May 3, 1998, continued
"A co-conspirator?" Granger echoed, looking searchingly into his eyes. Then she turned away, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Your side won. Harry's dead. The Order is scattered. You have me as a sodding slave, Malfoy. You don't need me as a co-conspirator."
Draco grabbed her wrist, feeling her quick flinch as he made her look at him again. He was not sure whether it was from pain or fear, since the only expression he could read in her brown eyes was defiance. "Granger, I forbid you to repeat or divulge what I am about to tell you to anyone, unless I grant you express permission." His command should protect her - protect them both - from any who tried to subject her to Legilemency or garden-variety interrogation. "Do you understand?"
She dipped her chin in a nod. "I understand, master."
"Don't call me that!" he snapped, not appreciating her sarcasm. "My family lost, Granger. We wanted Potter to defeat the Dark Lord. You were there in the Great Hall when they dragged my dad in. You saw what they did to him."
"Yes," she acknowledged. "No one should be treated like that." Not even Lucius Malfoy went unspoken.
"My mum lied to the Dark Lord, told him Potter was dead in the Forbidden Forest. Even though everyone thinks she was under the Imperius Curse, she's been married off to Nott by now as her punishment. That old bastard is the one who oversaw my father's torture," Draco said angrily.
Granger's eyes widened at the horridness of that.
"He'll kill her," he went on relentlessly. "Just like he killed his first wife. Theo never talked about it, but everyone knew that he could see thestrals from the day he arrived at Hogwarts because he saw Charlus beat his mum to death."
"I'm sorry," she offered inadequately.
"It's not your fault, Granger," Draco said stoically. He shook his head, blond fringe falling towards his eyes. "If you'd seen the way that snake-faced freak treated my family - blaming my father because he couldn't get some stupid prophecy the Dark Lord was obsessed with, having my mum flogged after your lot escaped from the Manor, threatening to give me to Greyback . . . ," Draco broke off, breathing hard. "It should be fucking obvious why I want you to help me bring down the Dark Lord."
"If you wanted to see your master defeated, you should have done something beforehand," Granger said bitterly, her sympathy for him apparently having reached its limit.
"Why do you think my mum lied to the Dark Lord?" Draco demanded furiously. "Why do you think I pretended not to recognize Potter when he got himself captured and brought to my house? Why do you think I balked at killing Dumbledore?"
"It's too late, Malfoy," Granger said bleakly. "Harry's dead. That prophecy Voldemort was obsessed with - "
"Don't say his name!" Draco ordered. "We'll both be punished if anyone else hears you!"
Granger glared at him. "Fine, Malfoy!" she huffed. "That prophecy your master was obsessed with said Harry was the only one with the power to defeat him. If Harry couldn't defeat him, anything you or I tried would be hopeless."
To his horror, she started to cry. Acting on instinct, Draco reached out a hand and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "C'mon, Granger," he said in a bracing tone. "You know Divination is a load of hippogriff shite. Did the prophecy actually identify Potter by name? Tell me exactly what it said."
Obediently, she recited it, word for word, and added what she knew about the circumstances in which the prophecy was made.
Draco narrowed his eyes. "So according that fraud Trelawney, we need a wizard, born at the end of July, whose parents defied the Dark Lord three times. Apiece or each?"
"Does it really matter?" Granger asked dully, wiping away her tears.
Draco shrugged. "Maybe. Did it specify the year in which our savior was to be born?" he inquired, not even trying to keep a sarcastic inflection out of his voice. The idea of Potter as the Chosen One had always rankled.
"The prophecy was made in the spring of 1980," Granger sniffled, but at least she was no longer crying. "Harry was born a few months later."
"That's meaningless," Draco said dismissively. "Seers and prophecies don't recognize time in any sensible, linear manner. When they predict an event is imminent, it could be measured in months or even years, or it could be mere minutes."
"But it said 'the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,'" Granger stressed.
"So? Is that how you'd describe a baby being born? Maybe it was talking about some bloke who was walking into the Hog's Head for a drink, or a student who was coming into the village for the next Hogsmeade weekend," Draco argued. "We need a list of wizards born at the end of July, no matter what year."
Granger perked up slightly, perhaps at the idea of a research project. "I know the prophecy could have referred to Neville, too, since he was born the day before Harry, to two Aurors," she offered. Then she frowned. "But it also said 'the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.' He gave Harry the scar on his forehead when he tried to kill him as a baby, but he never marked Neville."
