Merlin, he hardly knew what… she nearly looked deranged. She was pale as a sheet, dark smudges of fatigue marring her tightly drawn face; sleep-wild hair escaping a loose, haphazardly constructed knot at the base of her neck.
Her eyes, though – her eyes were blazing. And she held a crumpled parchment clutched in her fist, held it as though… as though it was her last lifeline.
Her last lifeline to what?
To sanity, it looked like.
He felt his heart give a sick, miserable lurch.
This had gone on too far. Too bloody far by half.
"Hermione – "
She seemed to start at his voice, her glazed eyes taking a second to focus on him. There was no question that she was not well. He frowned. Ronnelle should not be seeing this, much less Matt Potter, who wasn't even a family member. Close, yes – as close as anyone and closer than most, but still.
" 'Nell," he said, "Matt, could you give us – "
"Out," Hermione said then, interrupting him, "do you hear me, Draco? Out of my house, today."
Draco's teeth clenched. God, there was the anger again, washing over him in a wave – he hadn't realized how close to the surface it had been. But he made an attempt at self-control, for Ronnelle's sake.
"Hermione," he gritted out –
"No."
He was mildly surprised to register that she sounded every bit as furious as he felt. She couldn't actually think she was in the right, could she??
That bitch.
No – no! He was not going to give in to this. She was in the wrong and he was in the right, but damn it, beneath it all he loved her and he was not going to give in to this. This raw, simmering, volatile emotion. Rational logic had always been the way through to her in the past. He sucked in a breath, collecting his thoughts, but she derailed him again.
"Out of my house. Today."
Seth entered the kitchen now, before Draco could reply, yawning hugely; apparently roused by all the voices. Tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, he made a beeline for Draco and seized the carton of orange juice from his hand, swigging deeply exactly as his father had a moment ago. This was a habit in both father and son that drove Hermione absolutely bonkers – when she was herself. She was not herself this morning, however; she didn't even register it. Her hand, clenched around the parchment, was shaking.
Again, Draco tried to steer the children out of the line of fire of what he could tell now would surely be a battle – one that had been brewing for weeks.
"Ronnelle. Would you take your brother – "
"This letter is from Durmstrang." Hermione's voice cut in, low and flat. And dangerous. "Luke was no scholarship student, Draco, and no orphan. These are his school records, all seven years, I sent for them three days ago. They've only just arrived."
This sent Draco reeling, completely forgetting the three wide-eyed adolescents that were now regarding them intently.
"Hermione, you did what? On whose authority? And why in Merlin's name would they release them to you?"
"My name is Malfoy," she pointed out in a dry, but utterly humorless, tone. "Of course they released them to me. Draco, his tuition was paid in full and on time, all seven years. Over and above that, several lavish donations were made to the school while he was in attendance. Though no name is attached to them, the donations themselves are attached to his records, which strongly suggests that they were made by a benefactor of Luke's. Draco –" and her voice was rising now, rising, approaching the brink of hysterics – "when he was made Quidditch Captain the entire team was gifted with brand new, top-of-the-line broomsticks. Does that sound at all familiar to you?!?" And now she truly was shouting.
Draco felt as if a Bludger had just hit him in the gut. Knocked all the air right out of the room. It couldn't be true. Could it? No. Of course not. Hermione was seeing what she wanted to see – seeing only evidence that would support her case.
Fabricating evidence that would support her case. She must be. The alternative was simply…
Unacceptable.
"Bollocks," he said brusquely. "Frankly, Hermione, this behavior is beneath you. Sneaking about, prying into others' affairs like some… some common little…" he could hardly think of a fitting enough insult. It didn't matter – she looked as if he'd slapped her anyway, her mouth parting with shock and disbelief – disbelief that he wasn't playing right into her hands, falling for her lies. He felt a savage sort of satisfaction at the hurt in her face as she registered that no, he didn't believe her after all. She looked so vulnerable in that instant, so… young.
The parchment slipped from her fingers, wafted to the floor. She almost looked, in that moment of stunned incredulity, of exquisite vulnerability, as if she might faint.
