AUTHOR'S NOTE
It's been a long time since I last updated, I know! I promise you I'm not abandoning this story, I just ran into a bit of writer's block. This chapter is by far the most difficult one I've ever had to write and you'll see why. I apologize if the aforementioned reason why this took me so long is underwhelming (you'll know what part I'm talking about once you've finished the chapter). I really tried!
As for the plot development in the last chapter, there's a strategic reason why Harry and Ron left separately at Malfoy Manor instead of going back to Grimmauld Place (you'll see why!). Other than that there's not much else to say...so read and review lovelies!
Disclaimer: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!
Happy reading!
JJ
CHAPTER TWELVE
RESTLESS
"A dream has power to poison sleep."
Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Mutability"
He stood in the bathroom and stared at the pale, listless face in front of him. The dark circles under his eyes made them looked sunken and empty. His skin was sallow and devoid of any warmth and his mouth was fixed in a hard line. He hadn't slept in days.
Every night he was consumed by dreams of Grimmauld Place. Granger was in every single one.
His dreams they were hardly cause for sleepless nights. They were completely ordinary, mundane in the extreme, but they had a nightmarish quality he couldn't shake. He could've forgotten them entirely had they not been so frighteningly vivid. It was more than a visual experience. In his dreams he could smell her perfume and he could feel her skin on his. It wasn't as if he were some omniscient observer. He was in them, he could feel his body. Dreams, those surreal and fragmentary glimpses into your unconscious, had become sensory experiences that were all too real.
He also had dreams of them together. They were unwarranted and disturbing. In every dream he was so far from himself he seemed unrecognizable. If she fell asleep on the couch he covered her with a blanket or carried her to a bed they shared. When she was hurt he took the trouble to soak a cloth in warm water and wipe away the blood. If she was cooking he came up behind her and and kissed her neck. When he took her to bed he pressed his lips to every inch of her body, he covered her petite frame with his and, for a single moment, lost himself in a warm, inviting delirium.
It started a few days after the incident at Malfoy Manor. At first he chalked it up to stress but the dreams persisted. Every night, like clockwork, he would succumb to sleep out of exhaustion and the scenes of everyday life would bombard him and overwhelm his senses. His latest dream looked like any ordinary morning at Grimmauld Place. He could hear the stairs groan as Hermione made her way to the kitchen. As she walked past he could smell the shampoo she used that morning. It was something floral. When she spoke her voice was soft and feminine, exactly what he thought a woman's voice should sound like. He didn't reply and she proceeded to move about the kitchen. The open and close of different drawers and cabinets was rhythmic and soothing in its familiarity. Under his thumb he could feel the coarse newsprint and smell the tangy odour of ink. He read the paper and skimmed the names on a long list. The silence was interrupted when she knocked over a bottle of milk and cleaned it up with a kitchen cloth. When she finished with that the front door opened and Lupin walked into the kitchen.
And then he opened his eyes to a flat, black ceiling. If he hadn't woken up he wouldn't have been able to discern that he'd been dreaming at all. Everything was too real to him to be just a dream.
He was drenched in a cold sweat, shaking in the cool room. Nothing particularly frightening or horrid had happened yet he could not shake the strange, unsettling feeling that clung to him like his damp shirt. The rest of the night was spent in tossing and turning. He couldn't figure out if it was an inability to fall back asleep or an unwillingness to that kept him up until the early hours of morning. As the sun began to rise and he could see the shape of his dresser and his desk became visible in the dark he could no longer lay in bed. He threw off the covers and pulled on a tired, worn out jumper. The sleeves were stretched out of shape and the fabric was thin. He sauntered to the bathroom and listened to the stillness of the house.
And now he standing in the bathroom, looking back at the stranger that glared at him through tired eyes. He turned the faucet on and splashed his face with cold water. He looked back up at himself as though expecting a change. He looked just the same only now his blonde hair was plastered to his forehead and beads of water ran down the straight line of his nose, curling over his lips and along the curve of his high cheekbones. He sighed and dried his face with the sleeve of his jumper. As he made his way downstairs he skipped the last step. It would let out a horrendous creaky whine if he stepped on it, one that would surely disrupt the perfect silence of the house. Grimmauld became King's Cross during the day. People were in and out all day and he wanted to hold onto any quiet, any calm he could salvage before the floodgates opened.
