Chapter 11: The Price of Beauty
For all that the night girl was troubled, in her wretched state, she was not unhappy. She knew nothing of the world except the tomb of night in which she dwelt, and being strong of mind and light of spirit, she took some pleasure in everything she did. But she desired, nevertheless, something different; something that she knew not how to name, certain only that she wished, somehow, for more.
Her ventures toward the light served partially to punish, for if ignorance is peaceful bliss, then knowledge is no prize; and the disquieted cry that curled inside her stomach soon pressed into her soul, until she could no longer be satisfied with the night. For indeed, once light had met her eyes, she could not close them and return to the dark; and for having felt the glow of the day boy, she could no longer deprive herself the sight. All the little life she had seemed to come from him, and him from her. If he were to move, she might move; so if he left, would she, too, leave? For if she were to be apart from him, she did not know how she could stagger through darkness again, having known the splendor of the day.
For indeed, where he gaped, she rose, and where she faltered, he gleamed; and when darkness fell around them, they staggered slowly forward, illuminated in the sharedness of their sight.
2002
"Ouch," Harry said loudly, hissing through his teeth as she applied the Dittany to his back. "Fuckers."
"Sit still," she told him, attempting to concentrate. The wound was deep and there wasn't enough Dittany to cover the extent of the damage they'd both suffered; she was having to alternately drip the potion and use her wand stitch up the wound, using a spell she wasn't totally convinced would work for human skin. It was a repairing spell Molly had taught her for dressing up old throw pillows, but she figured it couldn't have been worse than muggle stitches. Magic, at least, was sterile.
"What's back there?" Harry asked sullenly, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Glass?"
"A bit," Hermione confirmed, hoping she'd gotten out the biggest shards. She ran her finger over his skin, testing for roughness; her glance shifted to the phoenix tattoo on his back and she sighed.
"What's it doing?" Harry asked quietly. "Dead, is it?"
"Worse," Hermione remarked, grimacing as the wings of the rampant phoenix shimmered in the dim light of their makeshift camp. "I think it's preening."
"Optimism," Harry scoffed. "Intolerable."
"Sort of your thing, though," Hermione reminded him. "It knows better than to assume you're out just because you're down."
"It's a tattoo," Harry retorted miserably. "It doesn't know anything." Despite this, he twisted uncomfortably to look at her. "Let me see yours."
She put down her wand and turned, nudging the tattered sleeve from her shoulder. "Dead, is it?" she asked faintly, echoing his phrasing. It was something they always asked each other, though she wasn't sure what she would do if either of them ever said yes.
"No," Harry said quietly, running his fingers over it.
"Preening?" she asked, half-jokingly.
"Not really," he said, frowning. "It looks a bit . . . disheveled."
"Ah, imminent death," Hermione concluded grumpily. "Excellent."
She shrugged the remains of what was once a garment back over her shoulder, trying not to let herself look as discouraged as she felt. She rubbed her eyes wearily, knowing she should begin work on her own cuts and bruises.
They'd been planning the raid on the Ministry for months; it had been their last chance, though nobody wanted to say so out loud. There was no setting of two traps, no luring twice; Voldemort made mistakes, but he was far from stupid. If it had failed - if they had failed -
She sighed. If only success and failure had more distinctive qualities to them.
"I can't work out if I should be pleased with how it went," Hermione began slowly, eyeing a nasty cut on her arm. "I mean, I'm not, obviously - "
" - but weighing the scales," Harry agreed. "He had more losses than we did."
"Today, anyway," Hermione said quietly. "Overall - "
"Overall, he's taken far more." Harry removed his glasses, rubbing exhaustion from his eyes. "Much more."
They thought of Ron, of course. They always did, and they bowed their heads in the midst of their melancholy and suffered in silence. It was times like these that Hermione would faintly recall days when she'd been younger, when things had gone wrong and she had still known what to say; when sentences could still hold comfort because their problems could still be defined, and still outnumbered by their better moments. Of course, of all the things they'd lost, the luxury of having words seemed the least of it.
She wondered sometimes why she even bothered to remember.
"I saw Luna catch one of the other portkeys," Hermione managed after a moment, knowing he would be wondering. "She's safe."
Harry grimaced, unimpressed.
