Invisible
Chapter Twenty-Five: Treasure
Breathin by Ariana Grande, Lovely by Billie Eilish, Chasing Colors by Noah Cyrus, and Situation by Don Toliver
Draco POV
Before Granger, the only other person that Draco would have done anything to protect was Narcissa.
As a child, he'd spent so many nights caring for her that he began to wonder if their life might be happier if it were just the two of them. He loved his father, but the first time Lucius hit Narcissa was the first time he really saw his father for what he was: a scared man who didn't know who he was without having complete control of everything around him.
That was, coincidentally, why the beatings stopped around the time Voldemort returned. Lucius had lost control, and so became a withered shell of who he once was. Before the Dark Lord's return, Draco would have done anything to figure out a way to save his mother that didn't involve sullying her Pureblood name with a divorce (Narcissa's words, not Draco's), but after? After, he saw that even at his weakest, Draco was the strongest man in the family. And even that was saying a lot.
Draco knew it was strange that he still loved his father, even after the years of pain he'd inflicted upon his mother and him. It was difficult being a Malfoy, knowing that he had to always present a professional face for the public, when the truth of what was happening behind doors was imperfect and shattered. Perhaps that was why he hadn't had any desire to visit his father. He didn't want him to receive the Kiss, and that was why he was grateful to Granger for speaking for him at his trial, but that didn't mean he wanted to have contact with him again. As far as he was concerned, Draco's life had been devastated by the tornado that was Lucius.
He had fond memories. He recalled the time his father took him to his first Quidditch match, and how he'd held him on his shoulders without caring about proper Pureblood decorum. Draco would never forget about Christmas his Second Year, when his father was so proud of him for being Seeker that he purchased him a real Golden Snitch to keep in a crystal case in his room. Draco still had it, sitting right atop his second beside table. He'd always remember his Third Year, when his father spent hours with him in the family potions lab working on a special beauty potion to gift to Narcissa for Mother's Day. He wouldn't forget the smile on his mother's face when both of her boys presented it to her.
He also had bad memories. The time his father kicked him down the stairs for bringing home a poor Potions mark in First Year. When Lucius struck Narcissa across the face for attempting to arrange for Draco to spend two weeks of his Summer holiday in Paris with Blaise's family.
The moment Lucius snapped during dinner one evening because he'd told Draco to lower his voice and Narcissa had told him to ease his storm. Lucius slapped her so hard on the side of the head that Draco had to stay up with her for two nights straight to feed her potions so he wouldn't have to call for a Healer and shame the family.
That was likely the reason why Draco was constantly blaming every bad thing that happened around him on himself. Because it seemed like every time Lucius hurt his mother, it was because of something related to Draco. Draco sometimes caught himself wondering whether or not his father actually wanted him to be born or alive or breathing, and it filled his heart with so much pain that he had to stuff it all down. Maybe that was why he was so cruel to Potter, the Weasel, and Granger. Because he envied the fact that no matter how their home lives were, it couldn't possibly be as bad as having to bathe your feverish mother's brow while she sobbed with a black eye.
So that was why, when his mother swept into his bedroom the day after the Revel, he felt shame shoving his head down and slamming his gaze to the floor. She had to know exactly why Granger was in his room. She had to know exactly why the tension was so thick. She had to know who had been over for dinner the previous night.
She had to know that Draco was no better than Lucius, and the fact that his mother was so loyal to him was no consolation. Draco didn't think his father deserved Narcissa, and now he didn't think he deserved her either. Or Granger.
He nearly fell to his knees before her to beg forgiveness, but she had already conjured up a small white table and two chairs beside the window. She snapped her fingers and like lightning, Tinky appeared with a crack. Granger flinched at the noise, drawing Draco's gaze.
"Miss is home!" Tinky gushed, her apron even dirtier than before. "Tinky is so happy to see you!"
The little elf danced forward to hug Narcissa's leg, but the older woman held up a hand.
"Not in these robes, my love," she said, and then she leaned down to pat Tinky's head. "As much as I adore your work ethic in my Dining Room - these robes are from France."
Tinky's smile didn't falter. Draco knew she was used to Narcissa's micromanaging when it came to herself and her home. "Of course, miss. Shall I bring you anything?"
"Yes," Narcissa said in a clipped tone, shrugging off her coat and waving her hand. The coat floated up into the air and flew itself into Draco's open closet. She looked down her nose at Tinky, in the most loving way possible. "Bring tea and three teacups. I would also like to take lunch here in my son's room."
Tinky bowed and then, before she could disappear, Draco snapped his fingers. Narcissa looked at him, and so did Granger.
"No Apparition," he said, nervously glancing at his mother. "The sound . . . It startles her."
Narcissa's eyebrows rose smoothly and Granger blushed. Tinky merely bowed again and then flounced out of the room.
Draco hurried to pull one of the chairs out for his mother. She sat the way a queen would, spreading out her skirts and resting her folded hands in her lap. Her platinum hair was pulled back into a severe bun, the black stripes standing out starkly against the white backdrop. Her lips were painted cherry red and she had an overall healthy disposition.
"You look stunning, mother," Draco said, leaning down to press a swift kiss to her cheek, heedless of Granger watching. "As always."
"Nonsense," Narcissa said, waving her hand again. "My beauty ages."
"Like fine wine." Draco sat down across from her.
Narcissa fixed him with a glare. "Draco. Offer the chair to the lady."
Draco's cheeks gained a bit of color, and then he glanced at Granger, who looked a bit anxious. She shook her head a bit too enthusiastically.
"Oh, Merlin, no, I . . . I'm not . . ." She looked to Draco almost pleadingly, and he knew what she was silently saying. She could hardly walk. It was likely not possible for her to sit in a chair without causing herself undue strain. He felt guilt tugging at his throat again, and then he looked to his mother.
"Grang - Hermione is not well," he said, switching to using Granger's first name so his mother wouldn't find him disrespectful. "She needs to stay in bed."
Narcissa arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow but said nothing.
Draco blanched. She knew. She absolutely had to know what happened. Why else was she here from Denmark? Without warning or prior notice?
Tinky returned with a hovering teapot, teacups, a tray of sweets and cream, and a plate with a gourmet sandwich on it. Once everything was settled, his mother began to prepare her tea with a wave of her hand, the sugars lumping themselves into the cup and the teapot pouring itself out. She set into her sandwich with demure bites.
"The bed in the hall," she said. "I hate it. Remove it."
Draco sipped his tea. "It wasn't intentionally placed there, mother. Tinky is working on preparing Granger's quarters."
Narcissa glared at him again. "Draco. Do we drink our tea before serving guests?"
Draco thought he might keel over and die. He scrambled to his feet and began preparing the tea by hand, since he didn't have his wand. He started scooping the sugar.
Granger, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed, tugged at the hem of Draco's jumper on her body. "Something to help me -"
"Sleep, I know," Draco said, distracted by being chastised so many times in front of her. He reached into the tea bag tin and pulled out chamomile. He put three scoops of sugar into the cup, completely ignoring the eyebrow raise his mother gave him at his words. He walked over to Granger and handed her the tea, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments.
"Three sugars?"
Did she think he didn't know his witch? "Obviously."
She gave him another one of those undeserved small smiles, and he went back to his seat.
"Try not to slouch, my dragon," Narcissa tutted as she brought her teacup to her lips, embarrassing Draco even more. Which was infuriating, because Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd felt embarrassment. Then, his mother smiled over at Granger. "You must excuse my son. He's not had much experience hosting witches in his bedroom."
"Mother," Draco hissed, face burning. He refused to look over at Granger.
"Other than the ghastly bed decoration in the hallway, you've done a stellar job decorating the Manor, my dragon. I do so adore the piano in the Drawing Room, but it looks a bit empty on the carpet? Did you intend to only purchase an armchair and a sofa?"