And it was as if the room lurched under his feet.
What was he doing? Merlin help him, what in the hell was he doing? Taking pleasure in hurting his wife, whom he was supposed to love with every fiber of his being? With his children, both his children, looking on in horror? God help him, this was so wrong, so wrong.
He ran both hands through his hair, pressed his eyes shut for a long moment. A slow count of five, and then five more. De-fusing. Or trying to, at any rate. Trying damn hard. And where was Luke, anyway? Thank God he, at least, was not a witness to this appalling scene. Wherever he was, Draco prayed that, at least for the time being, he stayed there.
He didn't see Hermione sway on her feet, press one hand protectively to her stomach even as she groped with the other for the counter, for support. He didn't see Ronnelle draw infinitesimally closer to Matt, and Seth to Ronnelle, as if seeking shelter from this sudden and completely unexpected storm – neither one had ever witnessed a fight like this between their parents.
He opened his slate-colored eyes only when he felt he had a decent handle on himself, and that he'd hit upon a somewhat acceptable course of action to follow. "Look," he said, "Hermione, there's something I have to see Severus about. I think we could both use some time to… collect ourselves, anyway. We'll talk more about this tonight, in private."
This said, and assuming the matter closed, for the moment anyway, he began to turn away. Hermione's voice, when she spoke, caught him off-guard because it was so quiet – so quiet and… sad. Defeated. Utterly unlike her.
Or no, worse. Like a different her – the miserable, traumatized, wreck of a Hermione he'd known during his seventh year at Hogwarts. (The Hermione he'd often wanted to shake until her teeth rattled, God help him.)
"You won't see." Her words were little more than a whisper. "Oh, Draco. My God. I'd never have believed… but you won't. You've made a choice, and you won't see."
His teeth clenched. His fists clenched. She was laying the guilt on thicker than marmalade (manipulative little bitch!) but they were done with this conversation, damnit. Done.
He turned slowly back to face his wife. His eyes were like ice, now. His voice was like ice. "We are not talking about this, Granger – "
"Oh, yes." Her voice was as quiet as before, but it cut through his like a knife. "We are. Your brother – " she practically spat the word – "is here under false pretenses. Something is going on, something wrong, something evil, and I'm not going to wait around to find out what it is, not with my children at stake. If Luke doesn't leave today, then the rest of us do."
And it was Draco's turn to gawp, stunned.
Leaving him? She was leaving him? She was leaving him??
He could. Not. Have heard that right.
But Hermione was turning away from him now, to address the silent, shocked children. "Seth, Ronnelle, go and pack a few things, just a single bag each, and be quick about it. Matt, be a dear and floo home, ask your mum if we can impose upon her hospitality for a few days. We won't be far behind you. You can use the fireplace in – "
"NO."
Draco barely recognized his own voice; he was very nearly snarling now. "No one. Is going. Anywhere." He crossed the few feet that separated him from his wife and gripped Hermione by the arm, hard. She'd been the one who had dragged the children into this mess; he'd been trying to keep them out of it from the get-go. How could she do this to them – their faces almost as pale as hers now; frightened, confused.
It was one thing to attempt to manipulate him, but his children – how dare she?
He was holding her almost hard enough to bruise. "We're talking in the library. Now."
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It shocked him, she knew, the sudden force with which she wrenched her arm from his grasp. But Hermione Jane Granger Malfoy was a desperate woman now, with all the frantic, adrenaline-fueled strength to prove it.
Desperate – and angry – betrayed – and scared.
Something was wrong. Seriously, terrifyingly, fatally wrong. She'd sensed it for a long time, mounting and mounting, and more fool her for not putting her foot down – for not acting – sooner. But she wouldn't be derailed this time. She couldn't – not now that she'd seen the evidence, held it in her hand. That letter from Durmstrang – Luke's school records – the implication was as clear as day; anyone would make the connection. She had made it, and what was more, Draco had as well – she'd seen it click into place in the split second before he'd shut himself off to her, stubbornly refusing to believe.
God, how could he be so stupid? They were in danger – she and Draco – Seth and Ronnelle – they were all in danger – in danger of their lives! There might as well have been an alarum bell clanging overhead, it was so obvious to her.