"You're only guessing that she's safe," he countered bitterly. "You have no idea. You don't know if anyone else could have found our safehouses, or intercepted the portkeys - "
"I am choosing to believe that she's safe," Hermione corrected carefully. She nudged him, playfully trying to shake the worried crease from his brow. "She always lands on her feet, doesn't she?"
"True," Harry conceded with a sigh, a flicker of a smile illuminating his face. "I do tend to forget how many things she's survived."
"She made it through a bad year at Hogwarts," Hermione agreed, ticking the instances off on her fingers. "Followed by captivity with Ollivander. Then when she went to rescue her father - "
"The foxfire," Harry said with a laugh, shaking his head. "I always forget that."
" - and then she made herself bait for you and still survived," Hermione reminded him. "So I think we can assume she could fight her way out of anything, including whatever might have been waiting for her after taking the portkey."
"Still," Harry sighed. "I'd feel better if I knew there was something I could do."
"Of course you do," Hermione assured him, scooting closer and resting her chin against his shoulder. "You love her."
"And I was there for all the other things, you know?" he said, wincing as he shifted to lean back against her, all sore muscles and injured parts. "I know she can fend for herself, but - "
"You'll have to just trust her this time," Hermione said sadly, wrapping her arms around his waist and wishing she could absorb his worry.
He nodded, but said nothing. For a moment they simply stared out into the night, wondering about their loved ones and how long it would be before they saw them again. They'd all been separated enough times to know it could be days, or months.
Or years.
"What about you?" Harry asked, tilting his head to look at her. "Are you worried about Bill?"
She shook her head. "No," she choked out, and the word on her tongue was so bitter she almost drew back from the taste of it. "He'll be fine on his own."
He doesn't need me.
There was a cool breeze that swirled around her and she shivered, though Harry didn't seem to notice. Hermione turned slowly, squinting at a hazy silvery figure behind them that approached, blonde hair glinting as it came to rest beside them.
"Oh," she heard the figure say. "That's not really what you meant, though, was it?"
Hermione looked up sharply. "Luna?" she asked, blinking. "But you're not - you weren't - "
"No, I wasn't here for this," Luna replied with a cheerful shrug. "Thank you for your comforting words, though, Hermione. I do always land on my feet."
Luna beamed at her, and Hermione gaped back; Harry, seemingly, was not part of this interaction, and he seemed frozen in time as Luna reached out for her.
"But," Hermione sputtered, her hand limp as Luna took it, "why are you - "
"You know I'm an advocate for truth, Hermione," Luna said, taking a seat beside her without dropping her grip on her fingers.
Hermione scowled. "No you aren't," she sniffed, retracting her hand. "You once tricked me into reviving you from your own exploding foxfire!"
"Well, inner truth, then," Luna amended happily. "I feel it's often best to indulge in a bit of self-exploration, don't you?"
"I - " Hermione began, then stopped, sighing in resignation. "What is it you want me to explore?" she asked skeptically.
"Why you lied, for one thing," Luna said, patting her shoulder comfortingly.
"About Bill?" Hermione scoffed. "That wasn't a lie. I knew he'd be fine without me."
"No," Luna said, teetering on patronizing in the unfazed timbre of her patience. "Why didn't you tell Harry about the last thing you saw of Bill?"
"I - " Hermione faltered. "I didn't - "
She broke off, seeing the memory swim in the forefront of her mind. She'd been crouching at the base of the shattered statue in the Atrium, ducked behind the black stone; how ironic, she thought, fighting a mirthless laugh. For all that the concept had sought to destroy her, she may have been saved by the carved words MAGIC IS MIGHT.
She closed her eyes, thinking back. Harry had been running, sprinting from the elevators - Hermione, now! - and she'd reached out, grabbing his hand, half-pulled behind him as they leapt for the closing fireplace -
Before that, she told herself; before that, she'd been looking at Bill -
His hair was falling into his face and he looked exhausted, nearly swaying, his feet planted unstably amidst the rubble -
She thought to reach for him, to call for him, but something -
Something in his eyes had stopped her; something had made her follow the arc of his gaze, to see his opponent, to see that she had been unmasked -
She had been unmasked -
Her brown eyes were glassy and vacant and her wild red hair had come loose, cascading down her back and falling around her shoulders -
No, but it couldn't be - across the room, Bill staggered in disbelief -
Hermione, now!
