Warnings for mentions of the intention of rape and other unpleasantness. Nothing too graphic. But if you don't like it, skip over the italicized flashback at the beginning.
So I retook all of the Pottermore tests using my second email account (it's cheating, I know, but I just had to make sure). The first time around, as I mentioned before, I was sorted into Slytherin (not that there's anything wrong with that; I'm actually warming up to the idea) and into Wampus (for Ilvermorny). My patronus was a marsh harrier (never heard of it before – apparently it is a bird of prey, looks something like a hawk), and my wand was determined to be vinewood, dragon heartstring, 12 ¾ inches, and supple. The second time I took the tests I got Ravenclaw, Horned Serpent, hippogriff, and vinewood, phoenix feather, 10 ½ inches, supple.
So of course, the second time didn't resolve anything, so I had to go back and do it again. Which meant I created a new email account (yes, I did this…please don't judge me). So the third time around I got Slytherin, Horned Serpent, osprey, and vinewood, dragon heartstring, 12 ¾ inches, supple.
So I determined that my patronus is raptor related (hippogriffs are part eagle, after all), I probably belong in the Horned Serpent house in Ilvermorny, my wand is most definitely made of vinewood and probably has a dragon heartstring core, and…
…I'm a Slytherin. Damn. Dunno how that happened. (I'm still secretly a Ravenclaw at heart. Don't tell anybody. I'm going to go sit over there next to Snape and hope that Tom Riddle notices me – or doesn't notice me? Idk. He's so gorgeous, how do you choose?)
oooo
What if I should discover that the poorest of the beggars and the most impudent of offenders are all within me, and that I stand in need of the alms of my own kindness; that I myself am the enemy who must be loved- what then? –Carl Jung
But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most? –Twain
There's a drumming noise inside my head
That starts when you're around
I swear that you could hear it
It makes such an almighty sound
Louder than sirens
Louder than bells
Sweeter than heaven
And hotter than hell
- "Drumming Song" by Florence + the Machine
oooo
Monday, October 10, 1999
Malfoy Manor
"Pretty little thing, isn't she?"
Hermione flinches when Evan Rosier's index finger trails down her cheek, following the tracks that her tears have made. She does not have the energy to move away, however – Bellatrix has been spending more one on one time with Hermione of late, and today is no exception. She lays on the red carpet of one of the parlors in the manor, utterly spent after having endured bursts of the Cruciatus curse over the course of three hours. She is surprised that she has not soiled herself.
Still, her mind does not break. It is a box with steel walls, and she has locked it and thrown the key into the deepest recesses of her brain.
She squeezes her eyes closed as she feels a meaty hand grab her breast. Fresh tears leak from her eyes. She has wondered about this – about how long it would take for one of the male Death Eaters to catch on to the fact that she is a girl. She is surprised it has taken this long. But no matter how she has prepared herself for the possibility, the reality of it is far more daunting. Her muscles twitch, wanting desperately to move away, to fight back – but she has no control over her body.
"Got a body on 'er, that's for sure, even if she's a bit thin," she hears Rosier say. "And she's weak as a day-old kitten, can't even move. That's an opportunity if I ever saw one." She hears the hiss of a zipper, loud in the otherwise silent room. His hand moves down her body to cup her harshly between the thighs. She makes a choking noise in the back of her throat, and she hears him laugh.
"Oi, Selwyn, pass me that length of rope Bellatrix left behind, would you?"
She hears Selwyn cluck his tongue. "Only if you let me have a go after you're done, mate."
Rosier clucks his tongue. "You're next up. In fact, why don't you take her mouth while I fuck her pretty little cunt?"
Hermione is crying in earnest now as Rosier flips her over onto her stomach none too gently and ties her hands behind her back. She feels him begin to pull down her tattered shorts.
Suddenly the door is opening, and she sees the tall, handsome form of Thorfinn Rowle enter, his hair loose and hanging in waves around his shoulders. He looks as if he has been in the rain.
"Get down to the dining hall, both of you," Rowle says, scowling. "Fenrir just captured three new prisoners, and they need interrogating. Rodolphus asked for you specifically."
Rosier and Selwyn grumble, but Rowle, despite being younger by ten years, ranks above them. And then they are gone, and Hermione sighs in relief as the door closes behind them.
She stiffens again as she feels hands at her hips, but then those hands are pulling her shorts up and releasing her from her bonds and turning her back over. She cries tears of relief and terror, and Rowle's large hands help her to sit up, supporting her muscles where they cannot support themselves.
"Let's get you back to the dungeons," he says gruffly, putting her robe on her body and cinching it closed.
She is still crying as he levitates her downstairs with a guiding hand on her shoulder. When they get to the bottom, and he puts her down on the cold stone floor of her cell, she slumps to the ground.
She manages to mutter out a quick and desperately genuine, "Thank you, Rowle...Thank you, Thorfinn. Thank you."
She thinks she hears something like "Don't mention it" but she can't be sure because her blood is pounding through her ears. But she feels a cushioning charm cast on the cold stone floor of her cell, and feels the air warm, and she knows that Rowle interrupted his colleagues on purpose – it was no accident or happy coincidence.
Months later, when she sees Rowle out on the battlefield, she meets his eyes – bright turquoise, she notices, and realizes she has never seen that eye color on another human being – and lowers her wand, jerking her head. He needs no urging from her. His side is losing this little skirmish, and Hermione could easily engage in a duel with him. But she does not, and Rowle lives to fight another day. A favor for a favor.
oooo
Hermione sat quietly in Transfiguration, listening to Professor Beery, the Herbology professor, drone on about facial transfiguration, something that Hermione had become especially proficient at over the years; it was a necessity, when you were labeled Undesirable Number Two and were best friends with Undesirable Number One. Polyjuice was reserved for only the most important missions because it took so long to brew.
Professor Dumbledore was out for obvious reasons – he was apparently with Headmaster Dippet, discussing the breach in security this morning and the reason why Hogwarts' two newest students had been required to commit murder. Hermione had been nearly accosted in the halls by Lyall and Ignatius, who had heard rumors that "you'd been attacked Hermione and we were so worried and who were those guys anyways and did you really kill one of them and is Mallery finally awake and did he really snap that guy's neck and let me see your hand and oh Merlin that's a nasty burn and we heard that Dumbledore said something about there being a rip in space that created a passage between China and Hogwarts and that was really how that portkey ended up sending you here and getting you through the wards and it's how those guys just appeared in the woods this morning and now he and Dippet are going to have to talk to the Minister about increased security measures and –"
Hermione snapped out of it as she heard someone address her by name.
"Miss Granger?" Professor Beery said, peering down at her with kind brown eyes hidden behind a pair of reading spectacles. Herbert Beery was somewhat out of his element subbing for Transfiguration – he was very much at home in his greenhouses, and seeing him in an actual classroom seemed rather odd. It was like putting a bear in an evening gown and expecting no one to notice anything out of place.
