Apologizing in advance for any overlooked errors. My laptop is still being dumb and feel free to point them out to me.
A guest asked "Isn't this a repost?" Yes, it is a repost. There are eleven more chapters of reposting before there will be new material.
This chapter is, again, fast on the heels of the last, so be sure you didn't miss the chapter named "Ginny." I've put in my two weeks at my second job and will be taking at least a two-week break before starting a new second job - I'll try during that time to have an update twice or three times a week. The faster we get through the 31 established chapters, the faster we can get to the new material. :)
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Narcissa Malfoy tapped her wand against the bedroom door and felt the magic of the Imperturbable Charm as it gave way. The charm was the only thing that would keep her husband's anguished screams from waking Walburga Black's portrait, but it also served another purpose: it gave the married couple who resided beyond it some semblance of privacy in a house where no one wanted them.
The platter she held in one hand overbalanced as she pushed against the handle, the kettle and flatware it supported sliding precariously to one end before she righted it just in time to stop the dishes from tumbling to the floor.
Damn, Narcissa swore inwardly. As often as she had been bringing Lucius' meals to their bedroom lately, she didn't seem to be getting any better at it. She was simply no good at these things - there wasn't a moment in her entire life when she would have been required to carry her own tray of food. She might've asked Kreacher to do it for her, who would have been only too happy to oblige a descendant of the House of Black who wasn't blasted off the family tree, but she had decided it against it. The last thing she needed was to give the rest of the Order another reason to talk about what an insufferable snob she was.
In the darkened room, her husband's trembling form was merely an outline, concealed beneath a tatty, green duvet as he muttered the unintelligible ramblings of a man who was close to the edge. Narcissa placed the tray on the sideboard, recast the Imperturbable Charm, and then fixed Lucius' tea before she approached the bedside.
"Lucius, dear," she said lightly, resting a hand on his shoulder. Her husband flinched violently away from Narcissa's touch and she cringed, drawing in what she hoped was a courageous breath. "Only me, darling. I've brought your tea."
Lucius pushed the duvet away from his face and struggled into an upright position. "T-the potion, Narcissa?" he asked hopefully.
"Severus says it's better not to take it until your stomach's full," she told him apologetically.
"No. I c-can't eat." Lucius objected, but Narcissa was having none of it. She'd not stand idly by and watch her husband waste away into nothing.
"You must," she said emphatically, crossing the room and mercilessly throwing open the drapes. The afternoon sunlight streamed into the cramped room, illuminating the dusty corners and peeling wallpaper. One of the things she missed the most about her home was its tall windows, and even if the grimy panes of Grimmauld Place didn't cast light upon the most beautiful of settings, Narcissa could still appreciate what few blessings she was afforded.
Lucius recoiled, hissing in protest as he covered his eyes with both hands. "My head, Narcissa, you shall make the migraines worse!"
Narcissa spared only a moment to observe Lucius bedraggled appearance: the uncharacteristic limpness of his hair, his unshaven face, and the hopeless expression that now slackened his features. It was the image of a once well-respected man who had fallen from grace, a faded imprint of his former self. Narcissa felt a heart-wrenching pang of longing but turned stiffly away from the sight. Lucius could not be coddled by his wife if he ever hoped to make anything that resembled a recovery.
"And you believe that refusing meals shall make them better? You can't eat in the dark, Lucius. Have your tea," she said harshly.
Narcissa took a few short steps to the sideboard, lifting the plate from the tray and revealing the Black Family Crest that was etched into tarnished silver. She sighed nostalgically - so long ago, these dishes had been elegant; now they were worn and neglected and dingy. Rather like the state of her life, actually.
Behind her, she could hear the tinkling of porcelain dishes as the cup and saucer collided with one another in Lucius' shaking hands. "Narcissa, if I could just…" Her husband trailed off in a quavering voice.
"Yes, dear?" she prompted, not turning away from her task. She was cutting Lucius' food for him, knowing that he would be unable to do so himself. It would be well worth the effort if she could get him to finish his lunch.
"I-f-ffff I c-could just…" he stammered. "If I could just go to him..."
Narcissa stiffened and fixed her husband with a glacial stare through the mirror. "What?" she whispered sharply. She felt as though her heart had stopped beating altogether.
"If I could just return t-to him, the suffering… it would stop!"
She spun around to face him, her pale gaze narrowing angrily as she met his red-rimmed eyes. "Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Have you truly lost your mind?"
Lucius extended a hand toward her, palm turned upward in supplication. "He's calling me, Narcissa. He's angry that I h-have not answered -"
"He is punishing you!" she spat. "He will kill you, Lucius. You know as well as I do that he will not forgive you!"