She glanced up - Harry! - and when she looked back, Bill was gone, and so was -
She opened her eyes, gasping.
"I couldn't tell him," she croaked, struggling to breathe. I couldn't tell him what I'd seen.
"Why not?" Luna pressed. "Why couldn't you?"
"How could I have told him?" Hermione echoed, turning furiously to face her. "If he'd known what happened - if he'd known, he would have blamed himself - "
"Are you certain that's why you didn't tell him?" Luna asked, sounding as though she still didn't believe it. "No other reason?"
"Like what?" Hermione tried to ask, but the question issued itself as a challenge. Tell me!
"Like maybe you thought it was your fault Ginny Weasley was under the Imperius curse," Luna whispered regretfully, her bright eyes wide with pain.
2005 (Present)
He woke to her muttering in her sleep and shaking.
"Granger," he said, reaching over to pull her closer. "Granger, wake up."
"No," she was saying, "no, no, I didn't - "
"Granger," he said again, "look at me - "
She turned suddenly, her eyelids snapping open; her panicked gaze fixed on his as her eyes widened in nightmarish confusion.
"Hey," he murmured, trying to coax some form of gentleness from his voice. "You're okay. It's just a dream."
"It's not," she said fearfully, "it's not a dream - "
"It is," he assured her, easing her onto her side and smoothing her wild hair from her face. "It's a dream."
Her breathing slowly normalized; he kept whispering to her. "You're here," he said. "You're safe."
"Am I?" she rasped quietly, resting her shaking fingers against his cheek. They were cold and hesitant and still entirely foreign.
He opened his mouth to respond - of course, of course you're safe with me - and swallowed his response, knowing better than to make promises he couldn't keep.
She seemed to understand this, that he couldn't offer her much of anything, which somehow made things worse; I'm not what you think, he wanted to tell her, I swear, I'm not what you think I am - but this, too, he wasn't sure was true, and so he said nothing, smoothing a curl behind her ear.
"Granger," he attempted, "I - "
But then there was a loud rapping sound from downstairs, and they both sat up with a jolt; he squeezed her hand reassuringly, reaching down to press against the insufferable ache at his side.
"Wait here," he said quietly, struggling to his feet and passing his wand over his wrinkled clothes. He made a point not to look if she was watching; he couldn't stand to see the glimmer reappear in her eye. You don't know what she's made of.
He didn't need the reminder.
There were only a few people it could be, and as he padded uncomfortably down the stairs, the knocking grew more insistent, which did away with any potential doubt. He reached the door and cracked it open, shaking his head.
"You know, when you first mentioned the whole portkey-in-the-mailbox thing, I really wasn't convinced you had any concept of practicality," Theo announced lazily. "But now that my Floo movements are being tracked, I'm starting to think you've got a decent head on those pretty shoulders."
"Oh good," Draco sighed. "You're here."
"Yes," Theo agreed, brushing past him. "Congratulations, I'm here."
"Please, come in," Draco muttered, shutting the door and promptly barreling into where Theo stood, not having budged.
"Fuck, I thought you'd gone further inside like a normal person," Draco remarked, wincing through the subsequent pain that radiated from his side. He frowned, noting that Theo's green eyes were appraising him sharply. "What are you looking at?"
Theo made a face, crossing his arms over his chest. "What did you do?"
"I made the mistake of opening the front door, that's what," Draco snapped, still clutching the half-healed wound. "What the fuck is this?"
"Theo Nott, Capital Observationist," Theo provided, bowing slightly. "Now," he added, waving a hand ambiguously at Draco's face. "What did you do? You've got guilt smacked all over you."
"Speaking of smacked," Draco retorted, swatting at Theo's hand with a grimace. "I've an idea - "
"Me first," Theo grunted. "What happened? Did something happen? Did you - " he frowned. "Did you not listen to me?"
"I make a point of not listening to you every day," Draco said loftily, offering him a little shove to force him towards the study. "I find it does wonders for my health."
"Well then let me open with fuck you, obviously," Theo began, nodding as he walked.