He still didn't know how to make coffee but tea would suffice. Much for her own amusement Granger had finally taught him how to put the kettle on. Not only did she love lording her superior knowledge of the crass muggle lifestyle over him she loved to see him so far removed from his element. Snatching up the paper he took his usual seat. The Prophet did nothing but perpetuate fear and madness. If Potter wasn't being accused of some crime or another there was an article on the initiative to strip undeserving muggleborns of their magic, to purify and cleanse, to protect those family whose magic was their birthright. The Death Eaters had successfully weaseled their way into the offices, whether by coercion or bribery, and taken over. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting at the table before Granger walked in.
She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater. She looked no different than she did any other day. That should have made him feel better about the wave of deja-vu that overwhelmed him but it didn't. She looked up and caught him staring at her.
"How's your hand?" she'd asked.
Pleasantries were something rarely exchanged between them for fear of being too comfortable with the other. They reserved their conversation to topics of necessity rather than leisure.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to shake the illusory nagging feeling in the back of his mind. "Sore," he told her.
"I thought it might be. You just need to relax and give it time to heal."
He didn't ask about her neck but he could see the ugly green and yellow spots from where he sat. It was a huge improvement from the mottled shade of red and purple it had been in the days after the incident. Day after day it faded, though. Soon they would be gone and he could try to forget the violent wave of anger that washed over him every time he saw her marred skin. Shaking his head he held the paper up in front of his face, effectively blocking his view of her and creating a physical divide between them.
For whatever reason she was putting him off more than usual. Although it was pointless considering how often their paths crossed Draco still clung to the the mantra 'out of sight, out of mind,' repeating it over and over again in the hopes she would become a peripheral thought rather than the only thought he had at all.
He scanned the pages with no real interest until a list caught his eye. There was one boldface word written above it: WANTED. Following each name there was a list of 'crimes' committed and the reward for turning in said individual to the 'authorities.' Almost everyone in the Order was listed. There were muggleborns and halfbloods listed as well, those that had presumably gone into hiding after the Ministry had been toppled. Potter was listed as enemy number one, no surprise there. But toward the bottom of the list he found his own name. Draco Malfoy.
It wasn't a surprise considering where he was and what he'd done at Malfoy Manor. The pang in the pit of his stomach wasn't shock or disbelief, it was something much more visceral. Like a physical response he was remembering, a familiar feeling, something he'd felt before.
"Do you—"
It clicked. The proverbial lightbulb flickered to life. Everything he'd felt since she'd walked in seemed like an echo of a recent past and now he knew why. He had walked into his dream but this time there was no waking up from it.
"I'm not hungry," he said, unable to take his eyes off the paper.
"I wasn't going to ask you if you where hungry," she lied, slightly irritated by his rudeness. "I was going to ask—"
"If I wanted toast," he finished. "And I said I'm not hungry."
She wanted to verbally berate him for being so unnecessarily rude but when she turned to him she stopped herself. She couldn't see his face. It was blocked by the morning edition of the Prophet but the paper was crumpled in his fists and his knuckles were white. She could see the pages shaking minutely. She walked over and peered around the wall of newsprint he'd put up around himself.
"Are you feeling alright?" she asked.
He didn't say anything and she hesitantly covered one of his fists with her hand. It was meant to be comforting because he was clearly distressed about something but the effect was the exact opposite of this. He slammed his fists down on the table, effectively wrenching his hand away from hers, let go of the newspaper and stood abruptly. The legs of the wooden chair scraped roughly against the floor, catching on the uneven stone tiles and toppling over. The pliant wooden frame bounced as it hit the floor and the hollow sound echoed in the kitchen. Hermione started and her hand hit the bottle of milk that had been sitting on the table. The bottle tumbled over and skated across the table, spilling milk everywhere.
It should've shattered on the stone floor as it fell off the table but it didn't.
The moment she hit the milk bottle he knew what was going to happen. The vague sensation of deja-vu was no longer an inclination or a feeling but a series of events he could see and predict. He reached his hand out quickly and caught the bottle before it could break on the kitchen floor.
Draco glared at her.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak.
