The next morning, Hermione awoke in a state of dubious fuzziness. Like the last pieces of a puzzle finally being slotted into place, her memories of the previous evening filtered back in sections. She sat up, immediately feeling as if she had been steamrollered by the Hogwarts Express, and groaned. Groggily taking in her surroundings, it took an abnormal amount of time for her to recognize the hangings of her four-poster. I feel like I've been drugged...
When she finally got out of bed, it was done gingerly, like an old woman who had seen far more than her share of the world. The paleness of the sunshine eking in through the tall windows of the dormitory indicated it was still early morning. A glance around the room reassured her that all four of her dorm-mates were still asleep. She looked to the clock; it was barely five, but she was undeniably awake.
Her entire body, but especially at her joints, felt awful. She could almost feel her bones grinding against one another.
Bath, she decided firmly, gathering her things.
The walk to the prefects' bathroom was slow going at first due to how sore she was, but before long she was giving the password to the statue of Boris the Bewildered and heading to the girls' side. Sliding the sign across the heavy wooden door that marked the bath 'Occupied,' she settled onto the long bench to undress while the tub filled up with steaming water and her favorite jasmine-scented bubbles.
She was still wearing last night's clothes, having been too exhausted to remove them before falling into the comfort of her bed. Peeling off her socks, she found that her feet were damp from the previous evening, leaving her skin pale and clammy.
Gross, she thought honestly, wrinkling her nose as she shimmied out of her jeans. She was about to remove her jumper when she noted a long mark on her thigh and leaned down to examine it; it was faded and white, like a scar from many years ago, but she could not remember ever noticing it before. About six inches long and jagged, she traced the scar with her forefinger in confusion.
"Strange," she murmured, "and concerning..."
Furrowing her brow, she reached for the hem of her jumper and yanked it over her head, releasing a faceful of curls into her eyes as she did. She lifted her right arm to push her tangle of locks from her face and noticed with a start that there was now another new scar right beside her 'Mudblood' one. Doing her best to ignore the reminder of Bellatrix's elitist hatred, Hermione ran her fingers over the new marking: a half-moon of pale tissue. It almost looked like she had been struck by something that wore horseshoes, perhaps a handful of years ago…
Like a horse…
…Or a hippogriff.
That was when it clicked. Heartbeat suddenly audible in her ears, she steeled herself before turning over her left arm to look at the inner forearm. There – glowering at her with blatant hatred for her very existence – was the Dark Mark.
She quickly stifled an inadvertent scream. The muffled sound seemed magnified on the tile of the bathroom and ricocheted around, far louder than she would wish.
"Oh no, oh no, oh no!" she gasped, unable to tear her eyes from the horrible blemish.
Just then, there was a pounding on the door and Hermione could hear Draco's voice shouting, "Granger! I know you're in there!"
Hands shaking and mind spinning, Hermione rose with trepidation to make her way to the door. At the last minute, she remembered she was only wearing her knickers and a thin undershirt, so she quickly donned her dressing gown. He pounded on the door again.
Opening the entryway a crack, she peeked out into the foyer. Draco was standing there, looking livid. Despite her immediate protestations, he pushed his way into the girls' bath and shut the door behind them.
"What is this, Granger?" he hissed angrily. His right sleeve had already been rolled up to reveal the hauntingly familiar letters, now carved into his flesh: Mudblood.
Voice shaking, she challenged, "Well... h-how about this?"
She rolled back the sleeve of her dressing gown to reveal the slightly faded, ugly tattoo on the inside of her otherwise-unmarred left forearm, swallowing some bile that rose at her second sighting of it.
Draco stared at the mark for a long moment as if he could not believe his eyes. Eventually, he swore, "Well, shit."
She nodded at his accuracy.
Pulling up his other sleeve, Draco confirmed that his own mark was still there. The identical Dark Marks seemed to leer at one another, but Hermione's eyes were fixed instead on the grotesquely carved 'Mudblood' slur that Draco's right arm now bore, in mirror of her own.
