Don't Look Back
- 7 -
Aches / Allies
The moment she wakes up, she knows she's being punished.
A laundry list of symptoms — cottonmouth, splitting headache, stomach in knots and blood on the sheets.
Her cycle is early.
With a groan, she drags herself out of bed, struggling to balance for a moment before she can turn around and vanish the mess. Her skull feels like it weighs ten stone; it's nearly impossible to keep her eyes open.
At the very least, it's Saturday. She'll have the washroom to herself, with the others still asleep — as well as the rest of the day to recover.
The sun pesters her all the way across the dormitory, bright and assaulting. She holds a hand in front of her eyes until she can stagger into the washroom. A shower sounds like a godsend.
She does her best not to think about last night as the hot water washes over her, palms splayed out on the tile wall, forehead pressed against it. She could stay in here for hours. Soaking away the remnants of Cormac McLaggen.
But her stomach is a battleground — wrenching and twisting. If she wants to have any hope of getting through the day, she'll need to pay Madam Pomfrey a visit.
She's probably lucky she didn't look at herself before scalding away most of the evidence, but even out of the shower, her reflection leaves something to be desired.
Eyes bloodshot, lips chapped and swollen, skin sallow. She behaved like a fool.
And with Cormac McLaggen, of all bloody people.
Not just him.
It's that teasing voice in her head — rotten and sadistic — and she watches her cheeks go bright red in the steam-streaked mirror.
Cormac isn't the problem, after all. Not two seconds after she managed to pry him off of her, she made a snap decision and reached for her wand.
"Obliviate."
If she did it correctly, he'll have no memory of Halloween night whatsoever. Something he'll likely chalk up to drinking too much.
No, he's not the problem.
Malfoy — Malfoy is the problem.
There's no sense in it. In what happened. None whatsoever. Not only is it utterly absurd that she allowed herself to engage in something so lewd in a public place, but she also did absolutely nothing to stop him from watching.
And he did watch. For reasons she can't fathom.
Because he's Malfoy, and he's vile and he thinks she's vile, and it's all just —
Lavender's ridiculous morning yawn sounds from the dormitory. She jerks into motion, yanking off her towel and casting an Accio for clean clothes. She'd rather not speak to anyone this morning, if she can help it.
Least of all Lavender Brown.
Madam Pomfrey, in direct line for sainthood, gives her shoulder a squeeze and supplies her with a generous dose of pain-relieving draught. She has every intention of downing the entire vial in one go and then finding a comfortable spot amongst those massive pumpkins of Hagrid's to read for the rest of the afternoon.
Naturally, this plan falls to pieces within minutes.
She's only just rounding the corner out of the Hospital Wing when she comes face to face with Malfoy. And her heart would be in her throat were it not for the state of him.
He looks absolutely haggard.
His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes wide and rimmed red. The tension in his jaw looks as though it could rival the string of a bow, and his face is pale as death.
She's only seen him this bad the day before a full moon. But that's over a week from now.
"Granger," he hisses the moment he sees her. "This is your fault."
If she was expecting him to say anything, it wasn't that.
She hasn't given any thought to how a conversation might go after what happened last night — mostly by way of avoidance — but if she had to, she would've pictured something less aggressive.
Utterly confused, she can only stare at him for a moment. But then all at once he doubles over, grunting something foul she can't quite make out as he clutches his stomach. His features twist, more blood draining from his cheeks even when it doesn't seem possible.
"Fucking hell," he spits, grasping for the wall at his side to steady himself and glaring up at her through a few sweat-soaked strands. "How long is this going to take?"
Hermione blinks vacantly. "How long is…what?"
"He's just a fucking Weasley," Malfoy seethes through clenched teeth. "Ugly red hair, simple-minded — he's not fucking worth this. Not even for you."
She has absolutely no idea what's going on. "What?"
"The nerve of you," he continues, brandishing the hand not braced on the wall. "Getting so bloody wound up in your own feelings. So fucking dramatic. Oh, woe is me. Weasley's smashed my heart again. Best make myself physically fucking ill!"
He's not only offensive, he's much too loud. Madam Pomfrey is less than a wall away, and with her headache far from gone, it's simply unacceptable.
"You're the one being dramatic," she demands in a heated whisper. "Quiet down."
