Hello! Welcome to my 97th piece of fanfiction.
I've been working on this story for a few months after kicking the idea around for a bit. It's about 70% done and shall be ten chapters. It felt like a good time to put this out, because much like Hermione in the first few chapters, I too am feeling rather listless and confined by the current pandemic.
Please review and follow, I generally respond to most feedback!
-XXX-
He came to see her once a day. Sometimes more often. But always in the afternoon, at four o'clock. The elf greeted them both at four fifteen with trays of sandwiches and cakes and a large pot of tea. It used to be Earl Grey, until he realized she preferred fruit teas. She wasn't sure how he knew this. But after a few weeks, there were raspberry teas and apple teas and something she thought might be dragonfruit.
She used to feel indifferent to his presence. For a long time, Hermione felt nothing. She woke, she sat, she slept. Day after day after day. Each day, an echo of the last. If she put energy into thought she might have labeled this period as surreal. She might have diagnosed herself as depressed. In the days and months after the fall of the Order, the tremendous loss of her friends, and her capture, nothing felt real.
Now, though, she felt. She felt annoyance that he was here, that he was the one human face she saw every day. She hated the way he stirred in two sugar cubes, how he would talk to her despite the fact that she never replied, never spoke back. And a small part of her felt a regretful tinge of excitement when the sun began to shift toward the horizon again and she heard his steps upon the stairs.
It was Stockholm Syndrome. She remembered her mother explaining the concept to her when she was a small girl and someone had shown them Beauty and the Beast at a sleepover. Hermione had come home eager to talk about the princess and the romance. Her mother had scoffed then set about defining Stockholm Syndrome to her eight-year-old-daughter. The Grangers were not keen on fairy tales.
Despite knowing that her isolation lent itself to these unwanted feelings, she didn't try to push them away.
He asked for nothing. Every day, the Malfoy heir entered the tower and sat in the armchair by the window, waiting for her to acknowledge him. He murmured greetings and offered forth new books from the library. And, even if she could have spoken, she wouldn't want to.
When tea arrived the house-elf was unceremoniously dismissed. He pours them both a cup and divides the sandwiches and cakes between two plates. Sometimes, he talks about his day. But it is not really his day – she suspected there is a lot more general evil in his day-to-day life. Probably all politics and plotting. No, Draco tells her about the weather. Or a book he recently read. Or something funny he saw on the street in Diagon Alley. He tells her what flowers are blooming in the gardens below.
There was no talk of anything real. She knew nothing of the outside world. Of what remains of the wizarding community.
Still, he has told her enough to know that she is his strange secret. The rest of the Malfoys are unaware of her survival, let alone her existence. And she knows from Malfoy's perspective she is not his captive, but his secret. He is determined to keep her hidden and protected. For the life of her, Hermione cannot figure out why.
He visited once a day, rarely more. It was a long walk up that winding, narrow staircase, and if he was gone too long he was missed. There was much work to be done in this new world order. The Malfoys weren't at the center of it, not as they'd dreamed long ago. But somehow, that was preferred now. They were tired.
There was a small nook halfway up the stairs, set in the wall, where one might sit snugly and read or look out of the window onto the grounds. One of the flat stones of the sill is loose and when wiggled it shifts, revealing a clever little compartment just big enough for a wandbox.
Draco placed his wand in the shallow box every day before entering. There was no point in the risk of bringing into the room. He didn't think there was too great a chance it could pose a threat. Yet he'd learned in the last four years that it was better to assume the worst, especially where Hermione Granger was concerned. So there the wand waited until five o'clock.
Once, he had kept the key in there as well, until Aunt Bella surprised him on the stairs. It had been a long day, he was ready for the respite of the secret in the tower. At four his mother was at tea. If anyone else was home they were either with her in the drawing-room or, if the weather allowed, in the rose garden. At four, Draco was not missed. He was always welcome at tea, but his mother knew him to usually spend that hour in his rooms, alone. The house-elves always brought Master Draco tea and sandwiches. No one questioned this ritual — least of all, where the elves were talking the spread. Which is why the sight of his aunt blocking the stairs with her wild hair and dark aura shocked the young Slytherin.
"Draco," his aunt greeted. It was neither warm nor cold, simply high-pitched and lyrical. "Whatever are you sneaking up here for?"