"What have we done?" His quiet whisper pulled her from the dark thoughts swirling through her mind.
Realizing he was asking for her take on their predicament, her mind scrambled for a logical explanation, or at least a decent theory. She hesitated, "Well… you remember the unicorn, of course. If you recall from Ancient Runes, the unicorn's single horn represents the number one, in runic scripture… just like how the runespoor's three heads represent the number three, and the quintaped's five legs represent the number five, and…
"I remember," he interrupted curtly. "Professor Babbling taught us that in fifth year."
"Yes, well, I worry that perhaps we've somehow combined… ourselves. Our bodies, rather, because we were using the essence of Salt. You know - the Body of alchemy?"
He cursed so colorfully then, Hermione disconnectedly thought that even Ron would have been impressed.
When he had finished, she timidly pointed out, "Be thankful we weren't harnessing anything through the Spirit or the Soul."
Draco remained stonily detached from this logic. "What should we do?"
Hermione took a deep breath, "We need to talk to McGonagall. Explain what happened." She glanced down at the Dark Mark burned into her arm and felt again that she might be sick. "See if there's a way we can reverse this."
Her forearm was suddenly cloaked by Draco's hands, as if to hide the mark. She looked up at him questioningly, eyes searching. He explained, "You were never supposed to see it."
"I already knew you had it," she reasoned.
"But you weren't supposed to actually see it." She noticed his own fingers seemed to be vibrating with anger as he rolled down the sleeve of her dressing gown to cover the gruesome brand. "I hate it, too. It's a reminder of…" He stopped short and looked away, though his fingers were still touching her arm.
"Of?" she prompted, feeling he was on the verge of revealing something important.
Begrudgingly he spat out, "Of how many stupid mistakes I've already made in this life. Of the irreparable damage I've caused. Of the evil I've contaminated myself with. Take your pick..."
"Draco," Hermione insisted, taking his quaking hand in both of hers, "no one chooses evil because it's evil, they only mistake it for the good they seek."
His eyebrows contracted together and he glanced up. For a moment, neither of them said a word. Finally, with a sigh, he advised, "Take your bath, Granger. Then we'll find McGonagall, as you suggest… though I suspect we will regret it once her wrath descends on us."
"I am very sore," she admitted, dropping his hand and hoping he understood what she had been trying to tell him. "Every single one of my joints feels like it's on fire… almost like…"
"Arthritis?" he suggested blandly.
"Well… yes, actually."
He looked disgusted with himself, "I'm sorry that you've had that forced on you because of me, too."
She raised her eyebrows, "You have arthritis? But you're only… what? Eighteen?"
"That's what happens when you've been subjected to a few too many Crucio…"
"That's awful!" she gasped, feeling her bones creaking sympathetically. "Why haven't you sought treatment for that? I'm sure there are spells - or at least potions. You could…"
"There are potions, but they can only be used sparingly," he snapped. Softening, he added, "They're very easy to build up an immunity to." He turned away, as if unwilling to accept her compassion. "You'll feel a bit better after a hot bath. I'll meet you outside the door in an hour?"
"Alright," she agreed, watching him go with a kind of morbid fascination.
After he shut the door behind himself, she waited a few moments to be sure he would not come back before divesting herself of her dressing gown and remaining garments.
So this is what it's like being Draco Malfoy, she ruminated, feeling suddenly apprehensive about shedding her knickers and tank top. She did so slowly, the arthritis causing her fingers to feel unsteady even when going about the routine motions of her life. She let out a small gasp when she glanced at her naked self in the mirror, taking note of the long, hairline scar that ran from her right shoulder to her left hip. This must have been from the day Harry attacked him in the bathroom with Sectumsempra…
Her fingers traced the mark, pausing over the place where the scar puckered at her chest, where the wound had been the deepest. Draco was lucky to be alive, with how close it was to his heart. What must those moments have been like for him? Feeling she was somehow violating his privacy, she hastily pulled her fingers away, eyes scanning her nakedness. Between the Sectumsempra scar, the mirrored forearm marks, and the numerous tiny burn-marks that littered her body, left over from when she had been buried in burning treasure at Gringotts only months ago - she felt sullied. Like her body might never be truly clean again.