"My dear," he pled, swallowing back his pain so that he could steady his voice. "If we show him loyalty, he would forgive us. He would. I am sure of it."
Narcissa was more than simply astonished: she was disgusted.
"You think," she began dangerously. "That after our son took the Mark and was given an impossible mission, a task that he was sure to fail under penalty of his death if he was not first killed during the attempt…" She took a step a menacing toward him, gripping the fork and knife with white-knuckled hands. "...after my life was threatened as well as Draco's, after he tortured our son in the presence of his own mother as vengeance for your failure at the Department of Mysteries, you are foolish enough to believe that the Dark Lord would show you mercy?"
"Narcissa," he begged pitifully. "Please, listen to reason. The Dark Lord rewards his most loyal followers - if he knew that I had returned to his side despite Draco's mistake, he would surely -"
"YOU WOULD STAND AGAINST YOUR OWN SON!?" Narcissa shrieked, and Lucius shrank against the headboard, eyeing the cutlery in her hand fearfully. It was indeed rare for his poised and self-assured wife to become so openly vehement about anything, most especially against Lucius himself: she was forever gracious and obedient to him, and Lucius seemed to balk at the very sight of her. "You would seek your own relief rather than sacrifice yourself for your own flesh and blood? For your own child?"
"This is not where we belong!" he shouted.
Egged on by Narcissa's defiance, Lucius' voice had suddenly taken on its former strength, transforming into the deep baritone that she had fallen in love with so many years ago. He seemed to be pushing through his pain, and though his shoulders still faltered uncertainly, he pressed on. "You would have us stay here, where blood traitors and werewolves have overrun your family's home? You would choose to remain with the Order of the Phoenix, rather than be among our own kind?"
"You ungrateful - " she said incredulously. "They have welcomed us despite our former allegiances, they have sheltered us from harm and protected our son, when they rightfully should have killed us, yet you possess the audacity to throw insults against them?
"They are beneath us!"
"They are the reason you are free!"
"It was Draco's choice, Narcissa!" he said desperately, looking very deranged as he threw the duvet away from his body. He retook his feet and rose unsteadily to his full height, knees shaking visibly under his own weight. "I would not have turned my back on the Dark Lord!"
"Draco made a sacrifice!" she screamed. "For us! So that the three of us might make it out of this war alive! As a family. And you would gamble it to return to the Dark Lord's side like an errant dog?"
"Draco ensured that we would not make it out of this war alive because he has chosen the losing side!" Lucius replied scathingly. But upon seeing his wife's imminent explosion, his voice softened. "Narcissa… my love. Please, hear me. They cannot win. They cannot defy the Dark Lord. You know of his power. You have seen, you have witnessed - you cannot possibly believe that Harry Potter can prevail against him."
Narcissa felt as though her blood must be boiling, aware as she was of the heat flowing through her veins and the fury-induced adrenaline that was now causing her extremities to tremble with rage. She pulled in a steadying breath, inclined her chin, and willed herself to regain the collected demeanor that was fitting to her person. "I stand on whichever side Draco stands," she said evenly.
Lucius' shoulders fell and he seemed to sway a bit, as though his legs may give out at any moment. "We shall be safe, Narcissa," he pled. "His most loyal servants -"
"You know nothing of that word" Narcissa interrupted, and the flatware she had been holding clattered loudly to the unpolished floor. "Do not speak to me about loyalty while you stand there and conspire against your own son!"
Lucius' face twisted frighteningly, and for a few terrified seconds, Narcissa thought that she may have crossed so far over the line that he meant to strike her. Reflexively, she brandished her wand directly at his nose - but it soon became apparent that her fear had been the product of her own anxiety and sense of dread.
Of course, her husband had not meant to raise a hand to her. His expression had not even been born of anger at all; their argument had provided a momentary distraction, but Lucius' brief respite from the agony was over as quickly as it had begun.
"AAAAAAGGGHHHH!" he bellowed pathetically, clapping one hand over his left arm, where the Dark Mark had begun to burn with what must have been excruciating pain.
As he collapsed, Narcissa slowly lowered her wand and stowed it in her robes. She bent to his level and scooped her arm under his shoulders, ignoring his heartbreaking sobs so that she could support him back onto the mattress.