"Obviously," Draco agreed, falling in step beside him. "And?"
"And as a secondary point, what the fuck?" Theo continued, pausing to glare at him. "Did I not tell you to be careful with Granger?"
"What makes you think I haven't been?" Draco countered, feigning outrage. "Capital Observationist maybe, omniscient certainly not - "
"What did you do?" Theo insisted. "Did you fuck her?"
"Wh- fuck, Theo!" Draco protested, backhanding him weakly in the gut.
"If you could see your face right now, you'd assume the same fucking thing," Theo informed him. "You're as transparent as a - "
"Do not give me a metaphor," Draco interrupted, throwing himself in his desk chair and flinching. "None of your metaphors."
"Fine," Theo sniffed. "But I hope it keeps you up at night wondering what it might have been," he added, jabbing a finger into the wood to punctuate the point, "as it was going to be poignant as all hell, Draco Malfoy."
"Believe me, that will not be the thing that keeps me up," Draco said wearily, reaching up to rub his forehead. At the widening of Theo's eyes, he sighed in exasperation. "Not like that - "
"Oh really?" Theo asked skeptically, sinking into the chair and crossing his arms. "Like what, then?"
"I was up late last night," Draco murmured, and held up a hand as Theo's mouth opened. "No. Stop."
Theo mimed zipping his lips shut, shrugging, though the smirk that had replaced his inevitable retort certainly spoke volumes on its own.
"I went to my father's house last night," Draco explained, and Theo frowned.
"Your father's house?" he echoed dubiously. "You've never called it that before."
"It's a new era, Theodore," Draco said with a grimace, pompously waving his hand. "One in which my father teeters on the edge of casting me to the fucking wolves."
"That bad?" Theo asked, leaning forward with genuine concern. "Have you thought more about what you'll do, then?" he pressed. "If and when you find Potter," he clarified, though no clarification had been necessary. Draco suppressed a loud scoff at the inanity of the question.
"Have I thought about it?" Draco poised facetiously, letting out a false, barking laugh. "No, Theo, I haven't," he declared, "and I sleep like a fucking baby at night!"
Theo paused, scowling. "Your sarcasm is not my favorite of your talents," he warned after a moment, pursing his lips in displeasure.
"What impresses you, then?" Draco prompted irritably. "My stunning ability to emote?"
"Off the cuff, I'd say you're a fair hand at chess," Theo provided, "and you've got a lovely warble when you're in the shower - "
Draco rolled his eyes. "Does this mean you don't want to know why I went there?" he interjected.
"Ah, no," Theo remarked, shrugging in concession. "Tell me."
"I was looking through Hogwarts: A History and I found something," Draco continued, hoping Theo would know. "Have you ever heard of the castle providing a portkey to one of the other wizarding schools?"
Theo paused, looking thoughtful. "I think I remember it in the text," he agreed slowly. "Something about a troll?"
Draco nodded. "A 'vicious argument,' I believe it was."
"More vicious than a war?" Theo asked, frowning. "Where the fuck was our portkey?"
"That's what I'm - " Draco threw a hand up emphatically, nodding his vehement agreement. "That's exactly what I said. Or, well, thought," he corrected, shaking his head. "Anyway."
"You think there was one?" Theo prompted. "A portkey, I mean."
"I can't imagine what kind of failure as a sentient castle Hogwarts would be if it did not present one at some point while it was being fucking blown to bits," Draco offered sourly. "And at least one person is unaccounted for."
"And you think it might be the one person you need," Theo said, half laughing at the thought. "You think the Divination centaur might have gotten one?"
"He couldn't have gone back to the forest," Draco pointed out. "Nobody saw him leave the castle, and he's not among those rounded up afterwards."
"So what, there's a chance he's in France or . . . Bulgaria?" Theo guessed.
"Krum's Bulgarian," Draco corrected. "Durmstrang itself is unplottable, so it could be - " he trailed off, shrugging. "Anywhere, I guess."
"Oh, good," Theo said, throwing his hands up. "Excellent. Fucking magnificent."
"Welcome to the struggle," Draco said, reaching up to put his hands behind his head and flinching. "Ouch," he muttered, bringing his hands down. "Add in a flesh wound, and then welcome to the struggle, I guess."