"I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't quite catch that," she said sheepishly. "Could you repeat the question?"
"I was asking about the proper wand movements for making someone's ears shrink," he said, looking at her with equal measures sympathy and discomfort in those earthy brown eyes. It had gotten around the school that she had killed a man, in front of another student, no less. Hermione wanted to crawl under the desks and hide just to get away from the stares of her classmates and professors.
"Erm, a small counter-clockwise circle and swish to the right for the left ear, and a small clockwise circle and swish to the left for the right ear," she answered, unable to look him in the eye. Did he see her as an anomaly, like some did, or as a monster, as others did? Perhaps both? Absently, she rubbed at the bandaged skin on the back of her hand and felt tears of pain spring to her eyes before blinking them away. Sometimes she had to do that – to keep herself from floating away in her own brain. To keep herself from drowning in the memories. Sometimes she had to dig her fingernails into the tender, ravaged skin of her right calf and hold on for dear life as the reality of her situation crashed around her and threatened to sweep her off her feet and into insanity.
"Correct, Miss Granger, thank you," he said, inclining his head towards her. "Five points to Gryffindor."
She swallowed and bowed her head, looking down at her desk as he moved forward with the lesson. When it came time to practice, she turned towards Sabrina, whom she was sitting next to.
"You want to go first?" the prefect asked, smiling at her gently.
"Sure," Hermione replied. She pulled out her pink ivory wand.
Sabrina looked at it with wide, interested eyes. "That's new. Where did you get it? What happened to your old one?"
Hermione sighed. "I picked it up in Africa a few months ago. My walnut one broke this morning when – well. You know."
Sabrina's icy blue eyes widened. "Oh. Sorry, Hermione. I didn't mean to bring it up. I imagine you don't really want to talk about it. It's good that Mallery woke up though, right? I mean, I heard he saved your life. Lucky break, I guess."
Hermione smiled. "Or something like that. If he's up for coming to dinner tonight, you can meet him. I think he'd like you."
The blush on Sabrina's face was instantaneous. "You think so?" she said, tugging nervously at the ends of her sweeping side bangs. "He's nice, right?"
"He's nice to beautiful girls," Hermione said, winking at her. "He's ruthless with everyone else. I think he would probably be a Slytherin, if sorted. He's a sneaky son of a bitch."
Nonverbally, she lifted her wand and changed Sabrina's eye color, enlarged her lips, and shrunk her ears. Sabrina gasped and lifted a mirror to look at her face. "Brilliant, Hermione! Change my nose a little bit and I would hardly recognize myself."
Hermione lifted her wand again and muttered an incantation and the girl's nose widened at the bridge and rounded a bit at the end.
"Merlin! I don't even look like myself anymore!" she giggled, turning her head this way and that to stare at her changed features. Hermione swished her wand and uttered a low finite and Sabrina's face went back to normal. "Okay, my turn," her sweet classmate said, pointing her wand at Hermione's face.
Hermione sighed as she felt her nose change shape, and smiled encouragingly at her friend. It was going to be a long day, she knew. She was already eager for it to be over so she could climb into bed. She might take the invisibility cloak and sneak into the hospital wing to stay with Draco tonight.
She didn't want to sleep alone again. She knew that as soon as she laid her head down and closed her eyes, she would see Thorfinn Rowle's dead aquamarine eyes as the words Avada Kedavra left her lips.
oooo
At lunch, though her friends still sat by her and attempted to speak with her, she felt like an outcast. Wolfing down her food, having skipped breakfast despite Slughorn's advice, she quickly made her excuses, smiled at her fellow Gryffindors and left. After stopping by the kitchens for a bag of raw beef (much to the confusion of the house elves), she burst through the front doors and onto the grounds. It was especially warm for late September, and she shed her uniform sweater and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt as she tramped down to the opposite side of the lake where she'd been this morning. Depositing her school bag on the grass, she sat on the stump of a tree at the edge of the trees, pulled out the bag of raw meat and waited.
It only took three or four minutes for her to first feel the snorting breath on the back of her neck. Turning slowly, she looked into the milky eyes of the thestral that had come to stand behind her.
"Hello," she said softly, reaching out to pat it on its scaly nose. It snuffled into her hand, and she reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of beef, giggling as its leathery muzzle tickled her fingers. It was careful not to nick her with its sharp teeth as it gobbled up the bit of meat, and she stroked its neck, its long black mane brushing the skin of her wrist.
Several more of the sinister, spectral beasts came to linger around her, all looking for a hand out. She fed each of them by hand, making sure to scratch them on the nose and rub the insides of their ears, which she'd once upon a time found that they liked.
"What on earth are you doing out here, Hermione?" a voice called out, and Hermione looked up to meet the dark, penetrating stare of the one man who was the ultimate bane of her existence.
Tom Riddle looked especially handsome standing in the light of the sun, devoid of robes, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows like hers were and his blazer slung casually over one shoulder. He looked like he'd just walked from the pages of a Moss Bros. advert, his hair parted artfully to one side and his shoes polished to perfection. The greedy gleam in his eyes when he looked at her made her heart race in her chest. Fawkes' heat suddenly flared within her, and she quivered under its intensity.
"Feeding the thestrals, Tom," she said tiredly, finding an especially sensitive spot in one of the thestral's ears. It trembled under her gentle ministrations. "I'd have thought that was obvious."
"What are you talking about?"
She looked up at him, and she almost laughed out loud at his attempt to look confused. Of course. No one would expect him to be able to see the thestrals, because no one could know that he had seen death. Caused death.
"Oh don't be ridiculous, Tom," she said, standing from her seat on the stump and seeking out the members of the herd that hadn't been brave enough to come to her. "I knew from the moment I met you that you had taken a life. It's something in the eyes, you see," she said, smiling as a timid colt sniffed at a piece of beef before snatching it out of her hand and stumbling off with his prize. She caught his eyes as he continued to walk towards her. "It takes one to know one."
His jaw ticked. "I've never had reason to kill, Hermione. You must be mistaken."
She laughed. How utterly moronic he was. How stupidly handsome, how horribly powerful, how devastatingly dark. When the sun glinted off his eyes, they shone blue for a moment. "You have lovely eyes," she said cryptically, squinting at him. It was true. She'd never seen eyes quite that color. She'd just assumed they were black or dark brown, but in the sunshine they looked like the North Sea.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at her mildly, but the skin around his eyes tightened in barely perceptible confusion and just a touch of discomfort. "Thank you. So do you."
She grinned. "What an irony that such a disfigured soul can walk around with such a pretty face. Wouldn't you agree?"
He froze only feet from her, staring at her with shuttered eyes. "Do you speak of me, or of yourself?"
"Perhaps both, Tom," she said with a sigh. "How many people have you killed?" she asked bluntly.
He cleared his throat and adopted a puzzled look. "You're still under the delusion that I've taken life, Hermione. I assure you that that's not the case."
