Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XLII
February 22nd, 1999
Tepsy is gone before she can get another word out, leaving this thing in her hands.
This thing which feels suddenly a great deal heavier.
"From his mother?" Harry echoes quietly. "But she's on — "
"House arrest." Hermione nods, staring down at the letter. She's hardly conscious of her thumb already breaking through the seal.
"That's…risky. Must be important."
She nods again, but she's not really listening to him. Because what's rolled out of the opening into her palm is distinct and unmistakable. A vial — bearing one small, cloudy wisp. It glows faintly blue against her skin.
A memory.
"Is that—"
She doesn't bother to nod this time, scrambling to yank the letter that came with it free of the envelope. Nearly tears it as she spreads it open on her lap.
Miss Granger,
I've been following the news as closely as I can, though my access is limited. But if what I've read is true, then you are the one defending my son.
We both know the odds are against him. And I know my son. He is against himself. He will not help you.
Even this, which I give you now, may amount to nothing — but I believe they need to see it. You need to see it.
The memory is mine. Please submit it as evidence. Submit it so, at the very least, he knows his mother tried to save him.
Narcissa
Hermione blinks and reads it over again. Wets her dry lips, hand closing around the vial like a final lifeline.
"We have to see what it is," she blurts.
Harry's been trying to read the letter upside down. "We don't have a Pensieve."
"We have to find a way. We've got to—"
"Ladies and gentlemen, please make your way back into the courtroom," calls a member of the Wizengamot. "The trial will resume momentarily."
"Bollocks," mutters Harry, meeting her gaze.
She feels abruptly helpless, and he must see it in her eyes. Some pleading look that begs him to make the decision for her.
"You have to use it."
She swallows thickly. "But I don't know wh—"
"You don't have a choice. You're right, Hermione. Smith dug him a grave in there. And no matter what brilliant defense you lay out, you're in danger. This might tip the scales."
"Please make your way back into the courtroom," says the same man, looking pointedly at the two of them. "The trial will recommence immediately."
She yanks her eyes back to Harry, panicking now. "But — what if…what if it makes it worse?"
"It's his mother, Hermione. Would she risk that?"
"I…I don't…"
"You have to." He takes her hand. Pulls her up to her feet and squeezes once. "You have to."
The vial rests is her blazer pocket as she takes the floor to lay out her defense, a weight as sure and heavy as an anvil.
It's her last resort, she's decided. She'll do what she can to read the room. If she feels they're leaning in his favor, then they'll walk out of this trial together, and she'll lock it away somewhere and never think of it again.
If she feels otherwise, then…so be it.
She does her best to skirt around Malfoy's cage without looking at him. She needs her focus now more than ever. But instead, her eyes catch on Dawlish, and a flush of rage fans out across her face. Bubbles and broils in her gut.
She looks away. Looks to Burbage. And it begins.
Her strongest defense — the one she'd felt such confidence in before — now feels somehow insignificant. Even so, she imprints it into the minds of the Wizengamot. Over and over again, as many times as she thinks it takes to stick.
"…and we would never've made it that far had Mr. Malfoy identified Harry to his aunt…"
"…looked Harry plain in the face — a boy he'd attended school with for nearly seven years — accompanied by two of his closest friends, no less — and refused to confirm. He knew. Let me be perfectly clear. He knew."
"…at which point I'll remind you, Mr. Malfoy — at great personal risk — neglected to identify Harry, despite what safety and reward it may've procured for himself and his family."
But as that line of defense grows cold — as her palms start to sweat and Burbage's eyes start to twitch from all the repetition — she abruptly switches tactics. It's not something she originally intended to utilize, but Smith has forced her hand.
She'd thought to bring up Dumbledore. Perhaps yesterday — before this morning — the fact that Malfoy stayed his hand would've counted for something. But now she feels that path could prove far too treacherous. Chooses to avoid it entirely.
No, instead she requests his journal be handed over to her. She's going to read the right sections, in the right context — damn them all.
That violent purple is far too familiar in her hands now. She thinks she's read every entry more than once. Knows it back to front. And yet her thoughts feel more disorganized than ever, and she's not sure where to start — where to finish.
As the Wizengamot looks on, impatient, she tries to remember the most damning entries Zacharias read.
She pieces together her narrative slowly.
"I believe Mr. Smith's intentions were to portray Mr. Malfoy as unhinged. Am I correct?" She twists and finds him in the crowd — stares flatly for as long as she dares to pause — long enough for his eyes to drop away and his face to flush pink. She turns back and holds the journal aloft. "I invite you all, then, to consider why. Mr. Smith was very careful, after all, to gloss over the entries outlining what Mr. Malfoy truly experienced this past term. And it is my firm belief he was set up to fail." She flips to an entry she knows very well. "This is from September 11th. In this particular section, Mr. Malfoy is referencing his Dark Mark — more specifically, the pain it's causing." And she clears her throat. "'What was it you said, again? The situation doesn't "qualify" for more powerful treatment?' — this you, of course, referring to the Healers at St. Mungo's monitoring these entries. He writes, 'I only want drugs. Something different. Anything. Take it away. I'm not against begging — as you've seen before.'" She looks up — stares Burbage directly in the eyes, reciting what's only too easy to recite from memory. "'Give me drugs, give me drugs, give me drugs, give me fucking drugs.'" Burbage flinches, if only just.