Turning away from the mirror, Hermione made her way to the bath. Sliding into the gilded bath, she felt instant relief flood her body, especially around her aching joints. Really, she thought sadly as she halfheartedly paddled toward the center of the enormous tub, he must be in almost constant discomfort...
.
.
"I have never, in all my years of teaching, been so impressed by a pair of students' magic and so utterly disappointed at their sheer stupidity at the same time!"
Hermione looked at her feet, tears of shame pricking at the corners of her eyes.
"As prefects," Professor McGonagall continued, nostrils flaring, "you both ought to have known better. Under usual circumstances, I would consider that you would both best be served by stripping you of that rank."
Draco's face remained blank. Hermione let out a small sniffle, but nodded as if she had seen that coming.
"However, because I have a greater desire to keep this foolishness a secret from the rest of the school – lest some truly half-witted students deign to take it upon themselves to emulate you – you will continue with your duties as before. You will not speak of this incident, unless absolutely necessary. I will instead be taking fifty points from Ravenclaw, each." McGonagall's expression softened somewhat. "I will also be pairing the two of you together for the second half of the year in Alchemy, so that you may at least be able to spend an acceptable amount of time attempting to find a way to reverse this debacle."
Hermione's eyes were still rooted to her feet as she struggled to keep her dismay off of her face. Fifty points each would certainly not go unnoticed by their peers… and Ravenclaw had been ahead of the rest, but only just… now they would be last...
All concern over something as trivial as House points dissipated with the professor's next words: "I will, of course, also have to inform your parents."
Draco visibly blanched. "You don't. We're both of age."
Hermione had to admire his courage in contradicting McGonagall when she looked about as affable as a mother dragon whose eggs had been compromised. Still, it was a valid point - she was just glad he had made it instead of her.
"When this school was founded, Mr. Malfoy, there were a great many laws enacted along with it. One such law was that, regardless of age, if potentially irreversible damage were done to a student whilst they inhabit these walls, their guardians must be informed of it. Muggle or otherwise."
"Potentially irreversible?" Draco repeated, looking stricken.
"It is possible that the physical bond you and Miss Granger have so foolishly forged is permanent, yes."
She thinks there's a chance I'll be stuck with that thing on my arm forever. Hermione let out a second sniffle; Draco only continued to scowl.
Professor McGonagall surveyed the pair of them with a stony gaze. "Considering what befell Hogwarts Castle this past May, Mr. Malfoy, you will understand that I am loathe to invite your parents up to the school. Additionally, Miss Granger, as your parents are Muggles they will be unable to set foot onto the grounds."
Hermione could only nod glumly, her gaze arrested by the place on her forearm where her sleeve covered her newly inherited Dark Mark.
"I will therefore be requesting that both your parents meet the three of us in Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon."
Draco stiffened visibly, glancing swiftly to Hermione then back. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Professor…"
"You will forgive me, Mr. Malfoy, if I decide not to take your advice on what may or may not be considered a good idea, in light of recent events," the headmistress answered tersely.
Draco's mouth clamped shut and he, too, began staring at his shoes, though the pink tinge to his cheeks bespoke an unsubtle anger.
"Tomorrow, you will both report to my office at quarter of noon. I do not think the results of this fiasco are likely to strengthen with time, however there may be unforeseen consequences of such an incident. I am friendly with an alchemist who practices out of Ireland, and will be sending him an express owl for advice on what the best course of action might be, going forward."
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione spoke up in a very small voice.
"I trust the lesson here is learned, and I do not need to take further punishment?"
They both nodded.
"Very well. You may leave, Mr. Malfoy. I have one additional thing to say to Miss Granger, in private."
Draco stood, placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder for strength, then seemed to realize what he had done because he quickly removed it and quit the room. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes to Hermione; she nearly felt as if a piece of her aching heart went with him as he left.