She produced Severus' Pain Relieving Potion from her robes, unstoppered the vial and held Lucius' chin steady so that she could pour the violet liquid down his throat. He sputtered, some of the fluid dribbling repulsively down the side of his face as he choked down the potion. The narcotic effect was instantaneous. His eyelids began to droop and he allowed his head to sink into the faded green bedclothes, his writhing and panting coming to a gradual stop. Narcissa let out a deep huff of air as she re-stoppered the bottle and slid it into her pocket.
"Be under no illusions, Lucius," she said coldly. Her husband's gray eyes flicked to meet hers, taking a few moments to register his wife's image before he faded out of consciousness. "If you return to the manor, the Dark Lord will kill you before you even have a chance to take a knee at his feet. And if you believe that I am going to allow you to oppose the Order, you are mistaken. If you decide to fight against Draco, you will have more than one wizard's wrath to fear."
Lucius' lips began to shape a half-hearted reply, but he was gone before he could speak - lost to his nightmares for whatever amount of time the drug-induced euphoria would keep him. For a few long moments, all Narcissa could do was stare down at him, resenting her husband for giving her yet another reason to be afraid. After some deliberation, she opened the bedside table drawer and withdrew from it Lucius' wand, sliding it into her pocket next to her own; she knew better than anyone else that people did horrible things when they felt they were out of options.
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"We're going to try something a bit different," said Granger, flipping her bushy hair over her shoulder as she shed her jumper. If Draco hadn't known better, he would have said she was trying to tempt him - but she was not.
She draped the pink material over one of the chairs and turned to him, her face set into an expression that was much more familiar to Draco these days. It was the one she wore when she was absolutely determined to achieve something, and he felt his lips quirk upward at her tenacity. Her obstinance had once been something that infuriated him, and though it still drove him to his wit's end on many occasions, Granger's unique and appealing personality was something he was finding it more and more difficult to resist.
His eyes flicked down to the dip of her waist and, unable to help himself, Draco grinned. "I thought we talked about this?" he said, tilting his head as his gaze traveled down to her hips. "That you ought to be properly dressed before we start these sessions?"
Granger turned up her nose. "It gets hot," she sniffed, then extracted her wand from the pocket of her Muggle jeans and began pointing it about the room. The furniture obliged her wordless demands, sweeping themselves against the outermost walls so that the witch and wizard were now standing in an open space. The narrow tower suddenly appeared much larger and far less claustrophobic than it had before.
"That it does," he quipped, watching her form as she rotated on the spot. Granger ignored his insinuation.
But it was all just as well, really. Patronus lessons would be a welcome distraction from the furiously churning cogs of his mind, which always kicked into motion as soon as he touched her. He needed something else to focus on, anything that would keep him from acknowledging his actual thoughts on the issue of their relationship: Draco was anxious and had been ever since Blaise, Tracey, and Daphne had confronted him about Granger - a situation made much worse by the fact that the Weasley girl had demanded that Granger confess to her friends what was really happening.
He did not know what to make of it. Even worse, Draco was painfully aware of how much of a hypocrite he really was when it came to her. He'd called her a mudblood behind her back, and all because he'd been too afraid to admit the truth. As many times as Draco told himself that he'd used the slur to protect Granger's own desire for secrecy, he knew that it was a fraudulent cover for his own embarrassment. Draco could lie to anyone, but there was no way he could lie to himself… and it was becoming impossible to lie to her either, which made him more than a little insecure when it came to his own manipulative Slytherin ways. Granger would be outraged if she found out: it was even possible that she would refuse his advances altogether.
To his deep chagrin, the thought that she might close herself off to him was quite as terrifying as the imminent probability of their true relationship being revealed - which was, of course, contradictory to what Draco himself had required of her, and that deep-seated fear felt very traitorous indeed. There were many things about his personality, allegiances, and even his beliefs that had changed or were changing, but was he truly willing for his prestige to be among them?
Admittedly, his family's reputation had begun to crumble more than a year ago and had since been dashed in the eyes of anyone whose loyalties lay with Voldemort. But if his relationship with Granger came to light, things would get much worse from there. Neither of the dunderheads she called friends were very good at keeping secrets. Once they knew, how long would it be before Draco's parents learned about his indiscretions? Draco's housemates were one thing… but Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were another.
Naturally, he told Granger none of this.
He was sure he wanted her, and the sentiment was not limited to his own sexual desires - that much was obvious. What he didn't understand was why. Hermione Granger was undoubtedly an extraordinary witch, but Draco also knew that you couldn't just feel something about a person without having a firm grasp on the reasons behind it… 'there's just something about her' seemed a pathetically weak argument.
He realized, then, that the girl in question had begun to circle slowly around him, tapping her wand against the palm of her left hand.