"No," Theo determined, making a face.
"Fair," Draco permitted. "But in any case," he continued, refocusing, "he's a centaur. He had to have gone somewhere - you know. Wooded."
"Right," Theo said slowly. "So we're looking for a wooded area somewhere in Europe."
He paused, one brow lifted. Good fucking idea, Draco.
"It can't be that complicated," Draco argued. "And anyway, wasn't this your idea?" he demanded, sitting up. "Weren't you all 'it's fucking foretold,' and 'it's a quest - "
"Fine, fine," Theo grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Get a map, then," he instructed, frowning at Draco. "And some - I don't know, books!"
"I'll tell you one thing," Draco muttered, watching as Theo abruptly stood to examine his shelves. "You're more Granger than Granger right now."
"That's who we need, you know," Theo called back, squinting at the various titles. "Granger is exactly the piece we're missing here."
"Mm," Draco replied incoherently, thinking of her pressed against his chest, her fingers smoothing over the curve of his shoulder.
"Not to worry," Theo grunted, letting half a dozen books fall to the desk with a resounding thud. "I can swot with the best of them," he declared, grinning as he cracked open a dusty page and coughed.
Hermione heard footsteps approaching behind her and felt her chest tighten.
"I know I should have told him about you," she said, her eyes still closed.
"No," Ginny sighed, taking a seat beside her. "I think you were right not to. He'd have gone mad," she added, smiling a little. "You're lucky you didn't go mad yourself."
Hermione cracked one eyelid. "Didn't I?" she prompted, purposefully scanning the other witch's presence.
"I'm not the person to talk to about sanity," Ginny said indifferently. "Try Luna," she added, grinning.
Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "Right."
They sat together quietly for a while, looking over the camp. In reality, at the height of their time there, Hermione had been far too busy to sit idle like this. More likely she would have been found inside one of the tents, settling disputes or handling crises, not realizing how precious that time would end up being, or that she'd later spend two years on the run, consumed with guilt and regret and a paralyzing lack of certainty as to the fate of her friends.
At least she had Harry then. Now what did she have?
"You're not alone, you know," Ginny reminded her.
"I am in every way that counts," Hermione sighed. "Aren't I?"
Ginny looked like she might argue, but thought better of it; instead she paused, tilting her head thoughtfully.
"Why do you think it was your fault?" she asked. "What happened to me, I mean. Why do you blame yourself?"
Hermione immediately felt a weight sink in her stomach, wondering how to put every shred of her many tattered regrets in the form of a sentence; she strained for how to express it with words, struggling not to surrender to incomprehensible screams of fury.
"I shouldn't have let you leave," Hermione finally gritted out, swallowing a battalion of threatening tears. "I should have made you stay in our camp, I shouldn't have listened to you - I should have known you were safer with us - "
"Voldemort was threatening my parents," Ginny reminded her, seemingly indifferent. "My family."
"Still," Hermione choked out, "still, we could have - "
"You could have what?" Ginny countered crossly. "You could have tied me to a tree? Could have petrified me?" She looked pointedly at Hermione. "Imperiused me, maybe?"
"Don't," Hermione said sharply. "Don't say that."
"You couldn't have made me stay," Ginny argued, her volume rising. "There was no way."
"We could have hidden your parents," Hermione said, shutting her eyes again. "We could have done something, gotten them out - "
"And gone where?" Ginny reminded her. "Nowhere. Grimmauld was out, The Burrow was watched, Merlin knows Shell Cottage didn't keep Fleur safe - "
"They could have come with us!" Hermione said frantically, flailing. "They could have - "
"What, run? At their age?" Ginny shook her head. "Once Voldemort was looking for me, there was no safe place for them anymore."
"He was looking for Bill, too," Hermione ventured faintly. And Harry.
"Not the way he was looking for me," Ginny sighed. "You know that."
It was a losing battle. "But - "
"He watched me while I was at Hogwarts and I would have eventually gotten too hard to hide," Ginny determined with a grimace. "Failing to surface for the month I was with you was one thing," she added, shaking her head. "Any longer than that - "
She trailed off, and Hermione bit her lip, waiting.
"I wasn't going to take a chance when my parents were threatened," Ginny said sadly, and Hermione nodded, spent of any remaining argument.