There was a bit of tension, and Draco felt Granger's eyes digging holes into the side of his head. He resolutely stared at the tabletop as though it had done him personal affront. He hadn't wanted Granger to find out, or to make a big deal out of it. He just couldn't look at it for another second knowing what had happened on it, what she'd been forced to endure. He'd intended to get a new one before the end of the day.
"There was a chaise," Draco said, his eyes darting up once and then back down to his teacup. "But I asked Blaise to burn it."
Granger's teacup clattered against her plate, drawing both Draco and Narcissa's eyes. She blushed and apologized in a whisper. Draco wasn't surprised she was so quiet. Narcissa was quite an intimidating witch.
"Hm," Narcissa said, taking a bite of her sandwich again. "I suppose you'll have to purchase another one."
"That's the plan," he said quietly, drumming his fingers against his leg. Then, before he fainted out of mortification, he changed topics. "How is Denmark? This time of year must be quite cold."
"Quite," she sniffed. "I was thinking, perhaps instead of hosting a gala at the Manor, you could simply come to my chateau for Christmas?"
"Honestly, I'd prefer that," Draco said, feeling relieved. He wasn't a party thrower like his mother, and he'd probably throw a poor excuse for one. Not to mention, he wasn't sure if Granger would ever want to set foot in the Manor again.
Not that he was inviting Granger for Christmas. They weren't . . . That wasn't an option.
Narcissa smiled. "Perfect, then it's settled. How about you send Tinky to me, and place the Manor under stasis? That way she's not all by her lonesome, and the furniture doesn't collect dust. And we'll have a happy Christmas in Denmark."
"I'm sure you'll be visiting father."
"Of course," she said, sipping her tea. "But of course you don't have to come to visitation. Take your time."
Draco nodded, acutely aware that this was likely the most information about his personal life that Granger had ever gleaned. It was bizarre, when he thought about it, that they knew nothing about each other that wasn't personality-based. Sometimes, Draco felt like Granger knew him better than Blaise did, like he'd never felt closer to another person, but then he realized how mental that sounded to think that about someone he wasn't even snogging on the regular. He wondered what she was thinking, and if she'd dwelled too much on his lapses in gentlemanly behavior in front of his mother, with the tea and the chair.
"Hermione, what do you plan to do for Christmas?" Narcissa asked, much to Draco's dismay. He didn't even know if she'd want to speak to him again after today, much less come to Denmark for a Malfoy family Christmas. It was absurd.
"Oh, I . . ." Granger cleared her throat. "I hadn't any plans, besides staying in my cottage with . . . I have a cat, you see. And an elf friend is watching him. His name is Crookshanks and I wouldn't want to leave him for the entire holiday when I've already left him for the school year. Oh! Um, not that I'm assuming that you're inviting me. That would be - it's not - unless . . . ? Nevermind." She sipped her tea like it was firewhiskey.
Draco realized the corner of his mouth had quirked up. He wasn't one to find things cute or people adorable, but well . . . Granger panicking over his mother's harmless question was one of those things.
"A cat," Narcissa said brightly. "That's lovely. We've always had dogs, ourselves. Haven't we, my dragon?"
Draco nodded, tapping his finger against the side of his teacup. "A few."
"Yes," Narcissa said, and then she smiled over at Granger again. "We had the terrier, Boomfly, do you remember? And then there was the Doberman. What was his name? Severus?"
"No, that was my German Shepherd."
"You named your dog after Professor Snape?" Granger asked, sounding incredulous.
"He was my godfather," was all Draco said, pouring himself a refill on the tea.
His mother's eyes lingered. "Draco. Where is your wand?"
"It's broken," Draco said carefully. He didn't want his mother to know what he was. He didn't know why, he just didn't want her to worry about him or the company or the Manor or his future. He just wanted her to worry about Lucius and Denmark.
"Broken? Have you gone to Ollivander's?"
"No, I chose not to go today," Draco mumbled, feeling chastised again. "Besides, he's not too fond of me. That was my second wand."
"Nonsense. I will write to him. You'll have a few replacements sent to try until you find the right one for you."
Draco sighed, but didn't protest. Everyone loved Narcissa, even those who hated him and Lucius. The wizarding world was under the impression that Narcissa Black had been ensnared by Lucius and held captive by her son. If anyone could help him procure a third wand, it would be her.
"And Hermione," Narcissa said, "you simply must come to the chateau this Christmas. It'll be beautiful. Not much snow, unless you go to the mountains. But I live by the sea, so the most we may see is rain. But it's gorgeous."
"I - well, that is to say, I . . ." Granger seemed flustered.
LDraco was still having a hard time comprehending that he was taking tea at lunchtime with his mother in his bedroom while Hermione Granger sat on the edge of his bed in naught but his jumper. And his mother was just eating her sandwich, as though it were no big issue.
Draco had no idea what his mother was thinking, but he knew that he wasn't sure about where Granger and he would be at Christmas. If his mother knew about the Revel, which Draco suspected she did, why did she think Granger would want anything to do with him come the end of this little weekend holiday at the Manor?
"We can discuss it," Draco said, tapping his spoon against the rim of his cup.
"Lovely," Narcissa said, and then she said, "I noticed you purchased a piano?"
"Yes, it was more for show. But it turns out, Gra - Hermione is a bit of a musician."
"Is that so?" Narcissa looked delighted. "Do you play the piano?"
"Yes," Granger said shyly, setting her empty teacup on the bedside table. When she leaned over, Draco's eyes landed on the bit of her bruised thigh that became revealed, and then their eyes met. He looked away quickly, feeling ashamed again. "I sing as well. Just as a hobby."
"Then you must come for Christmas!" Narcissa clapped her hands together once. "I planned on hosting a bit of a party, and you simply must perform a song for my guests!"
Granger looked as red as a tomato. "I couldn't. Oh, no I couldn't. I'm not even that good. And I only know Muggle songs."
Before he could stop himself, he scoffed. The song she'd sung during the dinner, though it must have been traumatic for her what with Orchid's death happening not moments before, had felt like an expulso to the gut. Her voice was as gorgeous as she was, and it demanded attention. Draco hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her while she sang, and he hadn't even cared that it was a Muggle song.
"She's quite good, mother," Draco said, wondering what had come over him to make him pay her a true compliment in front of his mother. "She's being modest."
"Well, definitely give it some thought, then," Narcissa said to Granger. "Sometimes, the strongest thing we can do is to face the things that frighten us. Isn't that right, son?"
Draco nodded, having heard her say those very words to him many times before. Every time Voldemort gave him a task he couldn't stomach, it was his mother who'd reminded him to stay strong before he left. Without her, he never would have become the wizard he was now. His weakness might have gotten him killed by the Dark Lord.
But he didn't like to think about Seventh Year, so he hurriedly batted the painful memories aside and turned his attention back to Narcissa.
"How is father? Must be difficult, having to settle in to Azkaban for the next 30 years, hm?"
"Oh, Lucius is doing as well as can be expected," Narcissa replied, her smile seeming tight. "They allow him small comforts and they do allow me to visit as often as I'd like, but it's no suite. Now that the Dementors are gone, it's a bit more Muggle of a prison with the Aurors as guards, but many of them can be bought off the same way a Muggle could. Anything to procure your father a decent bed and set of robes."
Draco wasn't fazed by her words, but his eyes slid to the left. What did Granger think about his mother admitting to using her financial status to award Lucius liberties that other prisoners couldn't afford? She was sitting on the bed still, staring at her bare legs, her eyes traversing the lengths of her bruises. He wondered if she even had the capacity to care about things like money and privilege right now.
The whole situation was so bizarre. Granger in his bed, wearing his sweater. His mother, inviting her to sing at Christmas and chastising Draco for not serving Granger her tea first. It felt like a Beedle the Bard tale.
"And what of your meeting with Silas at the company?" Narcissa asked.
"With who?"
"I'll take that as a no, then. You found time to go to the Ministry and meet with Gareth, however."