And Draco was talking to her again – no, not talking, exactly; sneering at her, that's what he was doing, sneering at her in a way he hadn't done since they'd been in school together, well before that fateful night in the library, that night that had changed everything, started it all; back when she'd still been nothing more to him than a 'filthy little mudblood'. And what was he saying? She had to make a conscious effort to tune his words in, and even so she only caught the end of the sentence, absolutely dripping with derision –
" – acting like some weak-minded, idiotic, hysterical little bint!"
Weak-minded. Hysterical. He wanted to see hysterical? This was it. She had reached the end of her ability to cope.
"DRACO!" she shouted, with a vehemence that surprised even her, furious and frustrated and scared- scared for herself and for her children and maybe most of all for him – all of her restraint gone. "How can you be so blind!? Luke – your brother – he's evil, Draco, evil down to the core, evil down to his soul! He comes from evil, nothing but evil for generations! Nothing good has ever come out of that family! My God, how can you not SEE –"
But she cut off abruptly then, silenced by the look on his face. There was a long, terrible, soundless, airless moment that spiraled out, and out. And then –
"Oh, God," she choked out, as the realization of what she had just said really hit her. "Oh God, Draco… no… oh, no… I didn't… mean –"
But the damage was done. Merlin, the damage was done.
She could see it in the brief unguarded moment – just a fraction of a second, really – before his defenses slammed into place – the enormity of the hurt that flashed through his face, his eyes.
And then the shutters were down; his face and eyes going blank; those rock-solid Malfoy defenses, perfected from a childhood spent in the care of his monster-parents, an adolescence spent in Slytherin – the Hogwarts House that everyone loved to hate.
Those defenses that he hadn't employed against her in nearly two decades.
A battering ram couldn't have gotten through them in this moment. Still, miserably, she tried.
"Draco, please understand –"
"Granger? Shut. Up."
She was silenced less by the words themselves than the tone of voice in which he spoke (spat) them.
That and his eyes – hard and unyielding now as flint, as steel.
"Nothing good has ever come out of that family –" he mimicked her cruelly. "That's how you feel about me, Granger? About our children?"
"Draco, no! You know that's not – God, won't you –"
But he wasn't listening, and he wasn't through. "Nice of you to inform me, after all this time. How very considerate. Well… seeing as that is the case, I certainly wouldn't expect you to remain a Malfoy any longer – distasteful as it obviously is to you. Please, you needn't leave the house on my account – I would not want the children disrupted in such a manner. I'll be gone within the hour, and my brother with me. You'll hear from my solicitors within a day or two about – " his jaw clenched – "about releasing you from the despicable bonds of Malfoy-dom. Goodbye… Granger."
He turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
Draco! Stop! Please, STOP! She wanted to scream, but the words stuck in her throat. So shocked and devastated was she that the only sound she was able to force out was a tiny, wounded, barely audible "no."
Gripping the counter now so tightly that her knuckles were turning white, she fought to stay upright, with only limited success. Her legs gave and she sagged against the counter, only just managing to keep herself from sliding to the floor.
This couldn't… be happening… he wouldn't do this, not her Draco, her husband, he wouldn't, wouldn't, no no no…
… "oh, no."
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(A/N: Gosh. Well. Sorry for the delay. Again. Seems like I'm saying that every time, lately. But the good news is that my Master's Degree is behind me now and I have some of that beautiful, elusive thing known as free time again this summer – I'd almost forgotten what that felt like! And so, updates should be forthcoming in a more timely manner over the next couple of months. This chapter, in particular, carries special thanks to all those who emailed or PM'd me over the past few months with words of support, encouragement, and update please!!! Also, even though I'm usually obsessive-compulsive about updating only on Friday nights, I'm posting this chapter on a Tuesday especially for SeanEmma4Evr, who expressed hope that she'd be able to read it before her big final on Thursday… :o)… Good luck girl! Oh and even though I rarely beg for or demand reviews, this chap is 3 days early for you – so you owe me one! Savvy? ;o)