"You do know you're going to need your wand for this, don't you?" she said from somewhere behind him.
Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Really, Granger. Do you need a wand to do magic?" he replied sarcastically.
Granger's pacing had brought her back round into his line of vision. "You're the one who was unprepared, Malfoy."
Grumbling, he dug into the pocket of his trousers and produced it. "As I said, I might not have been so distracted if you'd just -"
"Close your eyes," she said bossily.
Well. Maybe he didn't like her that much.
Reluctantly, he let his eyelids fall shut - and it was only because the two of them were safe in their own common room that he did so. In his own mind, he remarked quietly that it was quite a telling gesture. Just a month ago, he'd never have let this woman out of his sights even for the space of a heartbeat, and nevermind actually closing his eyes, while she was in the same room as him.
"Okay," she said softly. "I think I've figured out what your problem is."
"Been thinking that much about me?" He smirked.
"Hush," she said shortly. "Since you say it isn't your memories, although I'm fairly positive it is -"
Draco cut her off. "It's not."
"Don't interrupt, Draco," she said airily. "I think that there may be a connection between your Occlumency skills and your inability to cast a Patronus. In order to occlude, you have to be able to shut out all of your emotions -"
"Which is counterintuitive to the happy memories you need to summon for a Patronus," Draco finished for her.
"Right," she conceded. "Sort of."
"That's a good point, Granger," he admitted readily. "But there's just one problem."
Though he could not see her, Draco could feel the heat of her eyes as she watched him expectantly. "Which is…?"
"I haven't been using Occlumency."
"Are you sure about that?" she challenged. "Isn't it possible that you've been employing it subconsciously?"
Draco snorted. "No, Granger. It isn't. Occlumency is a conscious effort."
"Not entirely," she explained as she circled him. "Granted, I'm not very good at Occlumency myself, but I've read all about it -"
"I'm sure -"
"- and I know that a particularly skilled Occlumens can block out his thoughts continuously."
Draco opened his eyes and saw that she had halted in front of him. They were separated by at least a yard, but even from here he could see her freckles. And her scars. And the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the wayward strands of her disarrayed hair. "I'm not sure that you really understand, Granger," he said finally. "Occlumency is not an easy branch of magic, by any means. It's trying. Draining. I would know if I was expending that much of myself."
A small grin was tugging on her lips. "Have you ever actually read any material on it?"
Draco gave an exasperated roll of his neck; he thought he knew where this conversation was headed. "No. I didn't need to read about it. My aunt Bella taught me after I became a Death Eater and it didn't take me very long. I was -"
"A natural?" she supplied, eyebrows raised superiorly.
He regarded her smugly. "Right. That's what Bella said, at any rate."
"That's exactly my point," said Granger. "Most of the authors of the books I've been researching all agree that natural Occlumenses can block their thoughts, memories, and feelings without giving it much thought at all."
Draco shook his head dismissively. "Occlumency is the art of defending your own mind against the attack of Legilimency. There just isn't a point to occluding at all times, Hermione, unless I was in Voldemort's presence twenty-four hours out of the day -"
"But what if a person who was a natural Occlumens was in constant danger at all times, Draco?" she argued logically. "What if he was young and perhaps not the most experienced yet, and couldn't really tell the difference? And maybe he's always on guard, always standing behind a shield no matter where he goes or who he's with? I'm talking about someone who's innately defensive. Someone who can easily shift his emotions to a place where they can't be reached, because he's gone his entire life doing it. Someone like you."
Draco narrowed his eyes at her thoughtfully, wholly unsettled by Granger's apt description of himself and unable to entirely discount her very pragmatic theory.
"You think I'm occluding unintentionally," he stated. "If that were true… I wouldn't even be aware of my own feelings. I wouldn't even know what I'm thinking. When you practice Occlumency, you're literally shutting things out so that they can't be accessed by anyone. That includes yourself. I wouldn't even remember things."
"If your mind was occluding of its own accord, you wouldn't have any problem accessing your own thoughts and memories because as soon as you needed to recall them, they would present themselves to you without any issues," she said eagerly. "It would be seamless, Draco, don't you see?"
Draco could tell by the light flushing in her cheeks that Granger was getting into the full swing of her theory. He needed to stop her before she gained too much momentum, lest she drag him into this speculation with her.
"You're getting ahead of yourself," he tried. "You haven't got much of a basis -"
She raised one regal finger at him.
"No, you haven't even given it enough thought to discredit it yet, Draco. Just listen," she said firmly.