"I read," he said simply, lifting the book resting in the crook of one arm. "It's quiet."
She twirled a lock of silver-laced black hair. "Funny place to read. The northern tower. There's nothing up here."
Draco tried his best to look untroubled by her questioning. "No one has used it since Great-Aunt Dorothea. It's out of the way."
"Ah yes." Her manic eyes glowed. "Your great-aunt. The one they locked away for loving a muggle boy. She was quite mad, wasn't she?"
"She killed herself," he replied tonelessly. "No one has used the room since. It's got loads of charms on it. I'm not even sure what is up there. Probably just storage."
"Yes, I believe Cissy told me that you've lost the key. And the door doesn't open with the usual charms. Curious."
With the word "key" Bellatrix's hand landed on the window sill of the nook, fingertips brushing the seams of stone beneath which the key to Dorothea's room lay. Draco fought to keep his eyes on his aunt's face.
Disinterested, he moved forward, sitting on the step below his aunt. "I don't know why she'd want to go in there anyways. I doubt there is anything of interest. It's been locked up for years, besides, it's likely a mess. Were you looking for me, Aunt?"
"Yes," she answered, moving past him to the stairs below. "His lordship wishes to see you, tomorrow, at the Ministry. They're announcing the new Minister of Magical Transportation and he wants you there. We need young faces like yours to show support."
"Very well. I'll have Meldy put out my dress robes."
Bella nodded her approval. "Good lad. His lordship relies on you to be the image of our future. A young, strong pureblooded wizard who follows the path laid out for him. You know your presence is important."
"Of course, Aunt Bella."
He waited until her footsteps were inaudible before he removed the key. From that day forward he wore it around his neck, beneath his robes on a simple silver chain, never letting it leave his sight.
-XXX-
The early hours of May second were largely a blur to her now. She remembered Hagrid sobbing and carrying Harry, like a child. She recalls crying to see her best friend held before a crowd as a symbol of defeat. Neville shouting. Ron's face when the Death Eaters turned their wands on the crowd. Someone sobbing loudly. A scream. Ron shouting. Flashes of light. Running.
Her hand in Ron's as they fled the castle, picking their way across the craggy landscape. Scrambling in the faint pink of dawn. Ron plummeting to the ground after being struck from behind. Screaming as she watched him convulse with the effects of the curse and his eyes go glassy as the life slipped away from them.
Trying to cast shield after shield as they descended upon her. A voice growing hoarse from shouting spells she'd never wanted to cast, the green light of her curses bright with her rage.
Faltering as she struggled to protect too many sides. A shield slipping. Something striking her chest. Warmth seeping from her.
Pain. Darkness. Gone.
And then –
A hazy awake.
She remembered Draco's pale face, smeared with ashes and horror when he saw her in the courtyard, among the others. She does not recall how much time had passed, but the world was dark again.
-XXX-
There were many things he saw that night that would haunt him until the end of his days. Many things he often wishes he would have done different. Regrets that will forever linger.
The sight of his peers in the courtyard, sprawled with glassy eyes, feeling bile in the back of his throat the scent of death and burnt flesh, it would never leave him. Seeing her amid the dead, slung on the body of the boy she loved, and then watching the faintest flicker of a pulse in her grime-smeared neck -to see the smallest rise of her chest –
Hope like what filled him that day would never be matched.
The Death Eaters who were dispatched to take care of the dead on both sides were far more occupied with their own dead. They were obviously biased care for their own. He took the soonest opportunity to cast a disillusionment spell and levitate her, knowing if he were to wait there might not be enough time.
The nearest secluded place was a bathroom on the first floor. Myrtle's bathroom. Unlike much of the castle, it was untouched. The ghost hovered before the mirrors, looking perturbed. She turned when the door opened, her milky eyes going wide behind her thick lenses. Draco ignored her buzzing as he removed the disillusionment and directed the levitation spell to steer Hermione onto one of the benches that lined the wall of frosted windows in the back of the bathroom.
Speaking quickly, Draco murmured the countercurse, rotating the tip of his wand over her chest. It was not a fast spell. But he did not have time on his side. The skin began to knit itself back, slowly. When it refused to go any further she was left with a series of thin, angry red scars.
Exhausted, Draco sat back against the wall, breathing deeply. Myrtle was not satisfied, however, and kept rattling off questions.