Draco went rigid, a burning hatred rising up within him at the mention of Greengrass' name. Granger's teacup crashed to the hardwood floor, shattering, and drawing Draco's eye. She looked sheepish and afraid.
Draco went to the bed, kneeling down and picking the shards up with his fingers. He ignored her legs and kept his eyes down as he answered his mother.
"I plan to reschedule," he said. "Hermione's not well. I'd rather not conduct business right now."
Narcissa was quiet and then all-of-a-sudden, all of the shards lifted into the air and vanished. Draco turned and saw her lowering her hand back to the table. She offered him a small twist of the lips.
"Along with writing to Ollivander, I shall write to Silas for you. So you can focus on what's important this afternoon."
Draco stared back at her, his heart racing. She knew. She fucking knew.
But to what extent did her knowledge go?
He stood up and turned to Granger, who looked rather uncomfortable with her legs bare. She glanced up at him and then away again.
"Perhaps you should get some rest," he murmured, hands on his hips.
"Yes, I suppose I should," she said somewhat dreamily.
She turned and scooted herself back toward the pillows. Draco, forgetting - or simply not caring - that his mother was in the room, leaned down and pulled back the coverlet, then let it drift atop her. She sunk into it, her eyelids fluttering, and hugged the pillow close.
"Here," Draco said, reaching for the Dreamless Sleep potion. "Take this."
She reached for it, unstopping it and taking a draught. She passed the bottle back to him and closed her eyes.
"Thank you, Draco," she whispered, her voice trailing off as the potion. He stood there for a moment, looking at a reddish bruise on her cheekbone and the cut on her collarbone from where the tip of the whip kisses her skin, and frowned. It was still jarring, hearing her say his name, and it made him feel guiltier about the previous night. There was solace, however, in the fact that her sleep would be void of nightmares.
Draco felt Narcissa's presence behind him.
"How much do you know?" he asked quietly.
"I know what occurred here last night," Narcissa said, placing a hand on her son's back. She patted him. "And I know that the fault did not lie with you. Come, let's sit."
They returned to the table. Draco sat facing the bed, resting his elbows on his thighs. Narcissa took her seat and then began to pour herself another cup of tea. Draco wished he knew what she was thinking, what she truly thought.
"When she wakes, you ought to ensure she gets something to eat," Narcissa said with a tone that told Draco she knew a great deal. "I won't have her going hungry in my home."
Draco gritted his teeth, watching the rise and fall of Granger's breath as she slumbered. He knew his mother meant well, but it was all serving to worsen the way he felt. He hadn't been a gentleman, he hadn't been putting Granger first. He'd just been plunking along like a foolish oaf, letting her get hurt, forgetting her necessities. When had she eaten last? Had he even ensured she received water or food before the Revel?
Merlin, why did he keep fucking everything up?
"Quiet your thoughts, my dragon," Narcissa said soothingly, stirring honey into her tea. "It won't do to beat yourself into the ground for things you cannot change. What do you think your father does all day? Mope?"
"Don't compare me to him. I'm not like him."
Narcissa viewed him for a few moments before saying, "No. You are better than him. And I know that whatever happened last night, you did your best."
Draco scowled. "My best wasn't good enough."
Narcissa was silent. When Draco turned to look at her, there was a stern glint in her eyes. "Do not talk about my son that way."
Draco sneered and relaxed in his seat, slinging his arm over the back of the chair and drumming his fingers on the table beside his empty teacup. He loved his mother, but she was his mother. She knew him like the length of her wand. His mother was stronger than his father, and ten times as cunning. She wasn't here at the Manor for no reason.
"How much do you know?" he asked, feeling an ache in his throat.
"About what?" She took a sip.
"Everything."
She set her teacup down and turned to gaze out the bedroom window. Draco watched her closely, searching the planes of her face for the disapproval that he was sure would come. Narcissa never was one to just come out and say things. Even when he did something wrong like forget to clean up his toys as a child, she never outright told him so. She always wrapped the punishment in layers of tight-lipped smiles, discipline, and lessons to be learned.
"How did you take the news of Fenrir Greyback owning half of the company?" she asked, completely ignoring his question and keeping her gaze focused on the window.
"Not well," Draco drawled. "I would have appreciated prior knowledge."
"The fault lies with me. I was concerned that if I told you, you would reject your father's offer to take over early. It can be difficult to tell the truth to our loved ones when we're afraid of the way they might react."
Draco eyed her. She was trying to say something, something hidden, but he didn't know what.
"Are you suggesting there's something you need to tell me?" he asked, eyes narrowed.
"Not at all. I'm suggesting that there's something you need to tell me."
Draco's mind spun. What did she want to know? The fact that he consumed an irregular diet of Granger's blood? How he forced Granger to crawl on Narcissa's floors while Muggle-borns were murdered in her Dining Hall and Drawing Room? Or perhaps how he very agonizingly and painfully turned into a wolf on the second night of the full moon cycle each month now? There was so much she could be fishing for, and he had no desire to shame himself more by saying any of them aloud.
"It's clear you already know," Draco said carefully, changing direction. "So you may as well spit it out, mother."
Narcissa set her teacup onto her plate with a loud clink. "Are you a werewolf?"
Draco averted his eyes, a surefire giveaway. But the way she was looking at him, he never would have been able to lie.
"And you discovered this information how?" he muttered, drumming his fingers again.
"Tinky so graciously updated me this morning. You haven't forgotten that House Elves can hear everything, have you? She didn't know much, but since I am fortunately intelligent, I pieced together the timing with what was going on. As for your dinner party, I don't need to have been there to guess what went on."
"And how did you know to contact Tinky?" Draco sneered.
"She contacted me via the scrying mirror I gave her for just such an occasion."
"For me turning into a wolf?"
"No, Draco," she snapped harshly, her eyes blazing like white fire. "For you behaving like a fool. Hermione Granger assisted our family when she did not have to. And you repay her by bringing the Devil into our home while she's present? Now, if you are a werewolf, then I understand that you likely could not help it, knowing who and what Greyback is. But you could have done more. You can always do more."
Draco turned his face away, biting back the urge to argue with her. Because she was right. He hadn't done enough. He hadn't fought hard enough. He'd surrendered too early and he'd underestimated his enemies. He hadn't fully understood the dynamics of what it was like to be a werewolf. Now Granger was covered in cuts and bruises, likely traumatized, Draco wanted to die, and Greyback and the Death Eaters knew he was a werewolf. They had so much they could use against him, from his status as a beta to Granger's status as his "slave," and when Draco stopped to think about it, he realized they were royally fucked.
He wondered what his mother would think about the fact that he wasn't just a werewolf. He wasn't going to say anything, not when she was clearly angry and not when he had no idea what he truly was.
"However," she said, "just because you made a mistake, does not mean you cannot make it right."
Draco lifted his shame-filled silver eyes to his mother's face.
She continued, "If there is one thing your father never taught you, it was that money and items will never buy forgiveness or affection. He bought you and I both everything we could ever have wanted, and yet did you ever once forgive him for the way he treated us when you were younger?"
Draco shook his head, feeling a bitterness rising to his throat.
"Then you know that all of that -" She waved her hand towards the potions on the bedside table. "- is not going to make anything that happened last evening go away. Did you know, your father bought me diamonds every year on the same day after the first time he struck me? And they were beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous, goblin-made pieces of jewelry that cost more than Minister Shacklebolt earns in a year."
Draco stared at her, still in his relaxed position, waiting for the lesson that he knew was bound to come.
"But I never once started to forgive him until the day the Dark Lord forced you to take the M-Mark." Her voice broke and she closed her eyes. "He was there every waking moment for me while you were recovering. He was by my side, making sure that while I was caring for you, there was someone there caring for me. He fed me by his own hand, clothed me when I was too worried to change, bathed me when I was weeping too hard to bathe myself. He was more than a husband to me, and it was then that I decided I was going to forgive him. He never once said sorry, but I knew then that sometimes, apologies aren't made in the form of words."