"This is, in fact, one of no less than twenty entries requesting pain relieving medication. Requests which were denied without explanation, which can only lead me to assume that Mr. Malfoy's well-being was not of great concern. There is no representative here from St. Mungo's to speak to this, so I'll leave that where it lies. But I'm curious." She lets her gaze slide across as many members of the Wizengamot as she can manage. Feels powerful suddenly. Knows her direction. "Have any of you studied the Dark Mark? In detail? You know of it, I'm sure — but do any of you have the faintest idea what it does?"
"You'll do well to watch your tone, Miss Granger," Burbage warns from the podium. "You are in no position to play Professor."
"Not Professor," she says. "No, in fact this is not a part of any regular school curriculum. It's not spoken of." She risks a glance behind her — at Malfoy. His eyes are hooded. Cloudy. But they're fixed on her, none the less. "I just have a reputation for wanting to know everything." She forces herself to face forward again. "And this was something I wanted to know."
She starts to pace, doing her best to remember everything she's ever read about it.
"The Dark Mark is a very intuitive piece of magic. It behaves as though it has a mind of its own. A symbiote. Some believe it's even aware of the intentions of its host. And I have no argument with this after seeing what it did to Mr. Malfoy. His Mark was attacking him. Physically. Burning him from the inside out. His entries make it plain. Endless, daily, excruciating pain. Tell me — why would a dark thing attack fellow darkness?"
She lets that thought simmer for a moment. Allows her eyes to find Harry, and his nod floods her with courage.
"It is my conclusion that the Dark Mark sensed Malfoy's shift in stance. It sensed light in him, and it attacked it like a virus."
A member of the Wizengamot raises a hand. An older witch with octagon-shaped spectacles perched above her nose. "Is it not true that Death Eaters consider taking the Mark a great honor? A source of pride?"
Hermione almost wants to thank her. It leads her seamlessly into a point she wasn't sure how to make.
"They do. Absolutely, they do. So — you have to wonder. Why would a proud Death Eater try to physically cut it off?"
The rustle of whispers is enough to tell her most of them don't know. Invigorated, she whips around and approaches Malfoy's cage.
"Mr. Malfoy, please show the ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot your arm."
Now, his eyes tighten — and she's reminded of Narcissa's words.
He is against himself. He will not help you.
She glares back at him.
You'll help me. God damn you, you'll help me.
"Do it," she growls low. Too low for others to hear. "Or I'll do it for you."
He hisses something under his breath. Something she can't catch. Then he yanks his arm out, wrenching up his wrinkled sleeve. She steps aside so they can see.
The clean white scar lining his forearm from wrist to elbow.
A gasp or two is all the reaction she gets, but she pushes on.
"Mr. Malfoy resorted to such drastic measures, there was nothing left for it but to remove all living tissue from his arm. He can feel nothing."
Malfoy yanks back down on his sleeve and slumps against the back of the cage.
"Please, tell me," she says, turning around. "What proud Death Eater would rather lose all sensation than keep this great honor?"
Burbage sighs loudly. "How long do you intend to belabor this point, Miss Granger?"
She tries to hide the way it makes her grind her teeth. "I'll move on."
Her eyes catch again on Harry as she glances down to sift through the journal — he's mouthing something.
Do it.
His lips form around the words over and over again.
No, she thinks. Not yet. Not unless I have to.
Instead, she delves back into the journal — reads aloud any and every entry she thinks even slightly humanizes him. Reads how he stepped in front of her to face the Boggart. Reveals his own Boggart, despite the hiss he blows through his teeth behind her. Details, much to her own embarrassment, how he and his House took her in when she felt unwelcome elsewhere. And she feels like she's airing out their dirty laundry in the most public way there is.
Still, she keeps on. Even when she knows she's beating a dead horse, she's hoping — if anything — that there will be too much of it for the Wizengamot to remember anything Zacharias said.
That's her goal for the following hour and a half. And Burbage looks fit to boil over.
"Is this all you have, Miss Granger?" she barks out at last, cutting Hermione off halfway through her description of Professor Havershim's bias. "Mr. Malfoy's behavior over the past term? Is this the sum of your defense? Because unless you have anything further to add, I'd say we're fit to deliberate."
She swallows back the saliva pooling on her tongue. Glances towards Harry, already certain of what she'll see.
Do it, he mouthes, and his eyes widen with emphasis. Now.
She shuts her eyes for the briefest moment, all too aware of Malfoy's eyes glaring daggers into her back.
