A/N - So I've been crap at updating. Sorry about that. Between work and making crafts for Christmas and working out for my cruise in January and watching entirely too much Queer as Folk (oh my WORD I love the show!) and dancing in the kitchen by myself... well, I've been busy. I'm hoping to keep the posts to about 1 per week, but I'm not going to make any promises. I'm also hoping to write another short HP fan fic (25,000 words, tops) for Christmas. We shall see! Bear with me, please, as I take my sweet ass time. I promise we'll get to the fun parts soon.
She woke that up that morning to a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and a wet pillow.
Again.
Slowly she dragged herself into a sitting position and squinted at the bright light streaming through the windows. She had forced herself to keep the shades open as she went to bed. The sunlight would rouse her from her sleep eventually; without it to wake her up, she found herself sleeping later and later into the day. Ten was fine, sure, but anything after noon was pathetic. Especially because Hermione Granger had always been a morning person.
She felt her cheeks and found them to still be wet with somnolent tears. Merlin, why couldn't she just get a decent night's sleep? If only she had a vial of dreamless sleep potion. She shuddered as she recalled her dream. No matter how she tried to fight the memories during the day, she couldn't control the terrors her subconscious awoke the moment she fell asleep. When her eyes closed, her mind opened, and her night was full of screams and cries and blood and dirt. The smell of burning flesh, of sour body odor, of that filthy tent where they had spent months straining for clues. The fear, the desperation, all of it was there, just behind her eyelids. No matter what she did, no matter how late she stayed awake or how many antihistamines she took, the dreams always came to her.
She tried to keep the visions as bay but they rose to the front of her mind, as they so often did first thing upon waking. She wasn't alert enough to block them out. Did she even want to, really? Reliving the nightmares every morning was its own form of torture, but in some ways it was better to embrace the chaos and pain, if only for a moment. At least this way it wouldn't be niggling at the back of her mind all day.
So she let the scenes fill her world again. Last night she had been back in that place, the dungeon where she had spent so many fear-filled days. Except it wasn't Nott this time, it was him, Voldemort. And he pushed her sanity further to the breaking point and he crushed her spirit a little harder and he was relentless in his cruelty. She could still feel his hissing breath against her skin as he whispered, "Tell me how it feels, Princess."
And then the scene had changed and she was back in the tent with Harry, and Ron had just left once more, but before he did so, he had said terrible, dreadful things to her. He had called her a murderer. He had spit at her feet, saying she was just as bad as him, just as evil, just as captivated by the Dark Arts. And she had believed it, if only for a moment.
And it wouldn't have been so bad except that some of the words she had heard with her very own ears, not long ago, on the roof of Grimmauld Place. When he had asked her how she could kill like that. When he had said that her actions sickened him. He said worse things in the dreams, of course, things that had rattled her even in her sleep. Because a part of her believed that Ron truly thought those things, even if he wouldn't say them.
Because he had said enough words already, words that broke her. And she couldn't help but wonder which words he kept to himself. What did he really think of her? What painful truths were written on his heart?
She had listened to all of it without a word, taken the criticism and the cuts. And then he had walked away. And in her dream, she was almost relieved. It was easier to watch him walk away than to be the one leaving.
The days dragged on and on, and she found herself reticent to leave the hotel as time drew on. She was still in Sydney, but there was no sign of her parents. The few leads she had discovered fizzled out quickly. She knew she ought to press on, try another town, but the idea of leaving was terrifying in its own way. She had gotten used to this part of the city; the hotel, the laundromat, the internet cafe, the bagel shop. She knew where she was as long as she stayed within these few blocks. Even when she went out to scout leads on her parents, she took a cab and only went in and out of the buildings. She never wandered.
But she hadn't found them. And she needed to move on eventually, right?
She thought about calling Madeleine. The piece of paper with the sweet woman's number was tattered, and the aquamarine had turned dark from the dye of her denims. She could still make out the digits, but even if she garnered the courage to dial the woman, what would she say? She couldn't lie about seeing her parents, and Madeleine hadn't known that they were missing... No, it just wouldn't do. As comforting as it would feel to see her one-time friend, it couldn't happen.
Standing up to stretch, she searched the room for her map. Locating it, she plotted out her next move. Newcastle was the closest metropolitan area to Sydney, although she knew it wasn't nearly as large of a city. Still, it was on the ocean, and she thought perhaps her parents would appreciate something smaller. She circled the name on the map. "Newcastle it is."