"He knew me," Ginny added hoarsely. "He knew my magic, you know?"
"He'd used it," Hermione agreed, the scholar in her rearing its head to acknowledge the intellectual value of the point. As with everything else, she'd read about it. "He could learn to recognize the footprint, so to speak."
"He would have found me," Ginny said. "He could have found me if I didn't go back."
Hermione hesitated, an inadvisable question forming in her mind; she fought it, but eventually the words slipped out.
"He still got you though, didn't he?"
Ginny turned her head slowly, looking sorrowfully at Hermione. She looked mournful and frightened, and Hermione ached.
"You don't know," Ginny reminded her, her brown eyes fixing intently on Hermione's. "You don't know for sure, and that's why you couldn't tell Harry."
Hermione bent her head, shattered. "You're right," she admitted. "I don't know, and I - "
Ginny stood, turning to leave.
"Wait," Hermione cried desperately, scrambling to her feet. "Wait, but - "
"You're not alone, you know," Ginny reminded her, touching her cheek and smiling.
"Alright," Theo announced. "I know this will seem like a superficial point, but I'm ready to rule out Scandinavia."
"On what fucking basis?" Draco asked, squinting at the text before him. Some suspect Durmstrang Institute to be located in the northernmost region of Sweden, due to high levels of magical occurrences in the area that cannot reasonably be attributed to any natural features of the land.
"On the basis of fucking shirtlessness," Theo reminded him, gesturing to his own chest. "It's cold. You think he wore a fucking sweater?"
In spite of the absurdity of the question, Draco paused. "I guess it wouldn't be his preferred climate," he muttered.
"I'm going to look at France again," Theo declared, shoving Draco's book over to open one he'd already scoured. "Too bad we can't just ask someone who went to Beauxbatons," he added, muttering to himself.
"What happened to what's-her-face?" Draco asked, looking up and frowning. "The Triwizard champion?"
Theo raised his head.
"You did not forget Fleur Delacour's name," he said slowly, flashing Draco a doubtful smirk as he shook his head. "Nobody could forget her."
Fair, Draco acknowledged, recalling her inexplicable appeal.
"She was part Veela," Draco grumbled, shrugging. "That's cheating."
"Regardless, she's dead," Theo reminded him bluntly. "It was a whole fucking mess, remember?"
Draco squinted into nothing for a moment, trying to recall. "Did she marry a Weasley?"
"The oldest one," Theo confirmed, nodding. "Then Macnair killed her - "
Ah, right -
" - and Weasley killed Macnair," Draco suddenly remembered. "Fuck, how did I forget that?"
"I have no idea," Theo reminded him. "Thank fucking Salazar that Bill Weasley killed Macnair," he added, mumbling under his breath. "Otherwise they wouldn't have believed a Weasley capable of killing." He looked pointedly at Draco, who heard the underlying message: otherwise we'd never have gotten away with what we did. "And Macnair was no handful of sunshine to begin with."
Draco looked up abruptly, something in his memory suddenly jabbing at his attention.
It was Granger's voice. He stole into the cabin in the woods, and ate up the maid's dear love, sparing no word, nor a breath of contrition. Then the wolf sat in wait, his true prize yet to be devoured.
"Wait," Draco said breathlessly, "what happened, again? With Macnair?"
Theo tilted his head thoughtfully, straining to remember. "He was sent after the Weasley," Theo said after a moment. "I was there when he got the assignment. I think he killed her first, and then the Weasley came home - "
"Fuck," Draco shouted. "Fuck me, that's - that's the wolf story - "
"What?" Theo asked, but Draco held up a hand, still processing.
"Wait, hold on - "
But the spirit of the wolf entered her, and the maid grew withdrawn, and enflamed with contempt; and in her loss, she turned her life to the hunt, her heart cold as ice in her chest -
She had looked so sad when she said it; more than sad.
Broken.
This is a woman, and someone made her cold.
"Fuck," Draco swore again. "Fuck, that could mean - "
"Um," Theo interrupted, nudging him. "Draco."
"What?" Draco demanded. "I'm coming to a fucking conclusion here - "
"Draco," Theo said sharply, nodding at the doorway, and at the crispness of his tone, Draco consented to yield his attention.