"Oh, why don't you make m—"
She seizes him by the arm before she really thinks about it, turning on her heel and charging down the short flight of stairs that leads to the courtyard at a breakneck pace. Malfoy whinges and curses the whole way, yanking against her grasp straight up to the moment she pulls him behind one of those stone archways that guards the fountain.
"You're not making any sense!"
Malfoy puts an extra foot between them immediately, face drawn up in disgust as he yanks nonexistent wrinkles out of his shirt. "Don't ever fucking manhandle me again—"
"What do you mean, wound up in my feelings?" she hisses, glancing sideways to check for onlookers.
"Don't pretend you don't know!"
"I don't!"
Malfoy scoffs and turns away, rubbing roughly at his temples. "Brilliant. Fucking brilliant," he mutters, almost more to himself than her. "Fucking head's on fire, fucking stomach's about to explode, and you're going to fucking deny it—"
"Oh," she says abruptly. Suddenly makes sense of it.
By the time he turns back to face her, she's certain she's gone candy-apple red.
"What?" he demands.
"I — erm…"
"What?"
She clears her throat, itching at the back of her neck and glancing away. "It — well, it has nothing to do with Ron. I'll put it that way."
Malfoy takes a step forward, casting a shadow over her — blocking out the morning sun. "Care to clarify?" he says in a low voice, teeth gritted with pain.
Idly, she thinks of the chaos the school would collapse into if all the girls were allowed to behave this way once a month.
"Certainly," she says, squaring her shoulders. A small part of her is embarrassed to say it, but the more she thinks about it, the more the rest of her starts to find the situation somewhat poetic. Poetic and even a bit funny. "I began my cycle this morning. You're experiencing menstrual cramps."
Malfoy goes white as a sheet. Reaches out to brace a hand on the fountain archway. "…What?"
"Hurts quite a bit, doesn't it?"
He opens his mouth and closes it again, eyes wide — gaze flitting rapidly back and forth, searching her face as though waiting for the punchline. Praying there is one.
"They'll come and go. So will the headaches. And you'll be in a foul mood the rest of the day — the rest of the week, probably — though I suppose that won't be abnormal for you." Hermione flashes him a coy smile.
"Granger—" he hisses.
"Best ask Madam Pomfrey for some of this." She pulls the vial of pain-relieving draught from the pocket of her skirt and waves it in front of him.
"This is — no, this is obscene—"
She only scoffs. "You'll live."
His hand threads its way into his hair again, sweeping back those sweat-soaked strands. "You're lying," he insists suddenly, though his tone is more desperate than anything else. "You — you look fine. You're not even sick. This can't be —"
"What?" Now she's the one stepping forward, and she's not sure where exactly the bitterness comes from. Five years of hell, most likely. "Does it bother you that I can handle it better?"
His nose scrunches up and his lip curls over his teeth — a snarl she's growing familiar with. "Fuck you," he spits and then pushes off the archway, shoulder knocking against hers as he makes to leave.
"Are we going to talk about it?"
The scuff of his shoes on the cobblestone is loud in the empty courtyard, and then it's only the soft sounds of the fountain filling the silence for a moment.
"About what?" he snaps.
She can't see him; he's already stepped past her. They're back to back now.
Tilting her head sideways, she speaks over her shoulder. "You know perfectly well what."
Another impossibly long pause. Then, "There's nothing to say."
And a moment later, his footsteps retreat.
She huffs to herself, left standing alone in the courtyard. Of course. He's going to deny it. She assumed as much, knowing his character.
Malfoy is nothing if not consistent.
And if she's right, he has no idea the symbiotic sensations work both ways. Has no idea she's felt what he feels. So why wouldn't he deny it? It's the logical choice. The easy way out. Malfoy always takes the easy way out.
Still, even if she was expecting it, she can't really account for the sudden hollow pulse in her gut. Only knows it has nothing to do with the time of the month.
She's all but given up on the prospect of receiving a response from Professor Lupin.
Perhaps that owl really did drop dead.
Another full moon comes and goes, the November chill making its way over the Grounds. When the transformation occurs this time around, she neither hears nor feels a thing from her dormitory. Doesn't care to admit to the connotations that come with staying awake well into the early hours of the morning, waiting. Listening. Wondering.
She thinks the Wolfsbane must've been more effective. Thinks perhaps that he didn't transform. Thinks about what it must feel like, to sit there in those chains and wonder when it'll happen. If it'll happen.