He tried to protest, but she pressed on so quickly that Draco was unable to get a word in edgewise. "I'd wager that even if you were walking down the corridor - no, even if you were sitting in this very common room - completely unsuspecting and utterly unprepared for an attack - and someone came up behind you to read your mind, they wouldn't be able to see anything at all. And everything else is a side-effect of that."
Draco gave a frustrated sigh. This conversation was becoming rapidly uncomfortable. "So, what? Let's say, purely for the sake of argument, I'm unintentionally occluding. Then what? Wouldn't it be rather a good thing? You would rather I put myself at even greater risk just so I can get in touch with my feelings?"
The bushy haired girl crossed her arms petulantly over her chest. "I think that Professor Snape was right to have us learn the Patronus Charm, given that it's already been made very apparent that the Dementors yield to Voldemort's control," she said coolly. "And I also think that it is very un-Malfoyish of you to possess an inherent power but not want to gain control over it."
Not for the first time during this particular exchange (or any other that involved this stubborn witch,) Draco rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Look, Granger. I'm telling you, you're wrong on this -"
But she cut across him swiftly. "Just try it, Draco!"
He threw his hands up in agitation.
"Try what? Even if I was occluding subconsciously or whatever it is you think is happening, how would I know? That's why they call it 'subconscious,' isn't it? What would I do to counteract something I have no control over?"
"You can control it because you're already an accomplished Occlumens," she reminded him sternly. "Close your eyes, Draco."
He glared irately at her, suddenly wondering how he could even stand to be in the same room as this unbearably headstrong woman. If he was being honest with himself, however, he had to admit that Granger was more than likely on the verge of one of her more brilliant discoveries.
"So… what are you going to do, then?" he asked suspiciously. "Try to use Legilimency on me? I hate to break it to you, Granger, but that spell involves a lot more than just saying the words. Not even an insufferable know-it-all like yourself can just do it effortlessly."
Draco wasn't sure why he suddenly felt the urge to be so rude to her. Was it purely out of his aggravation, or did it have more to do with how close they were coming to having a full-on discussion about Draco's emotions? But even though the jab was meant to be more than a little insulting, Granger didn't look offended at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: she was laughing.
"Oh no, Draco." She smiled. "Even if I was skilled enough to work past your defenses, I'd never try to see something you weren't open to sharing. That wouldn't be decent, would it? You're not going to be blocking out your emotions. You're going to redirect them. Now close your eyes."
Draco took a short moment to consider her, realizing in that moment precisely how different Hermione Granger was from Pansy. His ex-lover was nothing if not prying, always trying to become his confidant and make herself welcome to parts of him which she was not invited to see. It was this detail and so many others like it that made it difficult for Draco to keep himself at a mental distance from Granger.
Shooting her one last skeptical glance, he reluctantly did as she asked. The next time Granger spoke, it was from behind him, for she had resumed her pacing.
"Okay. Just focus on your breathing. Don't think about anything else," she said quietly.
He scoffed. "Breathing, Granger, really?"
"Really," she answered. "You're hardly going to be able to focus on a happy memory if you're still all wound up. Now breathe. Slowly."
"This is stupid," he said, irritated.
"We'll see about that after you try to cast the charm, won't we?"
Fine.
Draco inhaled deeply and was about to expel the breath when Granger's voice shattered his concentration.
"Not with your chest, Draco," she said in her characteristically bombastic tone.
"Well, what the bloody hell else am I mean to breathe with, Granger?" he burst out. Merlin, but she is annoying…
"Calm down," she said patiently. "Breathe with your stomach."
He pulled in another deep breath, this time dragging the air down toward his middle. By the time he had pushed it back out and cycled it through a few more times, he was shocked to find that the tight hold with which he'd been grasping his wand had loosened significantly. Riding on the unexpected waves of his relaxation, Draco rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck.
He could feel her in front of him now. Although his eyes were not open, he found that he suddenly had a heightened sense of awareness in more ways than one. He could sense the quiet pads of Granger's bare feet, could even hear the barely-there sounds of the breaths she took as she orbited around him; he found that his own thoughts were more manageable, a deeper and yet vastly more simple reflection of not only his present surroundings but his overall being; the mid-morning light and crisp October breeze that filtered through the open window seemed to be less of a nuisance and more of a comfort. Had Draco always been so tense?
"Good," she said approvingly, and Draco could hear the satisfaction in her tone. "Now… I don't want you to think of a specific memory yet. During what period in your life were you the happiest?"
Draco didn't have to ponder the question. "When I was a kid," he said immediately.
"You don't have to answer out loud if you don't want to, if it's private," said Granger's disembodied voice. "Who were you with when you were the most content? When you had absolutely nothing to worry about?"