"And you're still under the delusion that I, like the rest of your misguided little subjects, can't read you," she said, shading her eyes from the sun as she peered up into his face, pale and stark as if carved from marble. "Come now, Tom. Who am I going to tell that will believe me anyway?" She tapped her chin. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say that you've killed…three people. No, four. Yes, definitely four."
She saw the moment that disbelief flashed across his eyes, followed by fury. She grinned, thinking for sure that he was a hair's breath from striking her down with his wand, but after a second he visibly relaxed and smiled at her placidly. "Once again, I don't know where you seem to be getting this information, Granger, but I can assure you that I haven't killed anyone. Don't displace your attributes onto me."
She hummed. "Do you want to know how many people I've killed?" she asked softly, running her hands absently through the mane of a large mare. "Take a guess. I guessed correctly for you," she said, knowing that it would drive him crazy, "so it's only fair to give you a chance to do the same. Come on, Tom, give it your best shot."
He rolled his eyes, sitting down on the stump that she had vacated. He watched her with sharp eyes. His attempt to look bored was cute, when it was obvious that he was anything but.
"I don't know, Hermione," he drawled. "Forty? Fifty?"
Hermione's laugh, this time, was completely genuine. Forty! Fifty! Oh Merlin. What she wouldn't give to only have that many names carved into her heart. "That's funny, Tom." She paused, and looked down at him from where she stood next to the big mild-mannered mare. "One hundred and seventy-seven."
She barely caught the widening of his eyes before they were cold and impassive again. "That's admittedly more than I would have thought," he hedged.
She giggled as an adventurous foal approached him and nosed at his knee. "It seems you have a fan." He looked down at it, both disgusted and obviously fascinated. "How long have you been able to see them?" she asked him, already knowing the answer but wanting him to admit it to her anyway. "And don't lie, Tom Riddle. You already showed a hint of your true colors to me yesterday. Don't turn around and try that illustrious Head Boy act with me now. I think you've already determined that we're beyond that. Besides, I won't tell."
He stared at her for a long moment, and then patted the little filly on the head before shooing it away. It came to her, and she tossed it a piece of meat. "A couple of years," he said, shrugging. "Like you said, no one would believe you if you told them anyway. How long have you seen them?"
She snorted. "I rode one before I was able to see them," she said, smiling at the memory. "It was terrifying. But I was sixteen."
"That doesn't answer my question about how long you've seen them," he returned smartly, "considering we still haven't established how old you actually are."
She turned her face up to the sun and chuckled. The thestral that had first approached her, a young stallion with a puncture through his left wing, came over and nudged her in the stomach with his head. She stumbled and smiled, bringing her hands up to scratch both of his ears, now out of meat.
"You should know better than to ask a woman her age," she said coyly. "It's considered rude to do so. Come now, Tom. I thought your manners were better than that."
"You, woman, are exceedingly frustrating," he said to her, his voice mild but his jaw clenched. "So, one hundred and seventy-seven includes the man from this morning."
She swallowed, looking away. "He was, perhaps, the only one that didn't fully deserve it."
"A necessary evil then, perhaps," Tom said, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Evil is never necessary," she replied, finding it ironic considering who she was talking to. "We delude ourselves with notions of morality when we use such justifications."
He cocked his head. "You're a very curious creature, Hermione Granger," he said. She felt her heart skitter when his dark gaze ever so quickly dropped to her lips before hopping back up to her face.
"You know what they say," she replied with a teasing smirk. "Curiosity killed the cat."
"Stupidity killed the cat," he corrected. "Curiosity was framed."
She gasped mockingly. "Very thoroughly, it seems. How unfair. It's been centuries, and curiosity has been blamed this entire time for the cat's death." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "What's the rest of that saying, though? 'Satisfaction brought it back'?"
His answering grin was lightning fast and equally as stunning. "I think that's how it goes." He stood, and when he was this close to her, facing her, she was suddenly confronted with the bald truth of his not unimpressive height. Without his robes and blazer on, the incredible breadth of his shoulders and the long line of his waist were painfully apparent. He snatched her bag from its spot on the grass. "Are you attending Arithmancy, or are you planning on skipping again?"
She raised her eyebrows. "If you're referring to my absence from Muggle Studies this morning, Tom, I think we can both agree that I was otherwise distracted. I was being seen to in the hospital wing. Bad burn on my hand, you see."
He smirked and held out his hand. "May I?"
Rolling her eyes, she lifted her right hand and placed it in his. "Gently, please," she said, wincing when his thumb passed over her knuckles.
"Ouch," he said, peeling back the gauze enough for him to see the burn, which was healing slowly, as the one on her back had. "I hadn't noticed this before," he said, referring to the faint threads of golden ink that stained the skin of her middle finger. "What is it?"
She let him turned her hand over in his, watching him intently as he studied the pattern. "Just something pretty," she lied.
"I do hate it when you lie to me," he said with a sigh, looking skywards. She jerked when he pressed his thumbnail harder than was polite into the tender skin of her inner wrist.
"Says the wizard whose every other word is a lie," she returned coldly, yanking her hand from his and patting a thestral on the neck before beginning to walk up to the path. "Let's not throw stones in glass houses, Tom."
They walked for a moment in silence until they reached the quad. "I'm not entirely sure why you seem to have such a skewed opinion of me, Miss Granger," he said, the tone of his voice tinged with concern and mild hurt. It made her chuckle, because she knew there wasn't an ounce of truth to the sentiment. "From the moment we met you've treated me oddly. What have I done to incur your suspicion?"
She stopped in the middle of the front courtyard, and he stopped as well, turning back to face her. "Like I said," she said softly. "I'm not one of your little admirers, Tom. You have them all fooled with your pretty white smile and your smooth charm and your oh-so-handsome face. Your perfect grades and your trophy for special services to the school and the way you keep an unlimited supply of candied pineapple on Slughorn's desk – none of that matters to me. That's not what I see when I look at you."
He stared at her. The only accurate way she could describe his gaze was hungry. It made her so, so uncomfortable; and made her heart pound so heavily she could hear it in her ears. She wondered if he could hear it, too. "And what do you see when you look at me, Hermione?" he murmured, his dark oceanic gaze wandering her face.
She reached out and tugged her bag from his shoulder, brushing his bicep as she did so, quite by accident. Her breath caught when she felt the muscle there, and she noticed that he twitched at the contact. "Power," she said, placing the leather strap of her bag over her own shoulder. "And darkness. Wrapped up in a frighteningly attractive package." She cleared her throat and met his eyes, suddenly feeling less than brave. "I'm going to go visit with Draco for a while. I'll see you in Arithmancy." She turned away and headed towards the entrance, stepping over the exact spot where Bellatrix Lestrange had met her end less than two weeks ago in a timeline that was fast becoming a dream.
"Give my best to Mallery, if he's awake," Tom's voice called out from behind her. It did not sound as steady as it usually did.