"Don't apologize," he snapped.
She closed her mouth, her eyes wide. His anger unnerved her and she stood completely still. Draco was behaving like a madman. He was being brash and irrational and her presence alone seemed to upset him. She watched as the milk continued to drip over the side of the table and onto the floor. She considered cleaning up the spilt milk but before she could finish her thought he reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her pivot short.
"And don't even think about grabbing that ruddy dish towel."
Hermione looked back up at him, her wide-eyed expression turning sour.
"What is wrong with you?" she asked, wiggling her hand out of his grasp.
"Nothing," he lied.
"I'm just going to clean up the mess."
"Don't," he repeated. "Just stop...don't do anything."
"You're being absurd," she said.
"You always clean like a muggle," he said, his voice curt and unkind. "You're a witch, why don't you use magic?"
"How many times do I have to explain this to you?" she sighed. "Instant gratification is damaging to your personal development...that is assuming you are a person, of course."
"Right, I forgot. I'm soulless, I'm not a 'real' person."
"You haven't done anything to suggest otherwise."
"You're not serious? I saved your nitwit friends from being tortured to the point of insanity, most likely. I did the entire wizarding world a favour by keeping your precious Potter in one piece. I even gave that idiot my wand! You should be thanking me or, better yet, apologizing for your self-righteous attitude, instead of being an uptight, ungrateful—"
She shoved him before he could finish his sentence. He stumbled, slightly taken aback by her uncharacteristic brashness. He quickly recovered his surly expression, though, and glared at her.
"You're a right arsehole," she hissed. "You are perhaps the most unpleasant person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. After everything I...we've done for you, you'd think you would be able to at least pretend to be nice."
"Nice? Why would I bother to be nice to you? Everything you do is motivated by your unrealistic desire to be everyone's friend. You're the worst pretender of all. You don't want to be my friend, you just want to be well liked. And let's face it, I'm here because I'm useful but the moment I stop being of use I'd like to see what you'd do for me, Granger."
"I'd—"
"Shut up and listen," he said. "No matter how terrible I am to you, you fix me up if I'm bleeding and broken. You want me, the one person that's not convinced you're a saint, to trust you and to care about all the same pointless things you do. But that's never going to happen, Granger. And you're stuck here because you let those two idiots tell you what to do. You locked yourself up in this hovel because you want to make them happy. That oaf Longbottom could be a Secret Keeper but instead you volunteer for the job? Doesn't sound like the Granger I know because you and everyone else would be better off if you were roaming the countryside with Potter and the Weasel on their nonsense crusade to save the bleeding world. But that's not what happened, is it? Instead of being your stubborn, obnoxious self, instead of putting up a fight to do what you know was the right thing to do, you rolled over. And what did that get you? Absolutely nothing. Worse than nothing because you're stuck here with me, day in and day out. You and Potter are two of a kind, both so desperate for approval."
"There is nothing wrong with wanting everyone to be happy!"
"You are so delusional!" he shouted. "Don't you realize how skewed your idea of 'happy' is? Everyone else's happiness comes at the expense of your own! Sounds miserable, if you ask me."
"Well I'm not asking you and how would you know? You haven't taken the time to get to know me or anyone else for that matter. You've only been here a few months and all you do is complain about how horrible it is here, how horrible I am!"
"You're right. I can't stand this," he said, gesturing to her. "Because I know it's not you. At least if you're insisting on having everything your own way like the bossy know-it-all you were back at school I can admire your backbone. Now you're just...spineless. I may be unpleasant but at least I'm up front about it. I have been honest from the start. You know who I am but I have no idea who Hermione Granger is. You're about as inauthentic as they come and let me assure you, this farce you've got going on...it's not convincing, darling."
"Get out," she hissed.
"I can't. We have company," he said.
"There's no one here."
"Lupin."
Just then the front door opened.
"Hello?" a voice called.
Hermione's eyes widened.