The moment the door shut behind Draco, McGonagall turned to her student, "When I requested that you keep an eye on Mr. Malfoy for me, this was not what I had in mind, Miss Granger."
"I'm sorry, Professor," Hermione answered, contrite.
"You have… come to care for him, perhaps?"
"Oh," she gasped, taken aback by the directness of the approach. "Perhaps – I mean, in a friendly way. That is... he is not entirely reprehensible. What I mean to say, is…!"
Professor McGonagall held up her hand, "I understand, Miss Granger. I advise you to be cautious. The Malfoys are an old, wealthy family in desperate need of revitalizing their name to regain some of their social standing, having fallen from whatever grace they once tentatively held. I know I need not remind you of their inherent prejudices - however, as a famous war heroine, you… well, let me just say that the Malfoys have always been willing to play a very complicated, dangerous game of chance. I do not want to see you caught up in that. Again."
Feeling her cheeks reddening at what the headmistress was implying, Hermione first thought to deny any and all involvement with Draco. A niggling thought in the back of her subconscious stopped her, reminding her that if she were not involved with him, none of this predicament would have happened in the first place. She decided only to reply, "Thank you."
"You may go," McGonagall dismissed her.
Shakily, Hermione rose from her seat; the soothing heat from her bath had gone from her bones and they immediately began protesting her movements. She descended the spiral staircase of the office alone, the conversation worming its way through her mind like a despicable disease, poisoning everything it touched.
...It is possible that the physical bond you and Miss Granger have so foolishly forged is permanent, yes...
When she reached the bottom of the moving staircase, Hermione dissolved into the panic attack that had been threatening to overwhelm her the entire morning. Hugging herself tightly, she slid down the wall until she sat on the floor in a heap.
"Breathe…" she whispered to herself in gasps at the same time that her body was wracked with great, ugly sobs. Her tears splashed onto her arms, soaking into the fabric of her fresh jumper. "Just breathe…"
A second body slid down the wall beside her and Draco murmured into her ear, "You may as well get it all out."
Hermione seized his hand and held it tightly, unable to look him in the eyes. Her shoulders shook with despair while her wild hair fell into her eyes and became wet with her crying. They did not speak, though Draco began to rub circles onto her hand with his thumb. Eventually, her breakdown ceased and her body relaxed somewhat.
Once she felt confident that she could control the evenness of her voice, she queried, "Why are you here?"
Draco paused. "Do you… not want me to be?"
She shook her head. "I'm thankful you are, but I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"I'm a mess," she whispered, ashamed.
He released a great gust of a sardonic laugh, replying, "Considering you've got the proof of my former misguided allegiance to a psychotic Dark wizard tattooed onto your arm, I'm wondering how long it will take you to come to your senses and realize that, of the two of us, you are generally far more put-together than I am."
Hermione shuddered, tugging the sleeves of her jumper lower as if she might banish the Dark Mark on her arm by doing so.
"I know how you feel, looking at it," he told her. "I look at it every day and it makes me hate myself. I can feel it crawling on my skin… the way it used to do when He called us. The way it used to when He summoned me to watch him torture my mother… to ensure I worked harder on my impossible task. Most days, I couldn't watch and He would torture me in her place – but it was better than watching. It was always better than watching…"
She raised her red, tear-stained face and observed Draco. He had never been one to share his thoughts willingly; she reflected on how difficult it had been to get a straight answer from him in the past. He almost looked as if he wanted to cry himself, but his face remained stoically dry.
"I think you're brave," she told him honestly.
He released her hand to move it up to the place on her right forearm where they both knew Bellatrix's cursed scar was carved. "I wish I'd been more brave."
This time, she knew exactly what it was that made her lean in to kiss him.
.
.
Author's Note: Alpha credit for this installment is due to MammaWeasley27 for helping me work out several plot bumps that began in this chapter. I did not use a beta, so any mistakes are my own.
Thank you so much to everyone who left a review. You're awesome and I hope you liked this chapter.