"Even though he hurt us?" Draco asked, feeling his eyes tighten. He didn't know how or when he was ever going to forgive his father. Draco wasn't expecting some profession of apology or anything like that, and he was certain that they had reached some sort of understanding during the war. Everything that had happened had been pushed to the background in favor of keeping the family safe, alive, and intact.
Did Narcissa's revelation change things? He wasn't sure.
"Even though," Narcissa said. Then, she reached across the table and held her hand out. "But this isn't about forgiving your father, Draco."
Draco hesitantly placed his hand in hers, and then he relaxed. Her skin was soft and smooth, as it always had been, and it was everything he never realized he needed.
"Then what's it about?" he asked, already feeling the pain of the previous night starting to worm its way through him.
"It's about you . . . And Hermione Granger."
A sudden loud snore from Granger broke through the silence and then Draco turned away in amusement. Amusement that soon turned into chuckling. And then when he saw his mother ducking her head to hide her smile, the chuckling became laughter, and Draco was covering his mouth with the back of his hand, his vision swimming with unshed tears of mirth.
"There's no Pureblood way to sleep, my dragon," Narcissa said, her eyes sparkling. "What you're feeling now - that affection - that is more pure than any drop of blood in my body."
When Draco's laughter had faded, he glanced over at her again, and realized that he rather preferred to see her sleeping like that. It was as if even in slumber, she was completely and utterly herself. As though she cared so little for what the darkness thought, that she was going to attack it with her snoring. It was so innocent, so youthful, that he couldn't imagine ever seeing her present at one of Voldemort's Revels.
And yet she had been present at one: Greyback's. Even though it was much smaller than the ones Draco had been through, it was more painful and traumatic than any that he'd attended in his Seventh Year. He knew his mother was watching him intently, but he didn't care much. For the first time, he allowed his emotions to run rampant on his face, allowing his guilt and shame and the fondness he felt for Hermione to overwhelm him, and then his eyes were stinging.
He turned his red-rimmed eyes to his mother, hanging his head. "Mother . . . I fucked up."
Narcissa barked a short laugh and squeezed his hand. "You did, my dragon. And while I don't know the details - and I do not want to know - I do know that if she is sleeping this soundly in your bed, then there is room for improvement."
Draco blinked, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Well, we're not . . . It's not . . ."
"Whatever it is," Narcissa said firmly, "you must do more. Do you understand me?"
Draco leaned over and hung his head between his hands. He took a deep breath past the turmoil and whispered, "I understand."
After a few moments, he saw his mother's legs coming into view. She wrapped her hands around his wrists and pulled them away from his face. He viewed her through his unshed tears. Narcissa, probably the only person he had ever consciously allowed himself to be this emotional in front of before. Her smile was warm and her eyes shone with adoration as she wrapped her fingers around his.
"You are a dragon, Draco. You are ferocious when you set your mind to something, and you raze everything to the ground when you set out to accomplish what you want to accomplish. But do you know what else dragons do?"
He waited, wishing he could wipe his eyes.
"They protect their treasure. Whether you've realized it or not, that witch over there has become your treasure. And purchasing items for her is not what will make amends for whatever occurred last evening. Do you want her to forgive you?"
Draco lowered his eyes. "I don't deserve it."
"Hush," she said soothingly, rubbing his palms with her fingers. "Hush, my love. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I see that self-destruction in your eyes. Stop breaking yourself down. Now, come, I asked you. Do you want her forgiveness?"
Draco nodded, even though he still felt as though her forgiveness didn't belong to him. She was his witch, but he wasn't her wizard, and she'd never so much as said she even wanted him in her life. He had no idea who they were or what was going on between them, but what he did know was that he hated himself for what happened the night before. Every single part, from the crawling, to the vile things he'd said and done, to the kiss. He hated himself for all of the taking and taking.
"I've continued to take from her," Draco said softly, staring down at he and his mother's joined hands. "And I haven't given anything in return. She's a Gryffindor, so she'll just continue to give until she has nothing left. I don't . . . I don't want her to do that."
"Then you shall have to give, and let her take," Narcissa said, pursing her lips. "And I see that look in your eyes - that glint. It's the same one I saw when you were under the Dark Lord's influence. The one that shows me I need to reign you in before you start taking important parts of yourself and giving them away. You can't be a Malfoy - you can't be the head of a family if you can't manage to face down your transgressions with the same ferocity and flame that you use when you're succeeding. You must be the same man in your weakness that you are in your strength."
Draco sighed and hung his head again. His mother was right. He wasn't doing enough. He couldn't just tuck her in and put potions by the side of her bed. After the times his father hurt his mother, Draco knew what Granger would need: affection, comfort, and a good brushing of his hands through her hair. And as nervous as that made him feel, being so open and poncy over Hermione Granger of all witches, he knew she needed it.
She deserved it.
Not that he wanted a family with Granger, or anything. But it was clear: she was the person he fancied. The person for whom he wanted to raze cities to the ground. He didn't know how or when it happened, but it had, and there was no going back now. He would keep it to himself, because even if she felt the same, he would never be good enough for her.
His mother was right about something else. He was self-destructing. He recalled how Granger had told him she wanted to fill him up with good things, but he didn't think he had room for anything good. He was so filled with darkness that she wouldn't know where to place anything. There was simply no room.
"Nobody hurts my son," Narcissa whispered, kissing the top of his head. "Not even my son."
Narcissa gave his hands one last squeeze before returning to her side of the table. Then, something that had been at the back of his mind suddenly wiggled its way to the forefront.
"Mother . . . How come you weren't surprised when Granger showed up at the Ministry the day of father's trial?"
Narcissa adjusted her skirts around her legs as she sat, reaching up to pat the sides of her head. "It wasn't that I wasn't surprised. It was that I was hopeful. At that point, I hadn't thought that there was any hope. Her appearance gave me hope, and it was hope that wasn't misplaced. One thing I've always regretted was the circumstances under which I first encountered Hermione - as I'm sure you are well aware - and I firmly believe that her assistance was Merlin's way of showing us that we can make amends as a family for our part."
"But she's Muggle-born. That doesn't bother you?" Because it doesn't bother me.
Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "Are you asking me if it bothers me that a Muggle-born witch assisted your father in being awarded more time to live? Or are you inquiring as to my thoughts about your affections for her?"
Draco looked away and then back at her. "Both."
"Any witch who would sacrifice her reputation for the sake of my family is a witch worthy of my family. I haven't the slightest clue why she did it, but I'm sure her reasons were complicated and confusing and difficult. And I am grateful."
"What has father to say about it?"
Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Baby steps, my darling. Baby steps. Now, we must talk business for a spell."
Draco hurriedly wiped his eyes free of any last bit of moisture and sat up straight in his seat.
"I'm sure it was a great shock to you, discovering that Greyback owns fifty percent of the shares in the company. But believe me, I expressed my anger to your father when I discovered that he was entering business with that monster. Especially when I came to understand that Greyback was a lot more intelligent than he portrayed himself to be under Voldemort's reign."
"There's . . . I saw a discrepancy," Draco said, crossing his arms over his chest. "In the budget. It's -"
"The 1.7%," Narcissa said, her eyes turning as cold as ice chips. "Yes. I'm well aware of that. It was an emergency fund the Death Eaters with children set up, tucked away within the yearly budget. They started it during your Fifth Year."
Well, at least that part had been true. But Draco couldn't help but wonder: what exactly was the fund hiding? Because he had a feeling that there were plenty of Pureblood families who hadn't seen a lick of that money.
"Father went into business with Greyback in my Fifth Year?"
"Yes, as well as the Crabbes, Goyles, and many other Pureblood families. Everyone put money into the fund. They opened accounts with your father so he could access the galleons and put them into the emergency fund."
"And how did Greyback - a werewolf - gain access to Pureblood estates?" Draco asked, frowning. "That's what I can't figure out."