He looked up, catching Granger's silhouette and choking.
"Oh," he started, "I - fuck, I forgot - "
Forgot what? he demanded internally. That you said you'd be right back? That she lives here too? That she's probably hungry, you stupid fucking piece of -
"What's this?" she asked quietly, her eyes flicking over the books that were strewn around the office. Her gaze traveled first to the map he'd conjured where it was levitating in the center of the room, marked to triangulate the possible locations; then she looked slowly from him to Theo, and then back to him.
She wasn't looking him in the eye; her attention was elsewhere, focused on something, but she was waiting for an answer and he was floundering -
"I - " he began, and then withered. What can you say? he asked himself furiously. What answer can you possibly give?
"What's up?" Theo offered Granger casually, and a flicker of panic swept over her face as she backed away, disappearing from sight and then, from the sound of it, retreating to her bedroom.
"Cool," Theo determined with a nod. "I'd say that went well."
"Shit," Draco sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
"Do you think it was my attire she found displeasing, or my accessories?" Theo drawled, gesturing to his bared wrist. Draco noted that his own Mark, too, was showing, his sleeve pushed carelessly over his forearm as he worked.
He frowned. "Was she - "
"Staring at our Dark Marks? Yes," Theo informed him curtly. "With certainty."
"Well, fuck," Draco exhaled. "I'm guessing this didn't look good, then."
"Are you trying to look good?" Theo prompted, raising one eyebrow. "That seems generally fruitless."
"What does that fucking mean?" Draco demanded, growling in frustration.
"Well, it looks like what it is," Theo reminded him. "A Death Eater going about his business. Or have you forgotten what you are?"
For a moment, Draco was astounded.
"That's not fucking fair," he hissed. "You know it's not - "
"I know it's not," Theo agreed, in his detestable, obnoxiously over-informed way. "But the reality is that you work for the Dark Lord and her fucking life - and yours," he added vehemently, "are completely dependent on what the fuck you do next."
Draco stared at him, registering the truth of the statement; Theo, in return, looked half apologetic, half effortlessly smug.
"Go home," Draco suggested weakly, and Theo shrugged.
"Like I said," he sighed. "I'd say that went well."
She didn't know what possessed her to go downstairs. Maybe she'd dozed off and then woken up by herself, and maybe she'd felt cold and vacant and let Ginny's murmur of you're not alone, you know nudge her to leave the room. Maybe she'd felt restless. Maybe she was curious.
Maybe it was the familiar sound of books thudding on the table; she hadn't heard it in so long, and then her feet were moving of their own accord.
What a silly thing to miss; books. What a foolish strike of whimsy, considering the life she'd lived. She could slap herself for her own stupidity, only it still might not sting as much.
She waited for Harry to show up, to demand clarity; or Bill, even, to say something, anything -
When you are adding the sum of his parts, don't you dare discount the brand of hatred he let them burn into his arm -
Maybe not Bill. She pushed the visual of Draco's Mark out of her thoughts, squeezing her eyes shut.
Shower, she thought, recalling that it might feel better to settle herself under water. She angled herself toward the bathroom and walked, trying to force Ginny's sad smile out of her mind.
She started the tap and slipped inside, letting her hair soak, planning to stay until she was wrinkled and unsubstantial, until maybe she withered away into the folds of her own skin.
She was tired. She felt exhaustion in her bones, weighing heavy on her soul, and for all that she had to carry she somehow managed to feel emptied. Emptied of meaning, devoid of hope. Gaping with misery.
Cut open and bleeding with mourning and suffering and guilt, and the drops that clung to her lips stung with the bitterness of not knowing, the sour flavor of wondering, precisely as Ginny had said.
You don't know. You don't know for sure.
It had been hard enough to put Ron behind her, to settle him gently in her past; and now, with everyone who remained an unanswered question - and the man downstairs who she ached to trust but couldn't -
Don't you dare discount the brand of hatred he let them burn into his arm -
She realized she was sobbing as the water shut off; a towel gently draped itself over her shoulders and then arms wrapped around her, and she leaned against his chest, thinking he could crush her in his grasp and hoping he would do it.
You're here. You're safe.