"Can you keep quiet?" he asked Myrtle lowly. "And keep her safe, in here?"
"What's going on?"
Turning back to Hermione he watched her claim a few more shallow breaths before answering. "A lot of people have died, Myrtle. A lot of students and professors. The castle's been attacked. She – she's not well. Can you please make sure no one finds her? Just for a little while. I need to find someplace safe –"
He'd rarely seen a ghost look scared. They were already dead, after all, so did not have much to fear. Myrtle quaked a little as her pigtails bobbed. Yes.
-XXX-
Hours passed before he could risk moving her again. The Dark Lord had kept the antiapparition charms down to allow transportation of the injured to St Mungo's. It worked to Draco's advantage. He went ahead to Malfoy Manor and readied a space, rushing through the necessary preparation. He knew just where he could hide a secret mudblood.
When his great grandfather Abraxas was still a child, his elder sister Dorothea was found to be in love with a muggle boy from the French village near where the family summered. She was about to enter her seventh year at Hogwarts. The family immediately whisked her back to Britain, but the damage was done. When it was discovered that they were exchanging letters and Dorothea was planning to elope with him after her graduation, they pulled her out of school and locked her in the northern tower of Malfoy Manor. She languished for months, begging to be released. But they kept her there with only a house-elf for company. To secure her for good they found a Rosier willing to marry her. A month before the wedding was to take place she killed herself in that tower room. But not before setting her house-elf free on the condition that they give one final letter to her beloved.
That room had been sealed for decades. No one wanted to remember Dorothea Malfoy. The key had been lost long ago.
At least, that was the story most of the Malfoys knew. Draco knew that the key had not been so much lost as it had been forgotten – perhaps purposefully, by a great-grandfather who didn't like to think of his shameful sister. Draco had found it among the items left by Abraxas in the family vault.
When he was younger, he crept into the room several times. It was dusty, to be sure, and there were many artifacts of Dorothea's scattered about. A wardrobe full of old fashioned dresses. A pile of books and magazines on the bedside table. Half-written letters, balled up and scattered on the desk.
He could picture her pushing aside the sheer white curtains to stare out the window, wondering about her sad fate. Did she know, when they threw her in there, that she'd never come out alive again? Or did she think they would show their eldest child mercy against a legacy of pure, unsullied, magical blood?
That night his thoughts did not linger on his great aunt. He cleared the room of dust and debris with several hurried charms. Summoning Meldy, his personal house elf, he ordered her to have clean water, bandages, and whatever healing potions the medicine cabinet had to offer. She was to be waiting in the room. It was imperative she not tell anyone of what happened in this room. The elf nodded her head solemnly at the instructions and disappeared with a faint pop.
-XXX-
Myrtle was floating near Hermione rather worriedly when he arrived. Less than an hour had passed since he left. Hermione's breathing was still shallow.
"I thought she might come over to my side," the ghost remarked in a poor attempt to be humorous.
Draco ignored her, crouching to lean over the witch. The blood on her flesh was now fully dried. It had crusted to a deep black-brown. He noted several broken fingers, a severely swollen ankle, and a varied collection of bruises and lacerations. There was a good chance a few of her ribs were broken or at least cracked. Nothing else life-threatening, from what he could see. If he could hold her steady, they could apparate.
Voldemort wouldn't keep the anti-apparation wards down for much longer. He couldn't risk it – the area that wards covered was expansive. Keeping them down left him and his limping crew of Death Eaters vulnerable.
"Thank you," he told the ghost. "Please, keep this to yourself."
The ghost still looked terrified. But she nodded as Draco lifted the unconscious witch from the bench, holding her by the waist. Myrtle drifted in front of them, worriedly hovering.
"Will they follow you?"
Draco paused. "They shouldn't. No one knows she is still alive."
And with that, he disappeared.
-XXX-
Annnd that's chapter one. Draco is rather hard to write - he is such a morally gray character, it's easy to swing him super dark or super light. I find him rather sympathetic, especially in the last two books of the series.
Hermione is without a doubt one of my favorite characters and as the female lead I often feel as though she gets the short end of the stick with everyone pairing her up every which way. Personally I tend to favor Tom Riddle and Draco Malfoy shippings myself, but I'm a sucker for that sort of contentious fire and ice dynamic, plus I don't think there are many others who can keep up with her wit and cunning. Certainly not Ron or Harry.