Narcissa's frown mirrored his. "I have been trying to figure that out myself. I've asked your father, but he says he was unaware that it had taken place."
"You don't believe him."
Narcissa laughed for a moment. "Darling, he's Lucius. Of course I don't believe him. But right now, my focus isn't the company. That's your focus."
"Well, I may be in over my head. Greyback is . . ." He paused, not sure if he should talk frankly with her about his status as a magical creature. He didn't want to involve her, especially because he felt that he could at least handle that. "He's difficult to reason with."
"And what was your plan? Before you discovered the Greyback situation?"
"To buy out the members of the trust who were Voldemort's supporters," Draco replied. "And work on rebuilding the image of the company."
"In what vein?"
"I had entertained the idea of Muggle companies, but recently, have discovered a bit of interest in magical creatures." He studied her face. "What do you think of that?"
She looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, pursing her lips. "Hmm . . . Well, I think it's something to think about for the future. Right now, you must tread carefully. Greyback is . . . An issue. After last evening - and do not tell me details. I cannot stress that enough. I am certain that he is confident in his role in the company. He has no fear that he will lose his power."
"He has no fear at all."
"Yes, well . . . It's becoming clear to me that something more sinister is going on. I have read the Prophet. I know about the missing magical creatures, him paying for the funerals, and the Muggle laboratory he purchased. It all seems . . . Odd. Odd that he'd purchase something Muggle and be allowed to own it as an asset, and odd that he would be allowed to possess Death Eater Estates. And very odd that he would be so philanthropic as to not only pay for the funerals, but to also donate copious amounts of money to organizations that are designed to help magical creatures, such as the Vampire Assimilation Group and the Goblin Employment Operations. It's clear he has some sway with the Ministry, if he's able to circumvent werewolf laws and do all these things."
"He said during the meeting that he can circumvent any laws," Draco told her, feeling uneasy.
Narcissa's brow furrowed. "Then I'm afraid my concerns are correct. He may be plotting something more serious than we're prepared for. It is well known that during the war, he was a staunch supporter of the Dark Lord. No doubt he still holds those views. The question is, what does he plan to do with them?"
Draco worried his lower lip between his teeth, his mind turning as he thought. What could Greyback be planning? It was obvious that it was all leading up to something. Especially with him knowing that Crabbe had turned Draco. Had he planned it? What could the possible use of him being a werewolf be? Had Greyback been expecting Draco to become a beta wolf specifically? And did he know about the fact that Draco had a second creature's magic running through his veins?
"Yesterday, your father told me a prisoner went missing," Narcissa said, folding her hands in her lap and sitting back with her legs crossed. "The guards are keeping it from the papers, but your father's cell guard told me who it was."
"Who was it?"
Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "Dolores Umbridge."
Draco frowned so deeply that he worried he might wrinkle. He rested his elbows on the table and stared down at it, lost in thought.
Who would have reason to break Dolores Umbridge out of prison? She wasn't exactly powerful, and she had no friends in the wizarding world after she'd abused her position.
Draco knew he'd had a rather . . . Interesting Fifth Year with her, but the majority of the reason he'd even suggested forming the Inquisitorial Squad to her was because he knew Potter was doing something Draco wished he could be a part of. At the time, he'd been only mildly interested in what Voldemort had to say, and he'd thought the dark wizard was nowhere near as powerful as Dumbledore. Once Voldemort started moving into the Manor that Summer before Sixth Year, Draco discovered that he was wrong about that.
"There are no plans to release the information to the Prophet," Narcissa said with a sigh. "I'm not sure if it's because they're covering it up, if they don't think the old bat is a threat, or if it's a mixture of the two. But she's out there. Somewhere."
"Do you think that with her being broken out and Greyback being able to circumvent laws . . . Do you think that perhaps the Ministry is compromised?"
Narcissa paused and then said, "It's hard to say."
"Hermione and I have an ill feeling about Minister Shacklebolt. She thinks it's the Imperius curse."
"And what do you think?"
"I don't know the man," Draco said with a shrug. "I think he's been bought off. But either way, I think it's safe to say it has been compromised. Not to the extent that it was when Voldemort was alive, but it's not trustworthy any longer."
Narcissa nodded. "I'll see what I can glean this week. I won't be returning to Denmark for a few days - I have tea with several Pureblood wives tomorrow, and one of them is wed to the overseer of the Auror Department. I will ask about Minister Shacklebolt's mannerisms."
Draco wondered what she'd be able to find out, and what he would even be able to do with the information. He felt a little helpless, what with everything he was currently dealing with. No one wanted another war, and if that's what Greyback was trying to do, then Draco had no idea how he would react. He knew for certain that he had no desire to fight on the wrong side again, but he was concerned that he might not have a choice. He needed to figure out what was wrong with him so he could start planning how to challenge Greyback and win.
"Well, I do think I should retire to my room," Narcissa said a bit faintly. "I would like a nap, and I would like some time to write letters to Gareth and Mr. Ollivander."
Draco stood up as his mother walked towards him, and towards the door. Then, she paused by him and held out one of her hands. Draco placed his upon hers with a quizzical expression.
"This is how you give proper massage to bruised skin," Narcissa said shortly, moving her fingers along the center of his palm. "With gentle, circular motions. Not too firm, or it will cause pain. The goal is to provide relief."
She looked up and their eyes met, and Draco felt his cheeks flushing.
"I understand."
"You should be receiving notice from Ollivander within the week." She swept out of the room then, calling back over her shoulder. "And dine her, Draco!"
Draco sighed heavily, scrubbing his face with his hands. He loved his mother, but he didn't think he'd ever felt so chastised. His mother was a Pureblood witch and so her upbringing had given her a certain way about her when she expressed her emotions. She didn't have to do much for Draco to know she was disappointed in him, and even though he'd told his mother he understood, he still felt like he wanted to tear himself into tiny pieces and gift them all to Granger for Christmas.
"Maybe then I'd actually invite her," Draco muttered to himself. He sighed again and then dragged one of the tea table chairs over to the side of the bed. He plopped down in it and leaned forward on his elbows, waiting for her to awaken.
She snored, and it was loud.
O
Draco woke with a start, his eyes immediately catching sight of Granger sitting up in his bed with a bowl of soup in her hands. She took a large bite of the meaty stew, and gave him a bright grin.
"Welcome to the land of the living," she teased. "Have a nice nap, then?"
"Silence, witch," he said, stretching his arms above his head and sitting up straighter. He glanced behind him and saw that the light in the room came from the glow of the full moon. How long had he been dozing?
"It's past dinner," she said as though she'd read his mind. "You were exhausted, I'm sure. Blaise came and brought me this to eat."
"How kind of him," Draco said, feeling a bit bitter. His mother had told him to get her food, not Blaise. He glanced at the bedside table, seeing the Cream of Dittany there amongst the potions. At least Blaise was good for something, the cheeky git. "Is it good?"
"Oh, yes," Granger said, taking another bite. "It's exactly what I needed. I hadn't realized how famished I was."
A pang of guilt reverberated through Draco's chest and he carded his fingers through his hair. "If you'd like anything else, just let me know."
"Honestly, if I weren't so full, I'd take another bowl of this," Granger said, and then she held the bowl to her lips, drinking up the last of the broth. Draco wondered if his mother would be keen on that, slurping soup in the bed. Granger smacked her lips and grinned again - a real smile. The kind he saw her giving Scarhead and Weaselbee when they were younger.
It was nice.
"How is your pain?" he asked.
"Oh, it's . . ." She averted her eyes and set the empty bowl and spoon on the bedside table near the potions. "I haven't had a chance to use anything other than the Dreamless Sleep potion, and I took some of the Pepper-up when I woke earlier. But my cuts are healed. Episkey worked well enough. I couldn't reach the cuts and scrapes on my back, though."