He answered out loud anyway. For some reason, he could not think why he should need to keep the memories from her.
"My friends. I was happiest with my friends."
"Not your parents?"
"No," he said, then added, "Well, sometimes, perhaps. But more so with my friends."
"Remember it," said Granger. Directly in front of him again. "Remember being with your friends and nothing else. Don't think about the present and don't think about the future."
Draco was confused. "I thought I wasn't supposed to be blocking anything out?"
"You're not blocking it out. All you'll end up doing is guarding your feelings again," she said with more confidence than Draco felt. "You're directing it."
Draco tried his hardest to focus on memories of his childhood and pushed away thoughts of the inevitable future, trying to recall only the times when he and his friends had been innocent. Before Voldemort. Before any of them were Death Eaters.
He was watching the rain as it pelted against the french doors of the manor, grinning mischievously at his friends - exchanging conspiratorial looks, each of them knowing how furious their parents would be if they ruined their evening robes - and then their silent agreement, the glass doors flying forward when Draco straight-armed it, not looking over his shoulder to see whether his mum had discovered them as they charged forward, out into the rain, drenching their expensive dinner dress. Sliding through the mud the way only children knew how, crashing into the manicured flower beds of the garden, and laughing - uproarious laughing - and then, at last, when they were much too cold to carry on, rushing back into the manor and shivering. Draco, Pansy, and Theo collapsed together in front of the fireplace…
He was with Pansy, hiding under her dining room table, covering his own mouth as Pansy tried to stifle her uncontrollable giggles - telling jokes at her governess' expense as the elderly witch scoured the house in search of them, calling their names frantically.
"She's a right stupid old bat, isn't she?" Draco said, unkind even in those days.
"Shhhh!" Pansy hissed in response, her black hair still long and shining in her youth. "She'll hear you!"
The governess's hideous fuschia heels clicked into the dining room and Draco and Pansy dissolved into a fit of laughter…...
He was playing two-a-side Quidditch at Theo's estate in the summertime, finally eleven years old - flying circles around Theo, who had taken Pansy on his team. She lacked confidence on a broom, however, and much to Theo's consternation was fumbling with the Quaffle - Draco and Vincent were jeering at her misflight.
"Shove off, Draco!" She thrust the Quaffle at Draco's head, and he swerved easily to avoid it.
"You'll have to try harder than that, Pans!" he called, flying ever higher before turning cleanly to the left, arching down in her direction. "I'm going to play for the House team!"
"Sure," Theo yelled from the hoops. "The Gryffindor House team!"
Pansy shrieked with laughter; Vincent guffawed vacuously. Draco seized Vince's Beater's Bat and shot toward Theo, laughing as the dark-haired wizard fled…
It was Granger's voice that brought him back into the present, but he was undoubtedly far more cheerful than before.
"Now think only of your feelings during those times," she said.
From this, Draco understood which words were unspoken: push away the thoughts of who they all would become. Don't block them out, but direct them.
He pictured his memories the way they would appear to him if he were using Legilimency: flashes and images open to him for viewing, some scattered and some in a row, and all he had to do was pick one and it would present itself.
When his grip on the moments of his childhood began slide, the pictures beginning to flicker and fail, he realized that Granger must have been right - he was occluding, and the result was that his feelings were fading with them.
But Granger had been right about something else, too: Draco was a skilled Occlumens, and he could redirect his thoughts just as soon as he could block them.
Deep breath.
He imagined his memories as a timeline, where Draco was centered in the years of his childhood. Rather than acknowledging or dismissing the future recollections, he simply repositioned them, placing them back where they belonged - still existing, still open, but elsewhere.
He was happy. Enjoying the blessed feeling of camaraderie, genuine and not short-lived. He was content.
He was with his friends, his best friends. His only friends. As close as children could be at that age.
"Raise your wand, Draco."
He did.
"Now think of a specific memory. The strongest memory you have," she instructed. Draco wondered distantly whether this was going to work, whether he'd be able to successfully do this under the tutelage of a witch who couldn't even perform Occlumency herself. "Don't open your eyes until you've said the incantation."
He was at Grimmauld Place. Waiting. Sitting morosely in the basement kitchen, pretending to be very interested in the pattern of swirls on the wooden surface of the table. His eyes flicking periodically up to Mrs. Weasley's clock, as though the positions of the Weasley clan would somehow reassure him. Everyone was there - Potter, Granger, and Alastor Moody with his grossly swivelling eye; Draco's disavowed cousin with her stupidly pink hair, the werewolf, and that outrageously gorgeous Triwizard champion he remembered from his fourth year; so many bloody red-heads, clogging up the room, suffocating Draco's airspace. They were all looking at him as though he was less than the dirt beneath their shoes, all suspicious, all hateful.