Draco smirked. On the outside he was smug and composed but on the inside he was suffocating. The walls were closing in on him. The house itself was a prison but she was a carceral force all on her own. There was no getting away from her. She was almost always there, right in front of him. Even when he couldn't see her he could hear her. If he couldn't hear her she was on his mind. Every night he dreamt about her. Every waking thought he had somehow came back to her. She was a walking, talking contradiction and no one had ever incensed him more than her. He was overwhelmed by the desire to ruin her as well as the self-destructive need to put together the pieces that he had ruined. She put on a good show that no one seemed to see through but she wasn't fooling him. Anyone that said they were happy in the midst of all the terror and uncertainty was either an idiot or a liar. He was hell bent and determined to show her the errors of her ways just so she would come to him, broken down and spent, and need him. That was all he wanted, or needed, from her. He had a stifling, a deep and ugly desire just to be needed by someone. As it were, solitude and loneliness could instill desperation and yearning in the most hateful and offensive man.
Before Remus opened his mouth he could see past Draco into the kitchen. The room was a mess and Hermione's flushed face coincided with Draco's surly scowl. Nonetheless he offered a pleasant smile as Draco walked toward him.
"Hello, Draco."
"Lupin," he said curtly.
Draco breezed past him in the hallways and turned to the right to climb up the stairs to his illusory reprieve, his false sense of escape. No matter how many floors there were between them Hermione always managed to get under his skin. Although he was riled up and unsatisfied—a seemingly perpetual state of being for Draco—he could claim some small victory. He had shown her something she didn't want to see and she wouldn't forgive him for that. There was no way she could feign ignorance now, she had looked into the abyss.
Remus watched Draco disappear up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He turned to Hermione and watched her wince and close her eyes at the sound of a door slamming somewhere upstairs. He slowly walked into the kitchen. It was a disaster.
"Everything alright?" Remus asked.
"No," Hermione said. "It's really not."
Remus wasn't quite sure what he could say to make anything better. Their attitudes toward one another had not improved. He assumed after the events at Malfoy Manor that they would find common ground, perhaps come to an understanding, but it appeared his hopes were dashed by this latest spat between them. Hermione shook her head lightly, willing her mind to be clear of all the troubling thoughts racing through it.
"I didn't know you were stopping by," she said.
"I hadn't planned to but something's come up."
"You haven't spoken to Malfoy recently, have you?"
"No, why?"
Hermione frowned. How did he know Remus was stopping by? "No reason. You said something happened?"
"Severus has been appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts."
"What?" Hermione asked. "The school year has already started. They can't just depose Professor McGonagall."
"I hardly think the Death Eaters are concerned with decorum, Hermione."
"The Death Eaters" she repeated slowly.
Remus sighed. "It was Voldemort's doing. The Carrows have been put on the 'teaching' staff as well."
"The Carrows?"
"Yes. Amycus and Alecto."
"Why? Do they suspect Snape?"
"I don't believe so," Remus said. "I image they're there to enforce the new system. They are at Severus's disposal."
"What does this mean?"
"It means that Hogwarts is no longer safe."
"But Snape is a member of the Order. It can't be too much of a set back," she said, though the prospect was hardly reassuring.
"I'm afraid the Carrows are not the only ones Severus has to contend with. There are as many students that are Death Eaters as there are that are part of the Order. For his protection we're limiting his involvement. There are far too many eyes on him now so we must be careful."
Draco was still shut up in his room. He hadn't come out all day, not even after Remus had left. The house had been oddly silent, though. There hadn't been any visitors. On her way upstairs Hermione paused on the third floor and listened for a long time. His room was silent. She continued up the stairs to the fourth floor and without pause, without knocking, she flung open the door on the right.
The other, older Draco was on his bed. He had his arms behind his head and his ankles crossed. He didn't even flinch when she barged in. Instead he turned his head lamely to look at her.
"This is becoming something of a habit, Hermione."
"You said you wanted to change the bad things that happened, right?"
"I did," he said, proceeding with caution. "Why?"
"Snape is Headmaster and the Carrows are running Hogwarts."
"You're worried about Snape?"
Hermione thought about it.
"No. Snape is foul and cruel but he's always been faithful to Dumbledore. I'm worried what he'll have to do with the Carrows breathing down his neck, though."
"Hogwarts is the least of your concerns."
"I have friends there," she said, trying to keep her voice down.
"And they can handle themselves."