"How is your pain?" Draco repeated, gazing into her eyes almost sternly. He knew she was trying to downplay it and he didn't know why. He wanted her to be truthful. He needed to hear it for himself so he knew the extent of what his mistakes had wrought upon her.
Granger wouldn't meet his eyes. "I don't want to be a burden. I'll be fine."
Draco stood up suddenly, his stomach twisting at the way she flinched when he did so. He placed his hands on his hips. His mother had told the story of his father helping her when Draco was recovering from the Mark, and she'd told him he needed to do more. So he was going to do more.
"Scoot forward," he said, motioning with his hand.
"Erm . . . What?" Granger stared at him.
"Just do it, Granger."
Slowly, but surely, she scooted forward, the neckline of his jumper falling off of one of her shoulders and revealing the scrapes she had acquired from Demetri dragging her. He clenched his teeth and then slid into the bed behind her, folding one leg beneath him and keeping the other flat on the floor. The moonlight filtered in through the window and fell across the bed, illuminating her in a way that seemed to make her seem smaller than normal.
"May I . . . ?" Draco asked quietly, lifting his hands to her sides.
"What are you wanting to do?" she asked, and the suspicion in her voice felt like a curse. A well-deserved curse.
"Massage," he murmured, resting his hands in his lap. He lowered his head, feeling ashamed. "And the Dittany."
"The cream or the Essence?"
"Both."
She took a deep breath then said, "All right."
She moved as if to take off the jumper, but he placed his hands over hers gently. He wanted to be the one to do it. After everything, she shouldn't have to lift a finger. He supposed that was why his father had done things without magic for his mother. Because he felt so much remorse that he knew he had to be the one to do it all for her.
Draco's fingers curved around the hem of the jumper, and she relaxed back against him as he helped pull it off of her arms without her having to lift them over her head. His eyes carefully avoided her bare chest as he touched her shoulders and pushed her to sit up again. She wrapped her arms around her legs, and Draco finally looked at her back in its entirety. The scrapes and bruises seemed uglier in the minimal amount of light, and they looked painful. He leaned over and grabbed the Essence of Dittany.
"I'm sorry about earlier," she said, resting her head on her knees with her face turned toward the window. "About the witch at the Ministry. It wasn't my place to be angry about that."
Draco squeezed the dropper over the scrapes on her back, the telltale smoke and sizzle feeling satisfactory. She would be healed of those, at least.
"It was your place," Draco said just as quietly as he moved on to the scrapes on her lower back. He placed his hand on the center of her back, gently. "Lean forward further."
"It wasn't," she said. "You're not my - I'm not your . . ."
"You are mine," he said simply, dropping the oil along any scabbing he saw. "It was your place."
She was quiet, and he thought he heard her gasp a bit, but he supposed it was just wishful thinking. He took her shoulder, pulled her back into a sat-up position, and then he pushed her long curls forward over her shoulders to move it out of the way. After returning the Essence to the bedside table, he twisted open the Cream of Dittany and gathered some onto his fingers. He hesitated for a moment, frowning and allowing his self-hatred to overwhelm him for a moment. He was sitting in his bed, about to massage the bruises on her body, all because he hadn't been strong enough to protect her, and she was worried she had no place in his life.
He felt ill.
"You said something about your parents yesterday," Draco said as he ran his fingers and the medicine over the bruises on her back. He used the gentle, circular motions his mother told him to use, careful not to cause her any more pain than she was already in.
"Oh, I . . ." She gasped a bit as his fingers made their way from beneath her shoulder blades to the swell of her hips. "I was just angry. It's not your fault that I haven't done what I set out to do this year."
"It is my fault. What happened to your parents?"
She hesitated, and then she said, "During the war, before Harry, Ron, and I left to search for the . . . Well, there were so many deaths being reported. I was worried that he would come for them, for my parents. That Voldemort would send Snatchers or Death Eaters after them. So I . . . I obliviated them."
"You obliviated your parents?" His hands caressed her shoulders, and he saw her twisting all of her hair around her hand.
"Yes," she whispered, and he could hear it in her voice. It had not been an easy decision.
"You obliviated them of what?" he asked, rubbing the medicine into the bruising at the base of her neck.
"Of me," she sighed, her head falling forward. "I made them forget about me so that if they were caught for any reason, Voldemort wouldn't know who they were. I made them forget about me, and then I put the idea of moving to another country into their mind. They're in Australia now, and they have no idea who I am."
As Granger was talking, Draco realized with stark clarity that this information that she was telling him, it was life-threatening. It was life-threatening and utterly vulnerable. She was telling him where the only family she had was located.
She still trusted him.
"And I suppose you're wanting to restore their memories in some way?" he asked softly, his fingers returning to the center of her back.
"Preferably," she replied, her voice sounding a bit breathy. "But I know memory magic is the most complicated magic out there. I took Advanced Potions this year because there is greater promise in memory restoration using potions than there is using memory spellwork. It promotes gradual change, rather than spells, which promote drastic change."
Draco suddenly understood why she'd brought it up during the argument. She had plans for her Eighth Year - plans that she'd put on hold when she got caught up in what was going on with Draco. It was almost mind-bending, when he thought about it: Hermione Granger being too busy for her parents because she was so focused on helping Draco Malfoy. It didn't seem like real life. It seemed like fantasy.
"You're too compassionate. You should be focusing on that. On your parents, not on my transformation."
"After last night?" Granger's voice was hushed. "There's no possible way that I could let you go through that by yourself again. You were . . . I've never seen you like that. It was clear that it was terribly painful."
Draco felt selfish. Of course he didn't want to go through it alone again. Having her there, even though he'd begged her to leave, was the only thing that made it bearable. She'd taken care of him and even though it hadn't lessened the pain, it had made him feel better knowing she was there. She'd seemed to know just what to do and how to help it along smoothly. But it was dangerous. It was much too dangerous. He didn't even know how she escaped, but he could assume Blaise had something to do with it.
What if Blaise wasn't there next time?
His fingers crept along her ribcage, smoothing medicine over the bruise on the left side from where she'd fallen after he struck her on the Drawing Room floor. She shivered slightly, and the movement stirred something in him. His voice lowered of its own accord as he asked, "How's that?"
She leaned back against him suddenly, her head lolling against his shoulder. He looked up, away from her exposed chest.
"It's very, very good."
Draco felt his heart skip a beat and all of his magic began to rumble to life. He pushed it back, though, because the last thing he wanted to do at this moment was feel that sort of way about her. Not after everything that had happened.
He saw a bruise on her abdomen. It was dark and spread from just above her belly button to the center of her sternum. He glared at it. "How did you get the bruise on your stomach?"
"I was kicked."
Draco immediately spread the medicine over the bruise, forcing himself not to feel anything as her chest heaved with surprise at his gentle touch. He wondered which one had kicked her, or if it was him at some point and he simply wasn't remembering. He felt at war with himself, his self-hatred and rage swirling together. He almost wanted to locate Greyback at that very moment and avada him. It was a shame his wand was broken.
The weight of her body against his was nice, if he was going to admit it to himself, and it felt comforting to feel her soft hair pressing against his neck and chest. His hands stopped, resting lightly on her stomach, and he closed his eyes. They sat there like that for what felt like minutes, but was likely mere moments.
Draco wondered how she was so comfortable being shirtless and only in her knickers like this, completely beholden to him. Didn't she want nothing to do with him? Why would she be okay with this? Did she truly trust him that much? It made him feel a bit weak, and like he had to be even more careful than normal.
"Are you hungry?" she suddenly asked.
"No," he lied. He hadn't thought about it, but he hadn't fed since before the Revel. He had no desire to ask her. He really had done nothing but take and take from her. He didn't want to take anything else from her that he felt he didn't deserve or hadn't earned.
"Malfoy," she said in a warning tone. "I know what you're doing. You can't deprive yourself. Remember what happened last time?"
"I know," he said, closing his eyes and keeping his head up and away from her throat. "I know, I just . . . Not right now, all right?"