She imagines it must be torture.
Halfway through the month, just when she's starting to think she's no longer sensing anything from him, it feels like a pit suddenly opens up in her stomach. She's in the middle of Transfiguration, abruptly awash with dread, and when she approaches McGonagall to ask permission to leave, it takes little to no convincing.
"Miss Granger, you've gone gray. Are you quite alright?"
Hermione clutches at her stomach, feeling her pulse start to race, thudding like a hammer in her ears. "I'm sorry, Professor. I think I might be sick. May I—"
"Of course, yes. Off you go." McGonagall swishes a hand towards the door. "Mr. Weasley will—" She stops. Thinks better of it. "Mr. Potter will take notes for you."
Hermione leaves quickly. Thinks perhaps she might make a run for the lavatory, in case she really is about to be sick. That or she'll head to the Hospital Wing. Or maybe just straight to bed. It's the last class of the day, and she's in no danger of falling behind.
Except her feet lead her elsewhere.
She has no idea how it is she finds him. He wasn't in class and she hasn't seen him in the corridors since yesterday. And yet somehow, ill as she feels and with nothing but pure, subconscious instinct guiding her, she ends up in front of a very familiar blank stretch of stone.
The Room of Requirement.
For quite some time, nothing happens. She only stands there, staring at it, all the while feeling as though the walls of her stomach are caving in. He must be in there. The sensations grow stronger when they're in close proximity — she's put that much together on her own.
But she'd never once have thought they could be used as a guide. A method of tracking. Like a homing beacon.
The longer she stands there, the more she expects she'll have to wait around for him to leave. Wait and hope this pain subsides.
He's at least a week from a transformation — that can't be the cause. But whatever's gone wrong, it's driving him absolutely mad. On top of the dread, she feels an acute sense of panic. He's anxious. There's something he can't figure out.
Fool, she thinks. Here she's offered her help more than once, and Malfoy would rather just curl into himself and stew in it—
Dust rains down from the top of the wall. A gasp falls from her mouth as those intricate iron curls begin to materialize, slowly forming the doorway.
It's letting her in.
She doesn't hesitate when the handles appear, pressing a palm flat against the iron and pushing the massive doors apart.
This version of the room is dark. Seems to completely revolve around the orientation of the windows. The stone ceiling she remembers from the time she spent here in Dumbledore's Army has been replaced with glass — but the sky that shows through doesn't match the time of day.
This is a night sky. Stars shine from above, the glow of a crescent moon the greatest source of illumination.
Every wall is glass, she realizes. And all she needs to do is breathe in to deduce what he's created here.
It's a greenhouse.
A very empty greenhouse. The air is humid. Controlled. The glass seems to carefully reflect the moon's glow down upon a solitary row of flowers in the center of the room. They're raised off the ground, planted in a long, obsidian box a bit like a trough. A thin sheen of mist falls towards the soil, conjured from above.
It takes a step closer to recognize the flowers.
Wolfsbane. She'd know that shade of violet anywhere.
But with a few steps more, she realizes they're dying. The ends of the petals are shriveled and darkened, their stems limp and drooping.
"How the fuck did you get in here?"
His voice is sharp — startles her, erupting from one of the pitch black corners — and yet it's not so unlike those flowers. Wilted. Torn.
She twists towards the sound, squinting into the dark. Her gut wrenches as her eyes adjust, pulling him into focus.
He is quite literally curled into himself, sitting tucked against the wall with his elbows on his knees and his head braced in his hands. And she's suddenly trying to remember the last time she saw him looking well — because he looks utterly wrecked. His blond hair sticks up at all angles — the handiwork of those nervous fingers, no doubt — and his face is gaunt. Lined. Exhausted. At least as well as she can see in the artificial moonlight.
"What happened?" she asks, surprised when her voice echoes back off all the glass.
He lets out a huff that's more like a hiss. "I asked first." And now he sounds dull. Empty.
She moves away from the doors. Closer to him, his shape growing clearer amidst the dark. "I'm…not sure," she says, and it's the truth. "The doors just appeared for me."
His head thunks back against the wall. "They shouldn't do that," he whispers, as though to no one.
"What happened?" she asks again.
Malfoy thrusts a limp arm in the direction of the flowers. "Use those powers of observation."