She did not look back, or respond.
oooo
"I saw you with those…those things."
Tom brushed away his frustration when Hermione did not acknowledge his presence when he sat down next to her in Arithmancy. He was fast becoming used to the oddity that was Hermione Granger.
She was looking at the girl addressing her. Raven Flynn sat to Hermione's left, looking uncomfortable.
"The thestrals?" Hermione responded, shifting her legs so that Tom could slide his chair out and sit in it. Once again, his eyes went to those heinous scars, caused by the werewolf, that peeked out above her black knee socks. Every time he saw them, he was tempted to wince. They still looked so fresh and tender.
Raven's dark eyes flashed. "Is that what they are?" she said, wringing her hands. "I thought I was the only one who saw them. No one else ever seemed to notice them until you."
Tom watched as Hermione smiled at her friend gently. "Only those that have seen death can see thestrals, Flynn. They're invisible to everyone else. You should have seen the look on Tom's face when one of them nudged him on the knee," she said, her voice laced with humor. Only Tom knew why she was so amused. "Just about jumped out of his skin."
She turned her head just slightly towards him and winked. He could not help but grin before he was able to school his face.
"Cheeky," he muttered, low so that only she could hear.
Flynn relaxed, but did not look convinced. "And they aren't dangerous?"
Hermione shrugged. "I imagine that if you were to threaten them they might be dangerous. But I've never found them to be so. They're gentle, by nature. And clever, too." She looked at Raven curiously. "Do you mind me asking…?"
"My sister," the Slytherin girl said lowly. Then she reached into her bag to draw out her supplies, and Granger seemed to understand that it was the end of that particular conversation.
"This is your first time in Professor Rohn's class, isn't it?" Tom asked her, keeping his voice quiet as he pulled his things out.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Where were you last Friday and Thursday afternoon?"
She shrugged, and the action infuriated him. Merlin, the damned woman was never straight with him! Everything was said with a shrug, or a wink, or a smirk, or merely a flash in those horribly entrancing eyes that spoke to her mocking of him.
"I was out."
"Out," he repeated, raising an eyebrow and fixing her with a severe stare. "Out where?"
"Diagon Alley," she said, twirling her quill in her fingers. "I needed a cat."
"You skipped classes Thursday afternoon and all day Friday to get a cat?" he asked incredulously. He scoffed. "Come on, Hermione."
She beamed at him. "She's quite lovely. I named her Narcissa. Of course, we stopped for some ice cream along the way, and then we just had to go back on Friday to peruse the bookstore – Cissa just loves to read, you know – and then we went to this little jewelry shop to get her a nice garnet collar. She looks great in Gryffindor red, you see."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Cute." He frowned. "You genuinely might be the most annoying woman I've ever had the displeasure of meeting."
She smirked slowly, her eyes dark and triumphant, and all of a sudden he felt a low stirring in his groin.
Lust was not an unfamiliar concept to him. He'd…dabbled. He'd played around with the pleasures that the body had to offer. Seducing Primrose Selwyn had been as easy as breathing, and Obliviating her afterward had been even easier. He'd done this particular routine several times last year, and she was none the wiser; and when he'd thirsted for something different, he turned to Druella Rosier and Felicity Carmichael, and repeated the same process with them. Over the summer he had spent a day in Paris – the nice thing about being of legal age was that he could apparate away from the orphanage for a day and no one knew; it was how he'd gone to Little Hangleton and hunted down his father and grandparents – and had visited a brothel there, his curiosity once again getting the better of him. If there was anything that really truly bothered Tom, it was the prospect of not knowing something. Carnal knowledge, however silly it sometimes was in the big picture, was still knowledge. And if ever he needed it to further his plans, he would rather know what he was doing. So he knew the ins and outs of a woman's body and knew what the fairer sex had to offer.
He had never been quite so taken with one before, however.
He had chosen Selwyn, Carmichael and Rosier because they were all reasonably attractive and no blushing virgins by far. The woman he'd spent the day at the brothel with had been fifteen years his senior, easily, but had been voluptuous and experienced. But he had not been taken with them. He had not wanted them for himself, body and mind. This ridiculous, annoying thorn in his side named Hermione Granger was getting under his skin and he bloody well hated it.
She turned away, and his attraction for her simmered lowly in his stomach. It was made all the more complicated by the fact that she had completely bypassed all of the defenses he put up to keep people at arms length. She was frighteningly intuitive, annoyingly perceptive, in possession of a titillating, acerbic wit, and, above all, painfully bright. The intelligence that shone out from those enrapturing brown eyes was terrifying in its intensity, and, by God, he wanted it. He wanted it.
What he so desperately wanted to know was how she had known, without even a sliver of a doubt, that he had killed. And not only that he'd killed, but how many people he'd killed. A lucky guess, but damn, the woman was good. More concerning still was how little discomfort he felt now that she knew. At first he was upset, of course. But for some reason he just knew that she had been telling the truth when she'd said that she wouldn't tell anyone else.
When he'd watched her out there, in the sun, interacting with the evil-looking thestrals as if she belonged there among them, he'd really truly for the first time taken note of just how striking she was. If he were to take her physical appearance and superimpose it onto another woman's interior, he would be just as unimpressed as he might be with a reasonably pretty girl like Selwyn. He would appreciate the aesthetics, but no more than that. Though she was attractive, she was not your typical beauty; not like Iris Fawley or Druella Rosier or Raven Flynn or Antoinette Haywood. It was what lay beneath the exterior that had him so enraptured. Sure, Granger was pretty enough, but it was the power that he saw humming underneath her lightly browned skin, the lights that flickered in those hot-then-cold eyes, and the enigmatic warmth of her smile that made his heart beat faster and his loins stir. It was the confidence with which she moved, the way she was not self-conscious about her scars and imperfections; as if she had bigger and better things to worry about.
"I'm glad you chose to take Advanced Arithmancy. It's not a subject that many like," he said, taking out his book and parchment and watching her out of the corner of his eye.
She smiled, her eyes shifting, staring into a past that he couldn't see but wished more than anything he could; perhaps he could catch her off guard sometime and slip into her mind unnoticed. "Arithmancy has always been my favorite subject. My friends used to give me hell for being such a bookworm."
"Well, I think you'll enjoy Professor Rohn," he said, turning slightly in his seat to face her. He leaned back in his chair casually, drumming his fingers on his book. "She is a most stimulating teacher."
Triumph rose within him at the sudden pale pink flush that stole up her throat and rouged her cheeks. Tom sometimes had trouble reading her, though she was more expressive than some, especially with those eyes – but the one thing she didn't seem to be able to control was the blush that suffused her face with rosy color anytime she felt bashful or embarrassed or uncomfortable. And he was finding that he delighted in making her uncomfortable. The spots of color on her cheeks only served to confirm something that he'd started to suspect from their walk in the halls yesterday afternoon: that she was not entirely immune to his charm, no matter what she said. She had already revealed that she found him attractive, though that was hardly unusual; what was unusual was that she'd blatantly admitted to it. The directness with which she spoke, both to him and, it seemed, everyone else, was as endearing as it was peculiar. But then she could turn right around and be as cryptic as ever, which was infuriating.