She sighed. Then, to his surprise, she lifted his arm by the wrist and turned it over. They both looked down at his Dark Mark, just as vivid as the day it had been forced upon him, but without the dark magic that used to crackle painfully beneath his skin when Voldemort was alive. With her other hand, she stroked her fingertips along his flesh.
"How come you never cover this?"
"Same reason you never cover your scar, most likely. It's as much a part of me as anything else. Why should I hide my trauma to make everyone else feel comfortable? I didn't ask for the Mark; it was forced upon me."
"It was?" She sounded surprised, and for some reason, that bothered Draco. It was just like Fifth Year, and even as far back as First Year. He was just himself, and for some reason everyone thought he was inherently evil. His father had made such a toxic name for himself that it had directly influenced his path in school. Most of the time, he blamed his father for everything that happened to him during Sixth Year. That year was wands down the worst year of his life.
"It was," he replied, and he realized that he felt like he was struggling to breathe. He'd never said any of this to anyone. Not to his mother, not to Blaise. No one. "Voldemort groomed me for months before he asked me to . . . Do the task he asked me to do Sixth Year. He started during Fifth Year. But no matter how hard he tried, I suppose I never took that final step into the darkness. And so he forced the Mark on me with a round or five of the cruciatus. That's how I knew how to help with your pain after you were attacked. Because my mother cared for me afterward."
Granger was silent for a while, and Draco looked down at her, wondering what she thought. She tilted her face up, her brows knit together in a frown.
"If we had known you were forced," she said, her eyes searching his, "I'm certain things would have gone differently."
"They would not have," he murmured, absentmindedly stroking his fingers along the curve of her bottommost rib. "Your friends - everyone, really - already made their minds up about me long before he forced the Mark on me. Me being an absolute prat with Crabbe and Goyle following me around did nothing to help, either."
"I wish Harry would have given you a chance."
"I wish I would have given you a chance," Draco said, words spilling out of him like a toppled cauldron of Amortentia. His hand moved from her ribs to trail the curve of her face and caress her chin. He tilted her face up higher and looked directly into her eyes. "I'm certain . . . Things would have gone differently."
Granger's eyes widened a bit, and he wondered if something had come over him, or if it was just the full moon affecting him. He moved his face upward and pressed his lips to the center of her forehead, lingering. She sighed again, and Draco found that the sound made his stomach clench almost painfully. He wasn't certain things would have gone differently, of course, but right then, with her lying in his arms like that, he truly felt like they would have.
"The song you sang last night," Draco said, drawing his head back to look down at her again. "The words . . . Had they any meaning?"
"It was the only song I could think of in the moment, that I knew," she said, stumbling over her words a bit. "Which part are you . . . Confused about?"
"No particular part," he said quickly. "I just wanted to know why you chose it."
"Oh. Well, it's just a hobby, singing. That was my first time singing in front of anyone, and -"
"It was beautiful," Draco whispered, before he could "chicken out," as Granger had so eloquently put earlier that day.
"The . . . The song? Or my voice?" she squeaked out.
"Both," he said, smirking. "But mostly you. Your voice, I mean."
"I suppose you're of the same sentiments as your mum, then. Do you want me to sing at Christmas with the Malfoys?"
"Do you want to sing at Christmas with the Malfoys?"
"We'll see," she said, and then she giggled. "I will need copious amounts of Calming Draught, but it's a possibility."
"And I suppose you'll need your cat delivered to Denmark."
She burst out laughing, and the sound was melodious. She reached up and patted his cheek.
"Crookshanks does not need to be delivered to Denmark," she said, still giggling. She shifted in her position, and then winced. "If you're truly inviting me to Christmas, then I will drop by and spend a couple of days with him before leaving. He's a cat, Malfoy, not a child. He's likely not even noticed that I'm gone so far this school year."
"Crookshanks," Draco said, the name feeling foreign upon his tongue. He'd only ever had dogs, no cats, and Draco had never felt the need to choose a familiar. "Is he friendly?"
"He wasn't a fan of Ronald," she said, smiling to herself as she played with Draco's fingers on her abdomen. "But he loves me."
"Oh, well now I've got to make the cat like me. And then I'll make sure the Weaselbee knows it."
"Malfoy," Granger said sternly, but she was smiling.
Draco was quiet, unable to forget about the way she had winced. He knew why she'd winced and even though it was going to be tough, he knew it needed to be done. He cleared his throat.
"You may not like this, but . . . The bruising on your . . . From where I . . . It needs Dittany."
She inhaled sharply. Apparently, she was hoping he'd forget, but there was no way Draco would ever be able to forget that. He hadn't wanted to hit her as hard as he did, but Greyback had used the alpha magic to force him to. Draco knew she'd tried as hard as she could not to scream, but . . . He'd hit her so hard that it had been torn from her throat with a life of its own. He was surprised she didn't wandlessly hex him.
That was the thing that shocked him about Granger: she was brave as Hell and took everything that happened to her during the Revel in stride. She hadn't fallen apart and the few times she'd almost done so, she'd managed to pull it together at the last moment. Part of him wanted to feel proud of her, but he didn't know if he had the right.
No, he had no right to feel proud of her for that. He had no right to feel proud of anything at all.
"All right," she said. "Should I . . . ? Oh, sod it."
Draco, who was standing up from the bed, stiffened when he saw her reach below herself and remove her knickers. His magic began to pulse beneath his skin, and he turned his face away from the sight of her rolling onto her stomach with her head on the pillows.
"Stop fretting. I wasn't going to pull my knickers up into the crack of my bum."
Draco nearly chuckled. The words were so bizarre coming from the lips of the Golden Girl that it calmed him a bit. He pulled the chair he'd been sitting in earlier up closer to the bed.
He almost looked away.
The bruise that Draco had given her was, in short, horrid. It was hideous, with various dark spots and it was large enough that it spread across both buttocks. It looked painful, much too painful, and he felt worse than he'd felt all day. After rolling up the sleeves of his button-up, his hands trembled as he collected more of the Cream of Dittany on his fingers and reached for her.
"Malfoy?"
His voice was a hiss. "What?"
"It wasn't your fault. And I'm all right."
He stared at her for a long moment, wishing he could simply tell her how much he hated himself for what he'd done. Wishing he was worthy enough for her to even touch her. She wasn't all right, he knew it. He could tell. She wasn't herself. It was like she was a shadow of herself, just breathing and existing and saying what she thought she should say.
"It was," he said darkly, and then he began to massage the medicine into her buttocks, deriving no pleasure from it whatsoever. "It was."
She watched him for a moment, and even though it was a bit embarrassing, he let it happen. He deserved to feel embarrassed.
"Malfoy, what happens when we go back tomorrow?"
"I don't know," he said with the same dark tone. "I have absolutely no idea."
She looked down at the mattress, and then she said, "We can't do this alone anymore."
"Well, Blaise knows now."
"I want to involve Ron and Luna," she said, as though she'd been waiting to blurt it out. Draco paused for a moment, and then resumed his massage. "Luna is a vampire."
"What?" He tried to be as gentle as possible over the darker parts of the bruise, but he still saw her face flinching in pain.
"I saw it in the registration forms," she said. "Her father asked me to make sure she wasn't involved, but . . . Luna is the best person to help with what's been happening. I think she can help come up with a solution for you needing blood, and . . . She can show us how she adapts and adjusts."
Draco wasn't too fond of involving the Red Weasel, but he had to admit that he hadn't been too much of a bother ever since Granger made things right with him. He wondered if the Weaselbee knew his witch was a vampire, and he wondered: was he her blood source? If he was, Draco wasn't sure what he would do with that information. He didn't think he'd suddenly feel less guilty about accepting Granger's blood, but learning from Lovegood about her experience might help. And who knew, maybe she knew more about magical creatures than he and Granger did.
"If you want," Draco said, and then he sat back, his eyes meeting hers. "Does it feel better?"