He said nothing; just held her. Her tears got worse, at first; they shook her lungs and she convulsed in his arms, doubling over and fighting for breath, each one cruel and sharp and taunting.
But he didn't let go, and slowly she calmed, wheezing until she could swallow, pressing her hands to her swollen eyelids and inhaling with him, steadied by the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding against her spine.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he murmured in her ear. "I really don't."
She said nothing.
"I can't tell you what I'm working on," he said, then paused. "Yet. Not yet." He took a breath, and so did she. "But I can tell you that I won't hurt you," he whispered solemnly, and she heard a vigor in his voice that she hadn't heard before; like thunder. Like lightning.
A strike of certainty, and a promise.
"Can you accept that?" he asked. Can you accept me?
She turned slowly to meet his eye.
He swallowed, breathing hard.
"Once," she said, and he closed his eyes with relief, "there was a young girl, the youngest of seven children, who possessed a rare and magnificent beauty."
Seven children, he thought vaguely. Fuck, that sounds like -
He cut himself off. Just listen.
"She, the most lovely, and the purest of heart, was beloved by her father, and when he asked his children if there was anything in the world that they desired of him, he always found her requests the hardest to refuse."
"But Beauty's father was no wealthy man," she said, "and in lieu of lavish gifts of pearls and jewels, all he could find to bring his daughter was a single rose; an object that seemed, to him, full of splendor in its simplicity, in the delicacy of its perfect cover. In his wish to gift his daughter - who was joyous indeed at her prize," she added, "he failed to see that the rose he had so carelessly plucked belonged, in fact, to a terrible beast, whose selfishness had turned him wretched, and who wished ownership of the one who now possessed his rose."
Seven children, he repeated to himself, and the father not a wealthy man -
If ever a family had been cursed, he sighed, running his thumb along her cheek, surely it was the Weasleys.
"The beast searched to find the possessor of his rose, scouring the land with his magic mirror; and when he found her, as punishment for her possession - and out of fascination with the beauty of her, for she was fair of face and pure of soul - he wished to lay claim to her, and sought to strike a bargain with her father. And while Beauty's father was no unclever man, and though he saw the beast for what it was, he was without leverage, and with many a debt to be paid; and so when the beast came for Beauty, neither her father nor any of her brothers could prevent her captivity."
Granger swallowed, fighting tears again; she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.
"But while Beauty had held the rose, she had dreamt for weeks of a handsome prince," she continued quietly. "A man whose body and soul had once been as lovely as her own, or so she thought. She filled her confinement with her thoughts of the handsome prince until he had invaded her mind, and she slowly succumbed to the beast's will, thinking him the prince's captor, searching and scouring, but never finding the handsome figure of her dreams."
"What Beauty did not know was that the beast and the prince were the same," she rasped, "for beauty can be a tricky thing, and demands a heavy price for its coaxing - "
She broke off abruptly and he pulled her in closer, resting his cheek against the dampness of her hair. He thought of the wolf story that he only now understood, and of the many others she had told him, and realized that each one must have held immeasurable pain. For a moment, he realized how little he knew - of her, and of her world - and marveled that she bore it for him, night after night, for a purpose that neither of them knew or understood. For as much it kept her alive it must have killed her - be killing her - but she couldn't stop, and neither could he.
Her breathing timed itself to his and he set his chin on top of her head, thinking of the phoenix tattoo on her back; he hadn't meant to look but the thing was in motion, its wings beating relentlessly, radiant and glinting beneath the falling drops.
I will rise, I will rise -
He closed his eyes.
Yes, she'd said, we always rise.
She glanced up, catching a tuft of black hair.
"You know who we should talk about?" Harry ventured. "Zacharias Smith."
She closed her eyes. Not now.
"I agree," Harry said with a shudder. "That bloke's a wart."
She leaned into Draco and sighed.
For indeed, where he gaped, she rose, and where she faltered, he gleamed; and when darkness fell around them, they staggered slowly forward, illuminated in the sharedness of their sight.
a/n: Inspired by La Belle et la BĂȘte by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, known more commonly around these parts as Beauty and the Beast.
How many chapters? Uncertain. At least 30.
Dedicated to tenderheartinablender; I am grateful for (and blushing over) your vote of confidence.