Before she could respond, no doubt with something wry and witty that would serve to distract from her discomfort, Professor Rosemary Rohn stalked into the room, as curious as ever.
The fifty-five-year-old teacher was short and wiry of build, with youthful skin and close-cropped dark grey hair that sometimes looked suspiciously bluish under certain light. Her eyes were a penetrating greenish-blue, and they sparkled with a secret humor that very much reminded Tom of the enigmatic girl sitting to his left. If he could compare the woman to an animal he would probably think of her as some sort of patient, predatory reptile. A lizard of some sort, perhaps.
Rohn stood behind her desk in dark grey robes, her sharp eyes scanning the class. "Ah, yes," she said, looking right at Hermione. "I was made aware that I would have a new student in my Friday class. And you are all caught up, yes?" she asked, looking down at a piece of parchment in her hand. "In fact, if your placement tests are to be believed, Miss Granger, you don't really even need to be in this class, do you?"
Granger cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Er, well, I still have to take our N.E.W.T.s and all – my schooling has been sporadic at best, and I might be a little rusty on some things," she said, sounding genuinely humble. It seemed that the girl was, by nature, not prone to gloating and basking in the limelight.
Professor Rohn did not say anything in response, just looked at Hermione with something like skeptical amusement, pursing her lips. Finally she set the piece of parchment down on her desk, pulled a book out of her bag, and opened it on her desk.
"Today I want to look at page eighty-seven of your textbook…
oooo
"I'm sorry about this morning. The things I said were insensitive."
Draco sighed in relief as his best friend leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. She continued to push his wheelchair slowly through the halls. She had been given a pass on DADA today, because of her wounded hand, and he couldn't help but be relieved when she'd told him of her agreement to partner up with Riddle. The longer she could put that off, the better.
"You were right on a lot of points, Draco," she said quietly, casting a Muffliato around them as they walked. They were on their way to Dumbledore's office to discuss…things. And boy, were there things to discuss.
"Sometimes being right doesn't justify being cruel," he replied, his voice soft. "And sometimes I oversimplify things. I know that starting over here isn't easy, or simple. I'm sorry that I pushed you on it. It's not my place."
"Water under the bridge, Draco," she said. "Don't worry about it. We've exchanged harder words than that, and we're still friends. We'll always be friends."
"We've been through too much together to not be friends, Hermione," he replied, chuckling. Nonetheless, he felt his heart constrict. To have earned the trust and friendship of Hermione Granger was an incredible honor, and he wouldn't trade it for anything. If he had to be stuck in a situation like this with anyone, he wouldn't want it to be anyone but her. "So, let's change the subject."
"You want to talk about my tentative plan to attempt to catch Riddle's attention, keep it, and use it to shape the future? Yeah. It's a doozy."
"It's riskier than keeping our heads down," he said, contemplating her idea. "More eyes on us mean less room to slip up. Putting ourselves in the spotlight leaves us more vulnerable, and we'll have to be more careful. However," he continued, as she began to interrupt, "I think you're right. At this stage we've drawn too much attention to ourselves – and it's hard to undo something like that. Plus, I'd prefer not to have to sit by idly and pretend I'm just some average Joe. It's hard for me to feign mediocrity. It's even harder for you. You're a showoff by nature."
She scoffed and hit him on the shoulder. "I am not! I'm only confident in my abilities, and when I see someone doing things wrong, I have to correct them – for the sake of knowledge, Draco. For the betterment of society." She sniffed, holding her head up high like she did when she was feeling defensive or self-righteous. "You're the arrogant toe-rag that likes to brag about your abilities. Don't cast aspersions onto my character simply because you don't want to admit to your own flaws."
"My own flaws?" he asked incredulously, putting a hand to his chest. "I beg your pardon? I don't have flaws. Flaws are so…common."
He counted it as a personal triumph when she giggled. "Oh yes, and the great Draco Malfoy is anything but common."
"Damn right," he muttered with a small smile. "So, if we're going to do this whole 'let's catch teenage Voldemort's attention so that he'll be intrigued so that perhaps we can somehow use it to manipulate him' thing, then I think you should definitely use your rightful wand, Hermione." He looked over his shoulder at her and caught her frown.
"I know," she said, sighing. "I don't really have much of a choice. I've already double-checked with Bellatrix's wand – it's not fixable. It was cracked vertically and horizontally, and there's no mending it. I've already used the pink ivory wand for Transfiguration this morning. Riddle hasn't seen it yet, but no doubt the rumor mill has done its work and he'll know about it soon if he doesn't already, which means he'll find some subtle, insidious way to ask me about it and try to glean more of my story from me. I think I frustrate him. Tom Riddle is very used to getting what he wants, and I think he's less than pleased that he doesn't know much of anything about us. No doubt he already has people in the system looking into our pasts, but I've fabricated everything, and made things purposefully vague. I did the bare minimum when it came to our identities. Just enough so that we can have a future here and not have to worry about the logistics."
Draco did not mention the elephant in the room: that he was dying and therefore wouldn't have a future here. It seemed unnecessary to bring it up. He knew that Dumbledore had given Hermione a pass to the Restricted Section and had been researching his condition already, but he knew his aunt well enough to know that whatever curse she had cast was meant to kill, no doubt slowly and painfully. It was odd, knowing he was going to die. It was different during war, when you expected sudden death at any time. Dying slowly in a place of peace was far different, and he had not prepared himself for this sort of leisurely demise as he had for a quick Avada Kedavra to the back.
"I'm sorry I missed your birthday," Draco said quietly. "How are you doing – you know, with everything? I know you don't like to talk about it, and we don't have to, but I just want to make sure that I know how best to be there for you. It's a tough time of year for me, too, just knowing that you're in such pain."
Hermione smiled down at him, but her eyes were a little watery. He was impressed with her ability to hold it together so soon after the anniversary of Ron's death. "I'm doing all right so far," she said with a sigh. "It's easier, this time. Perhaps it's because I've been so distracted with our situation, but perhaps…well. I don't know. Does that mean I'm…moving on?"
Draco shrugged. "I think it's a step in the right direction. Don't look at it too hard, Granger. Just allow yourself to feel – don't analyze your feelings, and whether they might be right or wrong or just weird. They just are what they are. Let it happen. And if you are moving on, don't be ashamed," he added, knowing where her mind was going. "You aren't leaving your love for him behind, Hermione. You'll always love him. It just means that you're one step closer to letting him become a positive memory, rather than a crippling loss. After some time his absence won't feel so glaringly obvious. And that's natural."