Draco could see he was upsetting her. It was a topic of conversation that quickly inflamed her temper. Friends were not always a large concern of his. When he was at school he shamelessly used people and identified them as just that, the purpose they served. He didn't seek out companionship so much as a bulwark. He acquired notoriety, infamy, and popularity from the people he associated with and unless they had something that could benefit him, they were nothing more than nameless faces. Hermione was much different. She internalized the thoughts, concerns, hopes, and aspirations of everyone she met. She cared deeply, perhaps too deeply. For the longest time it made no sense to him. There seemed to be no profit in such an expenditure. The more time he spent with her, though, the more attracted he became to her sincerity and her empathy.
"Listen to me," he said, propping himself up on his elbows. "They only have two Death Eaters to manage. I promise you they'll be fine."
"I can't sit here and do nothing," she said. "I have to help."
"Researching Horcruxes is not nothing," he assured her. "You have to keep your priorities in mind. I know it's hard considering you're here..."
"I have to do this," she insisted. "You said so yourself. You told me I was being spineless by letting people push me around—just like you're doing right now, trying to dissuade me—but I'm telling you I won't wait here idly for something terrible to happen. Not when I can keep it from ever happening at all."
Draco sighed.
"Just ignore me," he said.
Hermione looked at him, confused.
"I mean my younger, more impetuous counterpart. It shouldn't be that hard," he said, grinning. "You do it all the time."
"I was so angry with you," she confessed, walking over slowly and sitting at the foot of his bed. "When you said those things to me."
Draco didn't say anything. He watched her as she fiddled with the hem of her jumper.
"Everything you said about me was right but I dismissed it...I dismissed you."
"Why?" he asked.
She looked up at him.
"I didn't want to hear it from you of all people. I don't like to think that you somehow now me better than I know myself."
"Would it be so terrible?"
She forgot who she was talking to. It was an odd situation to say the least, confiding in Draco about Draco. They were so entirely different from one another, though. It was easy to forget.
"No, of course not. It's so difficult to think that you are what he becomes, especially after a day like today."
"Snape," she said, surprised to see the former Potions Master at the bottom of the stairs.
"Draco sent for me," he said.
Hermione assumed he meant the younger because she had been with the other Draco for a large part of the afternoon. As she was coming down the stairs she noticed the door across from hers on the third floor was open a bit but there was no light or sound coming from within. There was a warm glow coming from the study on the second floor though and she assumed that was where he was.
"Is everything alright?" she asked.
"I might ask you the same question."
"I'm sorry?" she asked.
"He seemed quite distraught."
"Well..." she started, shifting uncomfortably. For reasons she couldn't explain she suddenly felt guilty. Divulging this information wasn't betraying his trust per say but if Draco saw it that way then he deserved it. He was rude and presumptuous, and she hadn't forgiven him for his earlier behaviour.
"He hasn't been sleeping and I can hardly keep up with his violent mood swings. One day he'll be fine, polite even, and the next he's looking for reasons to cause a fight," she said.
"How long has this been going on?"
"Since the day at the manor."
Snape nodded.
"He's upstairs in the study," she said, climbing down the last few stairs to allow him access.
"Thank you," he said.
Hermione didn't linger in the entrance way but continued on her way to the kitchen. Snape briskly climbed the stairs and turned into the study. The young blonde wizard was sitting on the arm of the couch closest to the fire. Although he was seated he was anything but calm or relaxed. His heel was bouncing irritably on the carpeted floor and his eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl as he glared at the fire. It was not reassuring to see him so visibly shaken.
"You asked to see me."
The young man looked up at the sound of Snape's voice. Out of a reckless and juvenile need to speak to someone he had sent Snape an owl. He had developed an absurd theory but despite its ridiculousness Draco had to tell someone. Perhaps saying it out loud would confirm its impossibility. Regardless of whether or not he was crazy for thinking it at all, Draco was reassured by the fact that Snape would have the answers. He always did.
"Something's wrong with me," Draco said, getting to his feet and pacing in front of the fireplace.
The pleasant sound of crackling wood and the warm glow of the fire were doing nothing to calm him. All of it was luring him into a false sense of comfort when, in reality, he felt like he was slipping into an abyss without anything anchoring him to reality.
"Care to elaborate?"
How could he say it without it sounding ridiculous, even by magical standards?
"I'm having dreams..." he started.