All waiting.
After what seemed like days, but which Draco knew could not have reasonably been more than half an hour, the front door opened and Draco leaped to his feet, his heart racing wildly, breath bated as the basement door swung forward. First Albus Dumbledore - the man he had tried to kill that night and who had shown Draco kindness anyway - and then Kingsley Shacklebolt, broad-shouldered and stony-faced, leading his mother into the kitchen.
It seemed to Draco that his stomach would fall through his abdomen, so great was his relief - because there she was, finally. Alive, breathing. Styled hair appropriately awry and her robes in disorder, but alive. Harried and confused, but alive.
Living, and unharmed.
It was all he could do not to burst into shameless tears as he tried valiantly to suppress his elation. Rather than suffer the embarrassment, he rushed over to her, taking hold of her shoulders, "Mum -"
Deep breath.
"Expecto Patronum!" he roared, and Draco's eyes flew open to see that the silvery light which had protruded from his wand was trying - definitely trying - to form. Something a tad small, perhaps, but definitely a something. He barely had time to register his sense of exhilaration before the would-be Patronus abandoned its attempts at taking shape, swirled down into a flat mist and, finding nothing to attack, fizzled away into nothingness.
Staring hollowly at the empty space which the mist had occupied, Draco was suddenly filled with intense disappointment. He felt as though all his feelings were magnified to the point of overflow and knew that it must have been the immediate result of gaining more control over his apparent Occlumency. He dropped his wand and paced backward before turning on his heel - all he could think was that he needed to get out of this common room, but when he wheeled around, Hermione had launched herself into his arms, very nearly knocking the wind out of him when she did.
"Draco!" she gasped excitedly. "I knew it! I knew you were occluding! Draco, you were so close -"
Draco turned his face away from hers as her arms looped around his neck. "But I didn't, Hermione," he said dully, not returning her embrace. "I couldn't."
In the recesses of his own mind, Draco knew he was being unfair to her. He knew she didn't deserve this cold refusal, but he could not help his acute sense of disillusionment, or the anger that was welling swiftly in his chest. He would not have been acting this way if it weren't for the rush of emotions that were beginning to overpower him, fervently trying to make a place for themselves after having been concealed for more than a year, unbeknownst to him.
"Draco," she said, placing her hands gently on either side of his face and directing his eyes to meet her own. She seemed to know instinctively what he was feeling, for her empathy was painfully evident in the golden hue of her gaze.
He needed to get out of here - go down to the lake, maybe, and be alone, where he could build his walls back up in peace, without all this damn distraction. He tried to pull away from her, but Granger would not allow it. This intuitive witch had led him to accomplish more than one thing today, and Draco could sense even before she said the words that she was not ready to relinquish her hold.
"Draco," she repeated, and when he finally mustered enough courage to look at her, she slid her hands down to his shoulders and gripped them firmly. She was still smiling, still overjoyed at what she clearly saw to be progress. Still happy. "Stop castigating yourself. You've nearly done it! You know what the problem is now, that you've been censoring your own emotions. All you need to do now is practice."
But Draco knew that this was not true.
"No, Hermione," he said flatly, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "That wasn't the only problem."
Confusion flashed across Hermione's eyes and her face fell. He could practically hear her brain as it spun and whirred, grasping for an answer. "Then, what -"
"It's my memories," Draco revealed, and his gaze flicked away from hers, uncertain if he wanted to share this with her. It seemed such a deeply personal thought that he needed to keep it private, but something in her expression made him reconsider. She was just so accepting, so candid and forthright and trusting… it felt like a gross injustice not to trust her back.
Draco pursed his lips and then, deciding, said, "I know now. Now that I'm… aware. Of everything. I thought my memories weren't the problem because there was no way that I could have felt otherwise - because you were right, I was occluding. But I see now. They aren't enough, Granger. I used the best memory I had."
And then he saw exactly what he had expected of her, the conflicted apology that was ready on her lips and the softening of her beautiful features. The compassion.
And Draco hated it.
"Oh," she said simply, apparently at a loss for words. Before she could open her mouth to speak a second time, Draco wrenched away from her.
"Stop it, Granger!" he yelled, unreasonably furious even though he knew intellectually that none of this was her fault. Not his bombardment of emotion, not his darkened past, and not his inability to conjure a Patronus. He should be thanking her, but all he could in that moment was shout. "Why the fuck are you pitying me?"