Hermione wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You must think I'm such a crybaby. You've lost people, too. Your parents, Pansy, Blaise, Goyle…I know you've had a tough go of it too, but I never see you cry about it. I'm sorry."
Draco let out a wry chuckle. "I was conditioned, at an early age, not to cry, Granger. But it's different, for you. I held no special love for Lucius; you, more than anyone, know this. I loved my mother, but we were never really close – not like your relationship with your parents. Blaise was never really a friend – more of an ally. I can't say that I knew Goyle particularly well, as he and Crabbe were always thick as thieves growing up. I always saw him as being unintelligent, and I thought myself above him. Losing Pansy was the hardest…especially with, well…" He swallowed. "The way it happened. But don't get any ideas about comparing my loss with yours, Hermione. It's not the same. You've always formed deeper attachments with people than I have."
"But you've formed a deep attachment to me," she said softly. "You love me, right Draco?"
Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. He had always been uncomfortable with displays of emotion, but if there was one person that made those reservations disappear it was Hermione bleeding Granger. She was the only person he had ever formed a deeper connection with, besides maybe Pansy. "Yeah, yeah, Granger, you know I do," he said flippantly. "Don't push your luck."
She smiled and smoothed her hand over his hair. "I love you too, you know."
He felt his throat constrict tightly. He playfully nudged his head back into her stomach. "Keep talking like that, and I'll start to get ideas. Cut it out."
She grinned, and they continued on to the Transfiguration office, pausing in front of the door to knock. The door swung open for them, and as Draco looked through he spotted Dumbledore behind his desk, his wand raised to let them in. Hermione quickly pushed his wheelchair inside. He'd sworn up and down that he was perfectly capable of walking, he'd run all the way down to the lake this morning, thank-you-very-much, but Madam Soranus and Hermione had both been overbearing mother hens and had forced him into the embarrassing contraption.
"Ah, Mister Mallery, Miss Granger, do come in," Dumbledore said kindly, waving his wand and shutting the door behind them, locking it and warding it. "We have much to discuss."
"The understatement of the year, Professor," Draco said as Hermione pushed his wheelchair to rest in front of the desk. Despite having been the one being pushed, he felt like he had been the one doing the pushing. His insides burned and his muscles ached.
Even if no one had told him, Draco would still have known he was dying. He'd known from the minute he'd woken up that morning. His heartbeat was sluggish, it hurt to breathe, and his head was pounding more often than not. And he was finding that he had to pee almost every waking hour.
Hermione, not one to waste time, got right down to business. "So, Professor, you think that our situation is born of traveling across multiple timelines and dimensions into a parallel universe."
"I suspect that Minkowski was on the right track when it comes to the theory of relativity and how it correlates with space-time," he said, nodding.
"Go too far into that frame of mind and you get into things like the string theory landscape and chaotic inflation."
Draco looked between the two, suddenly feeling as intellectual as a mountain troll. "The what and what? Who is Minkowski?"
"In physics, space-time is any mathematical model that combines space and time into a single interwoven continuum," Hermione explained. "Space is considered three-dimensional, while time consists of one dimension – the 'fourth dimension.' Hermann Minkowski proposed the theory for combining space and time into a single manifold in 1908."
Draco stared at her.
She frowned. "On another note, you have Hugh Everett's proposition on many-worlds."
Dumbledore leaned forward. "I'm not familiar with Hugh Everett. Then again, I am not muggleborn like you are, Hermione. Please, explain."
"Everett didn't come up with his theory until 1957, Albus, so I wouldn't expect you to have heard of him," she said in explanation. "The many-worlds interpretation is an interpretation of quantum mechanics that asserts the objective reality of the universal wave-function collapse. Many-worlds implies that all possible alternate histories and futures are real, each representing an actual 'world' – or 'universe.'"
Draco continued to stare. Even Dumbledore was starting to look confused.
Hermione cleared her throat. "In layman's terms, the hypothesis states that there is a very large – perhaps infinite – number of universes, and everything that could possibly have happened in our past, but did not, has occurred in the past of some other universe or universes. Before many-worlds, reality had always been viewed as a single unfolding history. Many-worlds, however, views reality as a many-branched tree, wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized."
"So basically, we are in a completely different world," Draco hedged, feeling like a fish out of water. "The same planet, the same characters, and the same projected path – but things could easily unfold differently than they do in our timeline." He paused. "So nothing we do here will change the future we came from?"
"The future we came from is still unfolding precisely how it was when we left," she answered. "However, time is not necessarily running at the same speed. Hence why we've been here for a week and a half, and when Macnair and Rowle came through this morning only minutes had passed in that timeline. A couple of hours, at most, judging by the state of the cut underneath Macnair's eye. Five years here might only translate as a month over there."
"But normally these universes wouldn't affect one another."
"No," she said, biting her lip. "Fawkes ripped us from one universe and into another, however, meaning that this timeline is 'contaminated,' so to speak. Things might be a bit tangled. And who knows how many other parallel universes we had to come through to get to this one."
"There is a possibility that this particular universe is not one of the ones adjacent to your original one," Dumbledore added, looking thoughtful. "However, considering that two others from your time wandered through a hole in the fabric of space-time, I find it unlikely that they are too far removed from one another. Besides, I doubt Fawkes has the kind of power to cross multiple bubbles of space-time."
"Assuming that the parallel timelines are linear," Draco said, beginning to understand.
"Assuming that, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "At least operating under this theory, the grandfather paradox is not even something that needs to be considered."
Draco nodded. "Meaning that nothing we do in this timeline will prevent us from being born – seeing as we were conceived in another dimension of space-time." He paused. "Am I getting this right?"
"For the most part, yes," Hermione responded. "Despite its title, the grandfather paradox does not exclusively regard the impossibility of killing one's own grandfather to prevent one's birth," she said. "Rather, the paradox regards any action that alters the past. Another example would be using scientific knowledge to invent a time machine, then going back in time and – whether through murder or otherwise – impeding a scientist's work that would eventually lead to the invention of the time machine. An equivalent paradox is known in philosophy as auto-infanticide, going back in time and killing oneself as a baby.
"A variant of the grandfather paradox is the 'Hitler paradox' or 'Hitler's murder paradox,' a fairly frequent trope in muggle science fiction, in which the protagonist travels back in time to murder Adolf Hitler before he can instigate World War II. Rather than necessarily physically preventing time travel, the action removes any reason for the travel, along with any knowledge that the reason ever existed, thus removing any point in travelling in time in the first place. Additionally, the consequences of Hitler's existence are so monumental and all-encompassing that for anyone born after the war, it is likely that their birth was influenced in some way by its effects, and thus the grandfather paradox would directly apply in some way.
"What we're dealing with is another variant entirely: a parallel universe approach to time travel. When the time traveler kills their grandfather, they are actually killing a parallel-universe version of their grandfather, and the time traveler's original universe is unaltered."