Snape looked at him, rather unimpressed with Draco's inability to be composed. The ability to reserve emotions was seemingly innate in the aristocratic pureblood elite. Showing self-control was a hallmark of the cultured individual. Draco's appearance was in shambles and any composure he had maintained to save face in front of the Order had completely deteriorated. Snape noted his disheveled appearance. His hair was sticking up at every angle, his face showed obvious signs of exhaustion, and he was severely irritated to say the least.
"But I can't tell they're dreams when I'm in them. It's only when I wake up that I realize I've been asleep. They're so real, Severus. I can feel them, I can taste and smell them. Sometimes I think I'm beginning to lose my grip on what's real and what's a dream."
"Are they nightmares?"
Perhaps the stress of defecting from his family and the only life he'd ever known was finally catching up with him.
"No, just dreams of miserable, everyday life in this house."
Snape frowned. "I hardly see a problem, Draco."
"The things that happen in my dreams...what I see...actually happens, Severus. I wake up and everything repeats itself."
"Are you telling me that you're predicting events before they occur? That you're seeing the future?"
Draco scoffed rudely. "It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that. I'm seeing absolute rubbish! The other day I dreamt Granger was reading. Hardly a prediction of the future. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the title of the book. She was reading the exact same book, the exact same pages even. Then she asked the same thing, 'where could Helga Hufflepuff's cup possibly be?'"
"Hermione Granger?"
"Yes, of course. What other Granger do you know?" he asked.
"Did you tell her where the cup is?"
Draco looked at him. "No."
"May I ask why not?"
"Because she doesn't need to know. If I tell her she'll be in one of her miserable moods, so upset that she can't be off saving the world. Only Potter and Weasley need to know. They're actually in a position to do something about it...if they can manage to get inside Gringotts undetected. I can't imagine how they'll pull that off but one can only hope."
"It might be better if you were to include Ms. Granger in this endeavor. They have one chance I'd rather not see it squandered due to their incompetence."
"I'd rather not talk about this right now," Draco said.
Snape nodded, noting his willingness to move off this discussion.
"Is there anything else peculiar about these dreams?"
"It's Granger. She's in every single dream, every one of them. No amount of Dreamless Sleep will prevent them from happening. I stave off sleep for as long as I can but the moment I close my eyes she's always there, always talking or falling or breaking something or reading or cleaning without her wand or brushing her damn hair over her shoulder."
"Why don't you sit down, Draco," Snape said.
As he spoke his gestures become more enigmatic and his voice escalate in volume, taking on a wild, panicked tone. He was always aware of a certain animosity between them but he didn't realize how she affected him.
"Do something, Severus," Draco said, desperate now, turning toward the older wizard. "Just make it stop."
"How long has this been happening?" Snape asked.
Snape had a working theory but there was no precedent or proof to support it. It was simply a hunch. There was no guarantee that knowing more about Draco's symptoms would help in curing him of his peculiar ailment. The unconscious was a wild, unconstructed and unintelligible space, even for a muggle. For the witch or wizard it was an untapped source of desire and power inextricably linked with one's magic. It was an abyss, the indefinite unknown.
"Two weeks, maybe," he said. "After the day at the manor."
Snape said nothing in response to this.
"What's wrong with me?" Draco asked.
"We have a problem," Snape said, walking briskly into the small circular room.
A small group was sitting in mismatched chairs around an old, worn kitchen table. Everyone looked up as he entered. As soon as he had left Draco he called for a meeting. It had to be somewhere other than Grimmauld Place, though. They couldn't run the risk of being overheard. There was far too much going on in that house as it was. So instead a few members of the Order gathered around the Weasley's kitchen table, waiting anxiously for what they feared would be bad news.
"What's wrong?" Mr. Weasley asked.
"Has Draco arrived yet?" Snape asked, looking around the crowded room.
Fred and George groaned in unison.
"You invited him here?" George asked.
"Mind yourselves," Mrs. Weasley hissed.
"Why exactly does he have to be here?" Fred asked.
"I'm assuming it has something to do with me," Draco said, walking briskly into the room and pulling the hood of his cloak off.
"What makes you say that?" Remus asked.