And then she pulls out the vial — the clear little weapon that will either make or break her case.
"I have one more piece of evidence." She holds it up. Out. "This is a memory from Narcissa Malfoy. His mother."
"Granger," Malfoy bleats suddenly. "No." And her heart rate spikes.
"Silence, Mr. Malfoy," snaps Burbage. She flicks her fingers at Hermione. "Hand it to the guard. We'll have to test whether it's been tampered with."
She's not sure why she's so nervous to do so.
Surely, Narcissa wouldn't risk tampering with it. No. No, she wouldn't.
Even so, Hermione's hand is shaking when she passes the vial to the guard.
He performs a spell she knows very little of, and Burbage leans forward over the podium to watch as the vial glows. First white, then a pale shade of blue.
Hermione lets out a slow breath.
The disappointment on Burbage's face tells her all she needs to know.
It takes a good ten minutes to set up the Ministry-grade Pensieve at the center of the courtroom. It's the sort large enough to display the memory to everyone — the sort they use for all trials. And Hermione panics as she realizes — she's going to have to act like she's seen it before. Like she knows what that blue wisp contains. Eyes will be on her.
Whatever shock ensues, she's going to have to hide it.
And she's never been good at that.
Clutching her hands into fists at her sides, Hermione locks her knees and prepares for the worst. Burbage deals a nod to the guard, and he tips the contents into the massive pool.
For an impossibly long moment, the memory swirls around in the water — an inky black mass. Then, all at once, the image launches itself into the sky — and Narcissa's memory is displayed as though from a Muggle projector.
Not one second in, Hermione already has to stifle a gasp.
Because it's herself she's looking at. Splayed out on a marble floor she still hasn't forgotten the texture of. And it's her voice she's hearing. Her screams.
The members of the Wizengamot shift uncomfortably as they watch Bellatrix torture her.
It's a moment she never thought she'd have to relive.
Her screams echo up off the high ceiling and come ringing back, absurdly loud — but not loud enough to cover Malfoy's voice.
"Stop it!" He roars from his cage, and Hermione feels her stomach twist. "Get rid of it! STOP IT!"
"Silencio," Burbage casts without a thought, eyes fixed on the moving images in the air. Malfoy's cries cut off.
"I didn't take anything!" her past self continues to scream. "I swear! Pl-please, please! I swear, I didn't take anything!"
Narcissa's slow, methodic blinks rarely interrupt the image. And for a long while, it feels like it goes on forever. Hermione never realized how many times she said the same thing. Over and over.
"I didn't take it! I didn't take anything!"
But then suddenly Narcissa's voice rings out. Quiet and low, spoken under her breath — and yet louder than anything else because it's right at the forefront.
"Draco. Stop."
Hermione can't help but glance sideways at him — finds him still screaming himself hoarse in silence. Yanking at the bars.
Almost at the same time, Narcissa's memory glances sideways, jerking her attention back. And there he is in the past. Wearing those same clothes burned into her brain. In that same spot in the Malfoy hall she'll always remember. Staring straight ahead, watching her scream.
Except — no. That's not all he's doing.
His low, unintelligible murmur can only just be heard over her shrill cries, but the moving of his lips is unmistakable.
"Stop," Narcissa warns again. "She'll see you."
He doesn't stop. Not even for a moment. Keeps saying the same muffled words, over and over again. Unblinking. Unmoving. Even when Narcissa reaches out and yanks at his arm. His focus is steadfast, his tongue equally so.
And Hermione knows what a counter-curse looks like.
She feels like the breath's been knocked out of her. And when the memory fades into darkness above them all, her knees buckle. She narrowly manages to grip one of the bars of his cage.
Keep your composure.
Her eyes flit upward. Find Malfoy no longer screaming.
But there are rare tears in his eyes and his face is a brilliant, furious red and he looks — he looks defeated. Defeated and betrayed and overrun by pure rage.
Burbage has the good sense to wait an extra minute before she releases the silencing charm.
Hermione clears her dry throat. Feels like she's sleepwalking as she steps away from the cage and rasps out, "Mr. Malfoy…can you explain to the Wizengamot what you were doing?"
Can you explain to me?
For a long while, he says absolutely nothing. Only huffs out furious breaths, white-knuckled fists wrapped around the bars in front of him.
"Please explain the nature of the counter-curse," she presses — and she sounds like she's pleading. There's no way to hide it. There's desperation in her voice.
Save yourself. Damn you, Malfoy. Save yourself.
She fights back tears.
The way you saved me.
Because she knows. Even before he says it — grinds it out like the words themselves are a death sentence. She knows. She never knew then, but she knows now.
"My aunt was using a knife dipped in poison. The counter-curse forbid it to spread."
Hermione digs her nails into the heels of her hands. Straightens her back and lifts her chin to the Wizengamot, even as two identical tears track wet lines down her cheeks. She clears her throat one last time.
"In other words, he saved my life."