"So I could, in theory, hunt down my grandfather right now and murder him, and while I wouldn't be born in this timeline I wouldn't disappear because I came from a different timeline that would remain unaffected by what I do in this one," Draco projected; he made sure not to mention that his grandfather was Abraxas Malfoy, who was currently twenty-two and recently engaged to a much younger French witch who was still at Beauxbatons; they would end up marrying in the spring of 1952, and his father would be born two years later.
"Precisely," Hermione confirmed. Draco nearly smiled at the eagerness and determination in her expression. He enjoyed Hermione like this: brain working impossibly fast, eyes alight with passion and intelligence. She was in her element when in discussion with fellow intellectuals.
"However, say time-turners allowed for more than a few hours of time-travel," Dumbledore interjected, "and I used one to go back in time. I would be going back in time in this timeline, and then the grandfather paradox would become a very relevant thing that would need to be discussed. Then you get into the question of whether or not time can actually be changed, or if the future was as it was because of your time-travel in the first place. There is a thought that basically, if you travel to the past, you were always in the past, and the timeline would unfold exactly how you'd seen it unfold in the future that you'd come from."
"Which is unlikely here, because if that were true, Dumbledore would undoubtedly have recognized us growing up as the two people who had mysteriously arrived at Hogwarts in 1944," said Hermione.
"That really doesn't mean much, Hermione," Draco said with a snigger. "Future Dumbledore never would have let on that he knew such a thing."
Hermione grinned at Albus, who looked equal parts amused and frustrated that they knew his future self so well. "You do become very diabolical, Professor," she said. "Not that you aren't that way already." She looked over at Draco. "Even if Dumbledore knew and kept it to himself, you better believe that You-Know-Who would have done something about it. He spent years fighting against us. He would have recognized us as soon as we hit puberty, if not before."
"You-Know-Who?" Dumbledore said, raising his eyebrows. "Once again, though you have made sure to shield many images from me in the memories you have allowed me to view, I assume you speak of Tom Riddle – unless the villain you have been hinting at this entire time is Grindelwald?"
"I still don't think it is wise to say one way or the other, Albus," Hermione said, looking uncertain. "I'm still trying to determine how to go about keeping this future from looking like the one we came from."
"What I have seen from your memories does not look good, I will admit," Dumbledore said quietly. "Speaking of not looking good…your condition, Mr. Mallery, is quite grave." He stood, walked over to a small table pushed up again the wall, and lifted two books, one as thick as the width of Draco's hand and one as thin as the width of his pinky. He came back to his desk and set them down gently. "I know you've been doing some research on your own, Miss Granger, but I took the liberty of getting in touch with Lancelot Prewett, an acquaintance of mine at St. Mungo's. He recommended these two books, among others – unfortunately, these are the only ones out of those he mentioned that we carry in the school library. I've also sent word to a good friend of mine who has endless connections, Gerald Snigget – he gave me a name that I think would be worth following up on." He handed Draco a strip of parchment, on which was written the name Octavius Barenbolm in neat, spidery script. "He's a German curse-breaker who works out of Tangier. I'm working on getting a portkey for the two of you. He might be able to shed some light on your condition, Mr. Mallery; though from all of the reading I have been doing on your behalf these last few days, and what Miss Granger has been researching, I cannot say that I hold out much hope of anyone knowing anything. Especially considering that the curse you were hit with was cast by a witch from the future – something she very well may have come up with herself. If it hasn't been invented yet, then there isn't a known counter-curse."
Draco sighed. "Knowing her, she didn't ever intend on producing a counter-curse," he muttered bitterly, thinking of his deranged aunt. "Thank you for all of the time and effort you've spent helping us, Professor Dumbledore," he continued. "I know how many things you have to worry about these days, and it means a lot to both of us that you've taken such an interest in us."
Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I admit that Grindelwald has become frighteningly bold these last few months. For the past several years he has stayed on the continent, keeping away from England because, well – I suspect he doesn't much fancy having to deal with me, to be honest, and the feeling is quite mutual." He leaned back in his chair. "But he has sent agents to Britain, and I've heard rumors that he will not leave our island alone for much longer. Which means he has decided to face me. Ultimately, I fear I will have to duel him." He cleared his throat. "But enough of all that. An old man shouldn't burden his students with such things."
"All due respect, Professor," Draco countered, meeting his old headmaster's eyes, "you aren't likely to find many others that understand your situation as we do."
"Please do feel free to share things with us, Albus," Hermione said softly. "I know you tend to be secretive by nature, but there isn't a whole lot about your past – or present, or future – that we aren't privy to." She paused. "We know about your childhood, and about your relationship with Grindelwald. I won't mention it again, because I know it's sensitive, but attempting to hide things from us that we already know seems counterproductive."
"Besides," Draco said, rubbing his chin, thinking back to everything he'd learned about his old headmaster over the years, "In our timeline, Grindelwald never made it back over to Britain after rising to power; like you said, Dumbledore, he doesn't want to face you. In our time he stayed on the continent for the most part, with a brief foray into America in the 1920s. That means that even before our arrival here, this timeline was different."
"It's impossible to know what's changed," Hermione said softly. "Little things, like the fertilization of an egg, even; a classmate of ours that was a girl in our original timeline might end up being a boy in this one, or might have a twin sister or something of the like. We just can't know."
"That makes things even less stable for you, I fear," Dumbledore said sagely. "You know how the future unfolds, but some details are different. Say a young muggleborn boy, before he learns of the wizarding world, gets hit by a car and dies in your timeline. In this one, the car is running five seconds behind, and the boy survives, and grows up to be Minister of Magic someday; or the next dark wizard – perhaps Gellert's protégé. So assuming you know how things go and acting accordingly might get you into some serious trouble."
"We'll try to adjust our thinking to allow for those possibilities," Hermione said, nodding, looking determined; but Draco could see the insecurity in her eyes. "But it's something I hadn't really thought of until now. It does complicate things."
"As if things aren't complicated enough already," Draco said sarcastically.
Hermione reached over and clasped his hand. "We'll figure this out, Draco. We're going to do everything we can to make things work. All my spare time has been reading up on time-travel, dark curses and phoenixes."
"I understand that Fawkes was responsible for bringing you here," Dumbledore said, looking at the perch where his brightly plumed companion usually sat, "but I sense there is something more to it."
Hermione grimaced, and Draco met her eyes. How much should they tell him?
"Might as well, Hermione," he said, shrugging. "He might have some insight. I'm at a loss when it comes to your condition."
"Condition?" Dumbledore said, looking at Hermione with sharp, curious eyes. "You have my undivided attention, my dear."
Hermione swallowed. "Well, the Fawkes from our timeline didn't just bring us here…he kind of…stuck around, so to speak." Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, and Hermione continued, telling him the story of how Fawkes had come to reside inside of her, where he currently simmered, seemingly looking on through her eyes with mild interest as they discussed him.
"My, that is curious," the older professor said. He stroked his beard and stared at Hermione. "If you would be amenable, I would like to do a couple of tests with you."