Once again she considered how easy it would be to Apparate someone to the north of Sydney; she had been in that neighborhood just days before, following a possible trail. It wouldn't get her far, but it would save her an expensive taxi ride, or another confusing bout with public transportation. She decided against it, however. After all, she had gotten this far without magic, hadn't she? She could make it.
She didn't like to think about it, of course, but she knew that if anyone were to cast a Prior Incantato spell upon her wand, they'd see the last spell she had cast. And they'd find out that the last thing that had left her wand was the Killing Curse. The curse that had helped bring down the Dark Lord. For the hundredth time she considered casting a simple spell to clear the previous one. Just in case. It wasn't as if Voldemort's infamy was well known in Australia; if someone knew she had cast the Killing Curse without knowing who (or what) Voldemort was, they may think her to be some sort of criminal. Which she was, sort of. Still, she couldn't bring herself to use magic. Because in truth, she no longer trusted herself.
There was no one else to blame for the choices she had made. Even discounting what had happened that fateful night, there were all the months leading up to it. She had delved too deeply into the Dark Arts, she saw that now. She had asked too many questions, let her curiosity get the best of her. And she had learned things, terrible things. Things she couldn't erase from her mind no matter how hard she tried. Things only an Obliviate could erase. But she couldn't... she'd live with her guilt, even if it destroyed her. She wouldn't take the easy way out.
And so she packed her things in her trusty old trunk (thanking Harry silently for magically lightening her load; the charm had stuck, which was impressive) and set out once more, alone.
The days dragged on at 12 Grimmauld Place. The once Noble House of Black was quiet despite the four teenagers living within its walls. The Weasel had left Astoria alone as he promised, not that there had really been a chance to show his supposedly changed spirit. He barely left his room, and Astoria was still scarce as well. Potter moved about the house like an apparition; rarely did he speak, and when he did, his words were few.
Draco had heard him the day before, in fact, although his presence had gone unnoticed. He was making his way down to the kitchen when he heard voices. He considered leaving his position at the top of the stairs, but his Slytherin instincts kept him rooted to the spot. He had learned a wealth of information from eavesdropping in the past, and anyway, it was a hard habit to break. And so he had slowed down his breathing and listened carefully.
It was Potter, yes, but a woman as well. No, not a woman, not quite. It was the Weaslette. He knew because he heard Potter say her name. He listened closely to make out other words. He caught the tone of the discussion, but if they would just enunciate... Cautiously he cast a wordless silencing spell and crept down three steps. He wouldn't allow himself any more than that, but it was enough to make out actual words.
"If you really think it's a good idea, Harry... I support you no matter what, you know that, but I just don't get it. I mean, you have two Slytherins in your own home! And now you're sticking up for them? For HIM?"
"Gin, I would have thought you were over house prejudices. Luna's a Ravenclaw, Cedric was a Hufflepuff, and Snape, the one who risked everything for me, for my mum, was a Slytherin. Not to mention Pettigrew was a Gryffindor, like us... and anyway, we're a long way from Hogwarts now. Or at least it feels that way."
A sigh. "Okay, but be careful, all right? I still don't trust them. Especially him." Draco had snarled at the comment, thankful for the silencing charm. He wasn't all that fond of the Weaslette either.
Silence. Draco strained his ears to pick up on any sounds, but both were quiet. And then.
"How's Ron handling everything?"
A scoff. "About as well as you'd think."
"Well she did just leave. There were no warnings, no goodbyes. She didn't say anything, not even to me!"
"She had her reasons. It's not my place to say what they were, but believe me, Gin, she was dealing with her own demons. But Ron understands, I think, even if it's hard. He knows what happened. I think he expected her to run, to be honest."
"Well that may be, but I'm still allowed to be angry at her. She said goodbye to you, though, didn't she?"
Silence once more.
"You miss her, don't you Harry?"
"Yes."
A sniffle. "You love her, don't you?"
"Yes."
The Weaslette's words were soft, barely registering. "I thought so. I can't say that I didn't see it... and it's not like we promised each other anything. Still, Hermione and Ron... well they're together, or at least they were. I don't like the idea of her coming between you and my brother. And you know how I feel..."