"Hermione. Lately she's noticed some irrational behaviour. She's concerned so she came to me about it," Draco said. "I can only assume that's why I'm here."
"I thought you were supposed to be locked in the attic," Fred said.
"If you don't stifle yourself I'll have you locked in the attic," Draco said.
"What sort of irrational behaviour?" McGonagall asked.
"Insomnia, irritability, mood swings and outbursts, loss of appetite," Snape said.
"So..." Tonks started. "What does all of that mean?"
Everyone looked to Snape for an explanation.
"It seems Draco is remembering things from the future."
"I'm sorry...he's what?" Tonks asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"Are you sure he doesn't just have the flu?" George asked.
Mrs. Weasley smacked him upside the head and hushed him.
"No," Draco said, shaking his head. "That's not possible."
"I assure you, it is. He's dreaming of memories that belong to you. He thinks he's seeing the future and he is, small glimpses of it. It's his future but it's also your past."
"How can this be happening?" Remus asked.
"I think the transference is happening as a result of their proximity to one another," Snape said.
"So their timelines are overlapping," Kingsley clarified.
"In a manner of speaking," Snape said.
"Does he know about you?" McGonagall asked, looking at Draco with a stern but concerned expression.
"No," Draco said.
Everyone visibly relaxed but they were far from out of the woods yet.
"This is a damned nightmare," Mad-Eye grumbled. "I knew we never should've left you in that house. Should've put you somewhere far away."
"You think this is my fault?" Draco asked, noting the irate wizard's incriminating stare. "I didn't intend for this to happen. I didn't even know it would!"
"No one's saying you did," Tonks said, trying to keep the tentative peace.
"We are," Fred said, gesturing between himself and his brother. "I blame him entirely."
"Could you please not make this more difficult than it has to be?" Mr. Weasley asked, glaring at his sons.
"What is he dreaming about?" Remus asked.
"It's Granger," Snape said.
"He's dreaming about Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her forehead wrinkling as her eyes widened in surprise.
Everyone turned to look at Draco. He wasn't nearly as surprised as everyone else. He couldn't predict this was going to happen, no one could. Everyone expected answers he didn't have. He had no desire to divulge his most private memories and thoughts but they all shared similar looks of shock, disbelief, and expectation. They could barely wrap their head around the fact that his younger self was remembering his past. There was no way they would believe why Hermione was the subject of those memories.
"Is there something you want to tell us, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall said.
In the evening no one showed up for dinner. She was suspicious now. Not a single night had passed in the past few months where no one stopped by for a spot of dinner. The only person to stop by that day was Snape and he didn't even want to speak to her, and now this. Draco stayed in the study after Snape left and he showed no signs of leaving so Hermione retired to her room. She turned on the lamp on the bedside table and sat in bed reading an obscure text on Horcruxes she'd gotten from Madame Pince. Now that she had identified all the objects which contained pieces of Voldemort's soul all she had to do was figure out how to destroy each one. That was the funny thing about information on Horcruxes. There was plenty of books that told her what they were. There were none that told her how they were made and there certainly weren't any that told her how to destroy one once it had been made. Really all she had to go on was past experiences. Harry had destroyed one with a basilisk fang and Dumbledore had used the sword of Gryffindor. Those were one in the same, though. The sword had assumed the traits of basilisk venom. Hermione was certain there had to be another way, a potion or a bit of dark magic maybe.
Draco hesitated at the closed door. He was a masochist, a glutton for punishment. It was the only explanation. Why else would he be standing outside Hermione's room? With a defeated sigh he rapped sharply on the door. Hermione jumped and the book toppled out of her hands.
"Uh...come in," she said.
Draco opened the door. She pulled the sheets up to her chest and eyed him warily.
"Draco," she said, surprised.
"Where you expecting someone else?" he asked.
He saw her jaw set from where he stood.
"No," she said. "I'm just surprised. Do you need something?"
He shifted uncomfortably.
"I came up here to apologize," he said.
"Well?"
Draco glared at her. Clearly it wasn't enough to make his intention known. She was going to make him say it and she was going to enjoy it. He cleared his throat and tried to keep the tone of his voice friendly. Instead it came off as forced and curt.
"Hermione," he said. "I'm sorry I was so short tempered with you this morning. I'd also like to apologize for speaking out of turn. It was unkind of me."