"Tests?" Hermione said suspiciously, plucking at her sleeves anxiously. "What kind of tests?"
"I'd like to try to determine the scope of your abilities," he explained. "Phoenixes are remarkable creatures, and you currently house the spirit of one within your body. Also, Fawkes brought you here for a reason, though I can't begin to imagine what it might be. Perhaps this was his chance to give you a second start in life?"
Draco shook his head. "He would have brought Po –"
"Draco!" Hermione hissed, and Draco caught his slip of the tongue just in time. "Best not go throwing around names like that," she said, referring to Harry. "However, you're right: if Fawkes had wanted to give us a new life, he would have brought him, too. He loved Ha –" She cut herself off, almost making the same mistake Draco had. "Well, he loved him, and knew that Dumbledore did as well. Fawkes never would have left him behind. That can't be it."
"I will think some more on it," Dumbledore said, looking painfully curious about the name they had almost mentioned – a name that might be dangerous if anyone, namely one Tom Riddle, were to find out about what the boy might do in the future – but not asking about it. "If only Fawkes could talk."
"He's more cryptic than you ever were," Draco said cheekily, rolling his eyes. "No offense, Professor."
"None taken, Mister Mallery," the old wizard returned, looking amused. "Regardless, I would like to try a few things with you, Hermione, if you would be interested in perhaps learning exactly what you can do with these new powers Fawkes has given you access to. You already said that he has loaned you a little extra power on a couple of occasions. I'd like to see just how much he might let you tap into that."
Hermione bowed her head in acquiescence, though Draco could see how nervous the proposition made her. "When would you like to start?"
"Tomorrow morning, if you'd like," Dumbledore suggested. "We can spend an hour or two doing some preliminary tests and see what we find, and then we can make plans for later meetings, if needed. I am headed to the Ministry tomorrow afternoon to get that portkey for Tangier – I've set it up to leave next Friday at twelve noon from the Hog's Head, and you will catch a portkey home from the Moroccan Ministry on Sunday at three o'clock in the afternoon, at which time it will bring you back to the Hog's Head, where you will be received by either myself or another professor. I wish I could go with you, and Headmaster Dippet will no doubt be displeased that you will not be chaperoned, but I hardly think the two of you need an attendant, do you? I am quite certain you can take care of yourself."
"I think we can probably handle it," said Draco dryly. "Has Madam Soranus been notified of this little excursion, or are you just waiting until we're actually gone to tell her and the headmaster? I doubt she'll be as easy to manipulate into submission as Dippet will, especially with how overbearing and mothering she's been with my condition and me. It's already driving me crazy, and I've only been awake for a few hours."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Very astute, Draco. Don't worry about Soranus – I have already sat down with her and discussed the trip. She thinks you will be able to handle the stress of portkey travel just fine by next Friday, but she isn't a hundred percent sure. She has agreed to keep the journey under wraps from all others, for now; the only ones that know you are going are Soranus, Professor Merrythought, a couple of Ministry employees that may or may not have been Confunded, and myself. However, Soranus would not agree unless she was given the right to deem you unfit to travel after all – she won't know for sure until she can better see the progression of the curse. For now, Mister Mallery, I would suggest a very strict potion, diet and exercise regimen that will get your stamina up a bit. If she sees you walking around and attending classes, she will be more likely to let you travel next week. Otherwise, Hermione will go alone, though sending a student to another country by herself goes against every instinct I have as a professor – even if said student can take care of herself better than most of the adults I know." His eyes twinkled at them, and they both smiled at him gently. "Now: any questions?"
Draco shrugged. "A million more than I can ask, Professor, but nothing urgent. Hermione?"
She sighed and stood up, stretching. "I suppose I'll see you in the morning, Albus. What time, and where?"
"Meet me here at my office at nine," he said, standing with her. Hermione took the handles of Draco's wheelchair and turned him towards the door. "And wear something that you don't mind potentially damaging, if you will."
She turned and smiled at him, and Draco did the same. "Thank you again, Professor. You enjoy the rest of your afternoon."
"You do the same, Miss Granger," he returned with a gentle smile. "And you as well, Mister Malfoy."
Draco jolted in his chair, then turned around and narrowed his eyes. "What did you call me, Professor?" he said, his heart beating fast in his chest. How…?
"Did I say Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked cryptically. "Beg pardon. Silly me. I meant Mallery." He shot Hermione and Draco an infuriating wink. "Have a good day, both of you. Do try to keep out of trouble."
"Yes, Professor," they both replied, resigned. Of course, Draco suddenly remembered that, even without using Legilimency, Dumbledore just knew things. Bloody old fool.
He shut the door behind them, and Hermione just looked at him. "Did he get inside your head?"
Draco glared at her over his shoulder as she began to push him down the hall. "Don't insult me, Hermione."
She pouted. "How did he know?"
Draco shrugged, wincing as he found another muscle that was sore. "He taught my grandfather in school, I reckon. I saw pictures of Abraxas as a young man. He looked very much like my father and me – only broader. I suppose it wasn't too hard of a connection to make."
Hermione sighed. "Let's just hope no one else makes the same connection," she said lowly.
"Let's hope," he murmured in agreement. He could not help but feel extremely uneasy as they made their way back to the hospital wing for his afternoon check up and dose of potions.
Just how on earth were they going to make this work? It seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. He could feel the edge on which they very precariously sat. It was not a comfortable position to be in.
He never thought he would wish for war; but he knew war. It was an old friend. He barely remembered how to function in a school environment, and it was made all the more difficult to adjust knowing that Lord Voldemort, younger and more inexperienced than the one he knew from back home but no less powerful, slept one floor below him; and that his deadly serpent lie deep beneath the lake, just waiting once more for the day in which she would be allowed to roam the castle freely again and continue eliminating muggleborns at her master's behest.
Hopefully, in this timeline, she wouldn't be woken again until 1992, as it had been in their old timeline. Because no matter what sort of research Hermione and Dumbledore had been doing and would continue to do, Draco just knew that he would die…and therefore, thank Merlin, he wouldn't be around to deal with it.
Because if there was one thing Draco hated, it was a big bloody snake…though as a Slytherin, he would never be caught dead admitting it. That was one secret he would take to the grave.
oooo
Yes, I know that both Professor Burke and Professor Beery have the same first name. That was sort of accidental, but it's too late now. My bad.
Also, I know it was probably silly of me not to mention it, but I kind of hope you all assumed that Hermione casts the Muffliato charm any time she has a private conversation with Draco (including the one-sided ones). Idk, I figured it was kind of like a "duh" thing. Also, I just wanted to point out that Hermione has been researching Draco's condition; I just didn't really feel like writing about it because it sounded sort of mundane. I thought I'd hinted at her doing some extracurricular reading because of all the library books checked out, but I think my hints weren't obvious enough. But I'll start being a little more careful about the details from now on.