"I'm not, Draco!" she said, trying desperately to appeal to him even though he had given her his back. Her voice had gone high and frantic, but she was wise enough not to follow him. "You're basing your reaction on all the feelings you've been blocking for so long."
Draco stormed across the room and kicked savagely at the leg of the armchair, which did not move at all because it had been magicked against the bookshelf. Even this physical venting of his mounting frustration did nothing to appease him.
"I thought we agreed not to lie to each other?" he said icily, still refusing to look at her for fear that she would see straight through his violent outburst and into the vulnerability he was trying to disguise. "Why do you think you have the right to feel so sorry for me, Granger? Is it because you think you're so much better than me, with all your decency? With all your bloody heroism and your fucking courage? Or do you pity me because I haven't got a sufficiently fucking happy memory to speak of? You don't know me, Granger. Right? You don't fucking know me!"
When Draco finally wheeled around to face her, he had expected her to be on the verge of an eruption of indignance, ready to tear into him for daring to speak to her the way he had done, to rebuke him for taking his anger out on her when she did nothing to earn it. Draco was therefore totally unprepared for what he actually did see, which was Hermione Granger standing at the other end of the common room, watching him silently with tears shining in her lovely eyes.
Draco felt instantly guilty. He'd wanted a fight, not this.
"Granger, I -"
"Why do you think that's how I look at you?" she interrupted. "How can you still think that, after everything? Don't you realize, Draco, that you're one of the strongest people I know? Just because you don't see yourself that way doesn't mean that I -"
"Granger," he said, then corrected himself. "Hermione, look, I'm sorry -"
"Let me finish, Draco," she said firmly, and it was obvious to him that she was choking back a sob. "Just because you think you're weak doesn't mean that I feel the same way. I think you're much braver, much better than you believe you are. We can't go on like this, with you trying to shut me out just because you're self-conscious about what you feel. You're so desperate to separate yourself from the old you, but anytime to get close to doing that, you seize up. I can't do this if you aren't going to try."
Draco watched as the tears, now too thick for her eyes to hold, began to slide down the graceful curve of her cheek.
His feet seemed to move of their own accord as he crossed the room and stopped directly in front of her. "Hermione." He swallowed down his pride. "I'm sorry. You're right about my reaction. I'm hardly being fair. I know that."
She was looking up at him skeptically, and the pout of her bottom lip was so tempting in that moment that Draco had to remind himself that problems like these couldn't be solved with kisses alone. Another tear fell.
"Please forgive me," he said calmly. "And please realize that I am trying, but all of this is new. It's… it's very hard, okay? Things like this come easily to you, but not to me. I'll try harder if you can agree to be patient."
Hermione hesitated and cast her eyes down to the floor, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Okay," she said quietly, and Draco felt the ever-tightening vise on his heart ease at the sound of her words.
He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face toward his, his eyes flicking quickly between each of her own. He wanted more than anything else to press his lips against hers but knew that there was a better way to comfort her, a better way to show her that he was serious. He brushed the tears away from her cheeks and then pulled her into a tight embrace.
Just as her arms circled his waist, the portrait door opened and then closed, the footsteps on the stairway heavy and hurried.
Hermione pushed him by the shoulders and Draco backed away from her, fixing her with an offended stare. But she returned it with a look that spoke very plainly to him: her friends needed to know, but not like this.
"Hermione!" Potter breathed as he barrelled through the archway with Weasley following quickly in his wake. "The portrait - have you been crying?"
Weasley's face pulled tight with anger, advancing on the pair of them with what he probably meant to be a very menacing stride. Draco plunged his hand into his trouser pocket and then realized that his wand was at least four feet away from him, still lying motionless where Draco had dropped it in his frustration.
"What have you done to her, Malfoy?" Weasley demanded.
Hermione intervened. "Nothing! I - I was just telling him about my parents," Hermione said quickly, wiping a hand across both of her eyes for punctuation. "Silly of me, I know. Getting all weepy for no reason. Everything's fine, really."
Potter and Weasley were observing them warily, apparently trying to decide whether everything really was fine, or if it was just their best friend covering up for someone the way she usually did.
"You were saying, Potter?" Draco asked into the tension, and the messy-haired wizard seemed to determine that whatever he had come to say was far more important than Hermione sobbing about her parents.
"Sir Cadogan found the portrait."
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A/n: Mentions for this chapter go to Willow Jade and absolutefaith - and to the guest reviewer that leaves reviews so long and so thoughtful that the email truncates them due to length. You know who you are xD