She contemplated whether or not this would suffice. "Thank you," she said.
He noticed the book on the floor.
"What are you reading?" he asked, making his way over to the old, leather-bound volume.
"A book Madam Pince loaned me. Finding Horcruxes is a nightmare in and of itself, but we've been lucky so far when it's come to destroying them."
Draco flipped through the pages absently, sitting on the edge of the bedside table.
"I can tell you where Helga Hufflepuff's cup is," he said.
"What?" she asked. "You've known this whole time, haven't you?"
"Yes," he said, meeting her unforgiving glare.
"I can't believe you," she snapped.
"I wasn't going to tell you," he said.
"Just stop," she interrupted. "You're just making it worse for yourself."
"But I'm making amends."
He handed her the book and she looked at him with a wary expression. She had more than enough reasons to doubt his sincerity, but it was difficult to be angry with him at the time of night. The artificial light from the lamp created an unflattering backlight that made the dark circles under his eyes even more severe. He looked like he meant it but he also looked too exhausted to lie or to play games with her. Soon she would fall into a restful sleep and he would be fighting to stay awake.
"I was going to tell Potter and Weasley. I didn't want to tell you, though. I figured it would only upset you because you couldn't be out there with them."
"I'm the Secret Keeper not a prisoner," she said. "I'm fully capable of leaving Grimmauld Place."
"Not this time," he said.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"You're not going with them. The Horcrux is in Bellatrix's vault at Gringott's."
"I appreciate your concern but I have to go with Harry and Ron. They need my help."
"Listen to me, Granger. It's Bellatrix's vault. Not only is she from an old purelood family, which guarantees her some of the most secure vaults at Gringott's, but she's placed so many precautionary measures on her vault there's no way to get the Horcrux out."
"All the more reason I have to go."
"Don't go."
Hermione couldn't keep up with his rapid mood swings. This morning he'd been volatile and ill-tempered but now he was looking at her with such sincerity and concern she could almost forget his earlier transgressions. How could these two dissimilar temperaments belong to the same person? It was as if two entirely different people had been violently yoked together. She didn't say anything because there was no need to. He could see the resolve in her eyes. This was why he didn't want to tell her but it was also the reason he couldn't lie. She could never forgive him if she found out he purposefully cut her out of the plan, if he went straight to Potter and Weasley. The thought of deceiving her was becoming more and more uncomfortable to him.
"Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?" he asked. "Anything at all."
"No," she said. "There isn't."
Her bright eyes looked almost hazel in the light. She looked so earnest and so sincere in that moment it was disarming. That was it, then. There was nothing he could say. He couldn't understand why he didn't want her to go. There simply were no words. It was a feeling, a sense of foreboding that he couldn't make sense of. All he could do was show her. He leaned forward and pressed his lips firmly to hers. The soft line of her jaw fit perfectly in his hands when he cradled her face, brushing his thumbs gently along her cheekbones. Her skin was warm and soft. He could feel her pulse beating erratically under his fingertips. When he closed his eyes this time the anxiety that took hold was entirely different from the uneasiness that enveloped him before sleep.
Hermione froze. She didn't move and for a moment—the longest seconds of his life—he thought he'd ruined everything. She let go of the book in her lap and tentatively rested her hands on his chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his jumper. He pulled back slightly, their lips barely touching. He could feel her unsteady breath on his face. He was still waiting for her to run away, to change her mind, but she didn't. Hermione closed the minute distance between them and pressed a light kiss against his lips. That was all the encouragement he needed.
He parted her lips and she let slip a quiet sigh. Though she'd never imagined what it would been like, she was surprised at how gentle he was. Yet she could feel the urgency of his movements; his firm grip, the pressure of his lips against hers, his heavy breathing. He pressed his tongue against hers and Hermione found herself gripping his jumper tightly. The book in her lap toppled off the bed and onto the hardwood floor. The dull thud was incredibly loud in the silent room. Hermione started and Draco pulled away. His light eyes looked darker than they normally were. She could see his chest rising and falling quickly.
"I should go," he said.
Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. What had she just done? Her hand went to her swollen lips as he left the room, closing the door behind him.
TO BE CONTINUED