"Much," she whispered, hugging the pillow tighter. "And what should we do about . . . Greyback?"
So much "we."
Draco stood up to go wash his hands, talking over his shoulder as he waited. "Perhaps it can wait for now. We'll be safe at Hogwarts."
After he washed his hands and returned to the bed, she was sitting up, pulling her knickers back on. She held a hand to her stomach, letting out a small sound of pain as she bent down to collect his jumper, and Draco flashed to her side without thinking too deeply about it. He helped her into the cashmere, smoothing out her curls once it was on.
"Are you sure?" she asked, looking up at him with concern dancing in her eyes.
He nodded. "It's the safest place to be. Always has been. Except for . . ."
"That won't happen again," she said, and he was surprised when she put her hand on his chest and smiled. "You're on the right side this time."
Draco gazed down at her, feeling the moonlight against his back almost as if it were sunlight. When she looked up at him again, he found himself attracted to every line, curve, and plane on her face, and he forced himself to step back before he took and took without giving and giving.
"We should focus on figuring out what you are," Granger said, clutching her hand to her chest. "It's clear you're a werewolf, but there's still Veela symptoms. Those need to be explored."
"Is it possible that I'm both?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know it's far-fetched, and I don't know how it would be, but it could be possible."
She tapped her chin, frowning at the ground. "It's not completely impossible. Magic has rules, but there's no rules that I've seen that state that two different types of magic can't exist in one form. After all, a wizard can have darkness and light in him. So it's not a stretch to say that you could be both werewolf and Veela."
"Or vampire?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "You have no sensitivity to light, amongst other things. And Luna being a vampire yet still able to go to school means nothing. She likely has a magical artifact to enable her to walk in daylight. I know for certain you're not a vampire, and the only other magical creature that consumes blood is a Veela."
"Can Veelas be turned? Or is it inherent?"
"It's typically inherent," she said, still frowning. "Which is why I'm so confused. It could have already been in your blood, already in the process of presenting when you were turned. Or, as Greyback said, scratched by Crabbe."
"Then why don't I have wings or fangs? Like you said."
"Firstly, you do have fangs. When you were . . . Challenging Greyback, you had four fangs: two larger top ones, and two smaller bottom ones. But those could be attributed to your wolf. Second, I have two theories. Either you don't know how to manifest them, and they actually are there somewhere within you. Or - and this one seems far-fetched - Crabbe is both werewolf and Veela, too. Very far-fetched because he has dark hair and dark eyes. Veelas typically have light hair and eyes, like you. But I do have a third theory. Something I saw in passing when researching creatures that experience lust, but is just now jumping to the front of my mind . . ."
"And what's that?"
"You were already a Veela, and Crabbe was a werewolf and something else."
Draco felt his blood freeze. "You mean . . . A third species? Which one?"
Granger looked away, biting her lip. "An incubus. I'm not sure, but . . . It would explain some things. Incubi are demons, and if that's true . . . Then things are more confusing and more terrifying than we originally thought."
"Sounds to me like it would explain nothing," Draco said, unable to keep his skin from crawling. Crabbe? A demon? Demons weren't something magic folk liked to think about or dabble in. They went beyond dark magic, and they were uncontrollable. They came from dimensions that not even books in the Restricted section at Hogwarts talked about.
"It's not possible," Granger said, offering him a meek smile. "It's not possible because it would mean that Crabbe was possessed in a way that was transferable. Which would mean that you were possessed, too. Does anything talk to you?"
"No," he said. "The feelings come from me. They're just . . . Manifestations of what I'm feeling or wanting."
"This is completely far-fetched, but . . . What if someone gave Crabbe the traits or the blood or the magic, even, of both a werewolf and an incubus, and you were already a Veela? And when he scratched you, you were infected with both, and they somehow warped your Veela state? And now you're something new?"
Draco stared at her. It was too far-fetched. It made no sense. How would something like that be possible? And how would they be able to prove it?
"You say manifestations of things you're feeling or wanting?"
"Yes," he said, his mind still working.
"Well, what sorts of things are those?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well . . . I think we should test it out," she said. "When we get back to Hogwarts."
"Test . . . What out?"
She bit her lower lip, obviously contemplating something for a moment before she finally sighed. He stared in shock as she grabbed his wrists and placed his hands over the chest of her jumper. He tried to yank them back, but she quickly covered his palms with her own.
"What does this make you feel?" she asked, a bit breathless. "Do you feel anything differently?"
Yes, of course he did.
"Are you mental?" he asked, but when she slowly lifted her hands away from his, he didn't move. The situation was almost comical, and it would have been, if it weren't for the immense amount of guilt he was currently experiencing for what had happened the previous night.
"Possibly," she said, and then she laughed nervously. "Do you feel anything . . . Manifesting?"
Yes. Yes, he felt something manifesting, all right.
"Possibly," he replied under his breath, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I know we had a . . . Lust issue," she said. "Is that still an issue?"
He dragged his eyes slowly down to her lips, rapidly losing control of his faculties. He felt his magic spinning and twirling, rising from his body to envelop them both. His hands slid up from her breasts to her neck, and he watched her eyelids flutter as his fingers tickled her skin. He yanked her forward, until her chest was against his, and lowered his head until their noses nuzzled.
"Very much so."
"I think it's . . . I think it's safe to say we're on to something," she breathed, her eyes wide and hands wrapped firmly around his wrists. "You may be an Incubus, too. I don't know what you'll need for that."
"And if I'm also a Veela?" He remained leaning over her. He felt her body trembling against his, his mind completely enveloped by the warmth of his agitated magic.
"Then you'll need a mate." She gulped, and when she inhaled, he felt like he was breathing her in. "Soon. Otherwise, you'll wither and . . . And die."
He paused, looking at her, and then something clicked into place.
"No."
She held onto him tighter when he tried to pull away. "I'm not willing to let you die, Malfoy."
"And I'm not willing to force you to sign your life and future away to me simply because your heart is too big around magical creatures."
He knew it sounded harsh, but she was acting mental. There was no way that she was fully comprehending what she was saying. He didn't know much about Veelas, but he knew becoming someone's mate was no small task. If he knew anything about werewolves, he knew that wolves mated for life. Granger and he had only been in their situationship for five minutes in the grand scheme of their entire lives.
"If it comes down to it, I will make the decision for my life," Granger said in a serious tone. "Do you understand me?"
Draco shook his head, looking away.
"I said, do you understand me, Draco?"
His eyes snapped to hers and he couldn't help but sneer. "I understand. Hermione."
She glowered at him, finally letting his wrists go. "You'd be perfectly content dying, wouldn't you? If it meant that you didn't have to mate with me?"
Something sounded off about that, but Draco didn't know what. He wasn't about to let her agree to something when she might not even be thinking clearly. If he was part Incubus, part Veela, part fucking werewolf, then there were magical forces at work that might be influencing her thoughts. Not three months ago, she probably despised him. And now she was suggesting mating with him for life?
"Yes, I would."
She blinked rapidly, staring at him with an indignance that only Hermione Granger could muster up. She stepped back as far as she could go, until she sat down on the edge of the bed, still looking up at him. It was then that Draco realized he must have said something horrible, because her eyes welled up and she quickly lowered her head.
"I suppose we can find someone - someone else who could give you blood," Granger said, her voice thick with emotion as she stood back up. "Perhaps Blaise. Until we can find a better solution. I'll be going to bed now. In my own room."
She rushed out of Draco's bedroom as though a hag were on her tail. He stared after her, bewildered and feeling like something was definitely wrong. And when her door slammed shut just as Blaise was entering Draco's room, the smirk on his friend's face told him he'd fucked up. Royally.
"What'd you do this time, mate?" Blaise asked, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. "Told her her hair looked bad?"
Had she thought Draco meant that he didn't want to mate with her specifically?
Draco ran his hands down his face.
"Fucking bollocks."
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