"Longbottom? The Dark Lord marked him today," Draco pointed out. "See, there's always a work-around."
"He marked Neville as a follower, not as an equal," she shook her head.
"I'm not talking about his Dark Mark, Granger," Draco said, just to be contrary as she was. Personally, he could not see the bumbling Gryffindor taking down Voldemort, even with their assistance, though he had rather handily disposed of that snake. "I'm talking about the scar he's going to have around his hairline from wearing a flaming hat. Like a crown."
"Maybe," Granger conceded. "Do you want me to speak to him?"
"No need to be so impetuous, little lioness," Draco cautioned, grinning at how the endearment made her bridle.
"By any chance were you thinking about Longbottom when my aunt questioned you at Malfoy Manor?" he inquired.
His mother had told him Granger had the knowledge to defeat the Dark Lord. Narcissa also had said her sister had seen that knowledge in Granger's mind but dismissed it as a sign that she was losing her mind under the Cruciactus Curse. That could fit with the idea of Longbottom as the savior of the wizarding world, but it did not seem quite right to Draco.
"When Bellatrix tortured me, you mean?" Granger corrected him, not mincing words as she reflexively rubbed the slur scarred into the inside of her arm.
Draco nodded. "Yes. Were you thinking about Longbottom?"
She looked at him as though he were mental. "No."
"What were you thinking about, then?" he asked.
Granger looked down. "I don't remember," she muttered in an obvious lie.
Draco frowned, but did not call her on it. "It's important, Granger," he urged. "Why don't you take a shower and try to remember? The hot water may help you focus." It also was a small step to help build her trust. Plus, the witch was desperately in need of a wash.
"Alright, Malfoy," she agreed dully, standing and swaying on her feet from exhaustion. Draco realized she probably had not slept in two days. She caught herself with a hand on the back of the sofa before he could do anything. "Where's the loo?"
He pointed her in the right direction. "Through the bedroom."
She bit her lip. "Malfoy, do you have any dittany? I need to heal the cut on my leg, but I lost my bag during the battle."
"I'll check my godfather's storage cupboard while you're in shower, to see what I can find," he promised. "Or I could just heal it myself," he offered, with a roguish grin. He would not object at getting Granger to spread her supple thighs for him, for whatever reason.
"In your dreams, ferret boy," she shot back, turning red to the roots of her hair. "You could also give me my wand back, so I could heal it myself."
"I'd be willing to enter into negotiations," Draco replied, suppressing a smile. Granger was cute when she was angry. "For starters, I prefer not to be reminded of my brief time as a rodent."
"F-fe-fucker," she managed to get out. "You know you loved having an excuse to get into Crabbe's pants."
"Go take a shower," he told her, rolling his eyes. "You're even more filthy than usual, and it's making you tetchy."
The bedroom door closed behind her with more force than necessary. Draco remained seated on the couch, until he heard water running through the pipes. Then he tossed back his third cognac of the evening and poured a fourth, sipping it with his feet on the table, a slovenly posture his mother would have deplored. He shook his head, not wanting to think about his mother trapped in Nott Manor or what she might be forced to do there to survive. Draco shivered and lifted his wand to wordlessly light a fire in the grate, telling himself that the chill in Hogwarts' dungeons lingered well into May.
Shifting his thoughts to the witch presently scrubbing herself in the shower in the next room over was equally discomfiting. The brand on Granger's back was a pernicious thing, made even worse by how subtly it allowed him to control her. By rights, she should have spent the evening screaming at him and trying to escape. Instead, she had sat next to him and carried on a reasonably cordial conversation - just as he had suggested they do. With no hesitation, Granger also had shared the secret prophecy with him, just because he had told her to tell him what it said. The knowledge that Neville could be a substitute Chosen One was invaluable, literally worth his life.
Of course, Granger knew he had given her certain direct orders - to not kill him, and to refrain from calling him master or ferret. She had not recognized Draco's more subtle manipulations, in the form of the casual sort of instructions people gave to one another in everyday conversation. The brand on her back made her obey those as commands. Draco knew Granger would be furious when she realized what he was doing, even if some of it was inadvertent. He doubted she would give him any credit for the restraint he had shown - after all, he could have just ordered her to tell him whatever it was she knew and was hiding from him that might be useful in defeating the Dark Lord. But Draco had meant what he said - he wanted her as an equal and willing co-conspirator, with her formidable intelligence firmly on his side.