A quiet laugh. "Gin, it's not like that, not at all. I love her. Of course I love her, she's Hermione! She's just so easy to love. But not like that, come on. You have to know that by now."
"Well, you do treat her differently, you have to admit that. You're always giving her special attention, and calling her pet names, and hugging her. There's a connection between you two."
"Yeah, there is, but not the way you're thinking. She's my best friend, Gin. Not in the same way as Ron; I mean, it has to be a little different, doesn't it? Ron's my mate, but Hermione... she's the closest thing I have to a sister. But it's more than that. She's Muggle-born, so we just understand each other in ways that you and I can't. We grew up in the same world. And then there's the other thing. I haven't told anyone this Gin, but with Hermione in my life, I sort of feel like I have a bit of my mum still with me. They were both Muggle-born, both brilliant, both independent. They both stood up for those who couldn't stand for themselves, you know? From everything I have heard about my mum from Sirius and Remus, I just know that they'd get along. And so I feel closer to her. And I want to protect her, and watch out for her, and let her know that I care about her. Because she's my family. But you have to know how I feel about you." Shaky breathing, and an intake of air. "I love you, Ginny. I love you, and when we're older, I'm going to marry you and have kids with you and grow old with you, if you'll have me. For always."
Sniffles, and then the soft smacking of lips.
That as all Draco needed to turn on his heel and run back to the safety of his room.
"Ugh! Bloody Gryffindors." Draco shook his head, remembering the previous day's clandestine conversation. He needed another shower. If he never had to hear Potter and the Weaslette snogging again, it would be too soon.
As the water trickled through his hair and ran rivers down his chest, he considered Potter's words about Granger. Draco had wondered as well, on occasion, if there was more than just friendship there. The way the two Gryffindor's so obviously relied on one another had caught his attention, but it was really the little things that spoke volumes. The way the one just seemed to know what the other was thinking, or what the other needed. Hell, even in Potions, which Potter was pants at (save for sixth year when he became suddenly, startlingly brilliant, but Draco didn't want to think of that), he seemed to know intuitively when Hermione needed a helping hand. And then again, he seemed to understand when to leave the witch alone. And the hugging, well, he'd noticed it too. He was strangely captivated with this new information that Potter saw the bushy-haired witch as more than a friend, but not in a romantic way. She reminded him of what his mother may have been like when she was his age. It was a strange thought. Yes, Draco thought of Astoria as a sister, but it wasn't because he had mummy issues. Still, it was probably a comfort to Potter. And Draco found himself wondering exactly what had happened to Granger that caused her to leave. Was it the ordeal with Nott? She had been tortured by him, and then tortured him in kind, at least according to Potter. He had a feeling there was more to the story, though, and made a mental note to get the entirety of the tale from Potter eventually.
Where was she now? He remembered Potter had said something about her family. Was she still in England? He wondered how she could walk away from her friends like that; they'd always been the Obnoxious Trio. What on earth could have broken that group of gits up?
Draco slowly washed and waited until the water ran cool. He tried to clear the questions about Granger out of his mind – it didn't matter, really, where she was or what she was doing. She was just Granger; just a Muggle-born. He didn't care.
A loud rapping on the door broke though his contemplation. "Oi! Malfoy! Get your bloody prat arse out of there! It's been days!" The rapping continued, getting increasingly louder and faster.
The blonde-haired boy scowled at his reflection in the mirror and gathered his things before opening the door. Red hair and a red face greeted him. "Oh, hi there, Weasel. Didn't hear you, dreadfully sorry." He flashed what he hoped looked like an honest grin. Judging from the Weasel's exasperated huff, apparently he had succeeded in his attempt at annoying the redhead. Remembering the Weasel had lost not only a brother but his girl in the past year, he resisted saying more, and pressed past the boy to enter the small bedroom which had become his escape in the most Noble House of Black.
A/N – Ah well, it was a short chapter, but at least it was an update. Right? Please? No?
So my Christmas-themed fic is going to be Dramione, because that's what I've felt like writing, but I'm thinking of adding another pair to it as well. Any suggestions? Anything Harry Potter Christmas-y you'd like to see? I'm going to try to go with sweet this time, I think, instead of silly/saucy like "Hogwarts Halloween Feast and Festival" or angsty like this fic. If you have an idea you'd like to see, let me know! I love suggestions.