Making a noise between a groan and a sigh, Draco pinched his nose in frustration. When he was younger, perhaps thirteen or so, he would have reveled in the idea of having a feisty witch like Granger at his beck and call, especially after she had punched him. Now, a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, having grown up fast with a monster living in his house, the reality of it sickened him.
Even worse, while his younger self would have had no idea what to do with a girl, older Draco knew exactly what he would like to do to Granger. He could not stop thinking about her naked in the shower, with soapy water streaming down her fantastic legs as she rinsed. He was vaguely ashamed that he had been so aroused and gotten off so quickly in the broom closet, with no spells required despite Granger's patent fear and disgust. Draco never wanted to be a wizard like that. He was going to keep his word not to touch her like that again without her consent, which he expected would be forthcoming right about never.
The flames in the fireplace flickered green. With no other warning, Draco was greeted with the unwelcome sight of Amycus Carrow's piggish face, with the man's plump lips clamped around a Muggle cigarette. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust, even though the smell of smoke could not travel through the Floo.
"What do you want, Amycus?" he asked coldly. The shower still was running, and Draco was getting anxious to check on Granger. He had not prohibited her from harming herself, thinking it unnecessary, but she had had more than enough time to get clean and for a good cry.
"Just to tell you that the Dark Lord wants to meet with us tomorrow at noon, to discuss how he wants to run Hogwarts," Amycus replied. He looked avidly around the room. Voyeur that he was, he was clearly disappointed that he had not interrupted Draco shagging Granger.
"Fine," Draco said dismissively.
"Where's your Mudblood?" Carrow demanded. "I thought you'd be busy all night, fucking her six ways 'til Sunday."
"It is Sunday," Draco drawled obnoxiously. "I've gotten her a bit dirty, so I told her to go take a shower. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be off tupping your bint?" He had nothing against Hannah Abbott, but the shower had just stopped running. Now he was worried about Granger coming into the room and saying something that made it clear their relationship was not one of master and slave, and he wanted to get rid of Carrow quickly.
"Jugson's taking a turn," Amycus said casually.
"You're not man enough to keep even a Hufflepuff satisfied?" Draco jibed.
"I fucked 'er bloody, I did," Amycus boasted, "but I'm not so young as I used to be. I need some time to recover before I go again, and I owed Jugson ten Galleons. He'll take repayment in quim instead of quid." He gave a coarse laugh at his own joke, while Draco looked at him with a stony expression.
"Malfoy?" Granger called from the bedroom doorway. In the fireplace, Carrow gave an appreciative whistle.
"What, Granger?" Draco spoke harshly as he turned to face her, unsurprised from the lustful look on Carrow's face that she was wearing nothing but a towel. "I'm busy speaking with Amycus," he added by way of warning.
"Oh," she said, clutching the towel tighter. "Er, I just wondered if you had something I could wear to bed."
"Why would I bother giving you clothes to wear to bed when I'm just going to rip them off you?" Draco asked rhetorically, for Carrow's benefit.
While Amycus continued to leer at her, Draco focused on her face as a distraction from her towel-clad body. With the dirt and soot washed off, her pallor was evident, as were the dark circles under her eyes. She looked utterly knackered.
"Go to bed, Granger," he ordered deliberately, wanting her to obey for her own good. Without a word, she turned on her heel and retreated into the bedroom, closing the door sharply behind her.
"Demanding chit, wanting clothes," Carrow chortled. "If she were mine, I'd keep her naked for a couple o' days, teach her a lesson."
"Yes, well, she's mine," Draco said repressively. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to get back to her."
"Yer a randy one, Malfoy! I'll leave you to get to it," Carrow said by way of farewell. Draco locked and warded the Floo as soon as his ugly head disappeared. The Founders must be spinning in their graves to have a lout like that as headmaster. He spared a moment's sympathy for poor Abbott before entering the bedroom.
To his surprise, Granger had left one candle burning so he would not trip finding the bed in an unfamiliar room in the dark. From her even breathing, she was either asleep or pretending to be, curled up in a small ball on the far side of the bed, wearing one of his shirts. Apparently, the Hogwarts elves had brought his clothes over from his old room and Granger had helped herself. Draco shrugged, then shucked off his shoes and clothes, climbing into bed on the other side wearing only his boxer shorts. The house-elves had been busy, since the sheets were his own grey satin rather than whatever his godfather had used. He stretched on the surprisingly comfortable mattress, the familiar texture and scent helping him to relax.
"Nox," he whispered, extinguishing the candle. "Sweet dreams, Granger," he added softly, in case she still was awake and listening.