The swell of indignation is brief. She's able to tamp it down, glancing sideways at the dejected plants and then back at him. "I thought you'd sorted them out."
Even in the dim light, his glare is fierce. "Evidently not," he growls, sounding out each syllable like an individual threat.
The sudden urge to roll her eyes is almost uncontrollable. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Malfoy — you're being a bit dramatic, don't you think? You said it yourself, the plant is sensitive. I'm sure there's something—"
Malfoy launches up from the floor in an instant, hands flying out in front of him and clenching into fists. "I swear I could fucking strangle you right now." He charges forward several steps. "Of all times to play the fucking know-it-all, you choose this moment? What's the matter with you?"
For almost half a minute, she can't find it in herself to react beyond a blink. Just watches him standing there, panting — waits for steam to start streaming out of his mouth.
It's as good a time as any to throw gas on the flame.
"I suppose it's my turn to accuse you of getting wound up in your feelings."
Malfoy closes their distance so quickly, she actually thinks he might hit her — albeit for about half a second.
But he stops a foot away, seemingly content to do little more than glare down at her for a long while.
Then, all at once, a shadow crosses over his face. She watches him put it together, the pieces connecting behind his eyes.
"How did you find me?" he demands suddenly, voice rough as gravel.
She hesitates. Only for a moment, just to savor that feeling of holding the cards.
"I felt you."
Malfoy's breath hitches.
She tilts her chin up. "I felt your panic."
"How?" he snaps, and that nervousness she's been feeling from him seems to momentarily spike.
"The symbiotic sensations," she says, careful to keep a neutral tone. "Apparently they work both ways."
She doesn't have to say more. She can see him backtracking — tracing his steps and realizing what she knows. It's evident in the way his furious expression falters.
In his state, though — she knows it's not a good idea to push it. She turns away from him abruptly, approaching the flowers at the center of the room. The moonlight slides over her in fragments as she stops in front of the planter's edge. "When did it happen?"
It takes Malfoy a long time to answer. A long time to collect himself.
"This morning," he says finally, barely audible.
"Did anything—"
"Nothing changed. Not one bloody thing. Not the temperature. Not the light. Nothing." He's at her side before she realizes, and when she glances to the left she finds him glaring at the flowers like he intends to set them ablaze. "They're evil," he spits. "And I hate them."
The sudden ache of sadness she feels she has to stamp out like a flame. Quickly, before he feels it through her.
She clears her throat. "Perhaps Professor Sprout could—"
"No." It's immediate. "No. Are you out of your mind? If the teachers think I can't handle this on my own, they'll take things into their own hands. I had enough trouble convincing Dumbledore to give me space."
"We have to do something."
"We?" His eyes snap to her. "Who the fuck is we?"
She can't help but grit her teeth. "Like it or not, this affects the both of us. And if all you're going to do is sit here and sulk, then I suppose I'll have to…" She trails off, realizing it halfway through the sentence.
Malfoy's surge of panic is ridiculously intense.
"You'll what?"
She's already turned on her heel, heading back towards the doors.
"Granger!" His shout is anxious. "What are you—"
She twists around at the threshold and holds up a hand. "Just trust me, will you? I have an idea."
"Trust you?"
"Yes."
He opens his mouth but looks as though he can't think of what to say. And it's the desperation in his wide-eyed gaze that makes her say it.
"Malfoy — think about it. Why would I do something to hurt you if it's going to hurt me?"
He stares at her for a moment, then huffs, expression settling into disdain. "What, like drop ice down your shirt?"
She does roll her eyes now. "Ice is ice, Malfoy. I know which lines aren't meant to be crossed." And she yanks the door open. "Wait here."
For what it's worth, he doesn't follow her.
She spots him leaving Transfiguration with the rest. Has to dodge Harry and Ron's concern before she can get to him.
"Yes, I'm fine — just fine. Something I ate, I think. Thank you."
She smiles and slips past them, speeding up a little so she can reach out and tap him on the shoulder.
"Neville?"
He stops and turns. "Hermione? You alright? Feeling any—"
"Oh, I'm fine, thank you. Better now. I — sorry, could I borrow you for a moment? It's just, I think Trevor may've escaped again."
Neville's eyes widen. "Again?" He slumps and sighs. "Right. Yeah." Waving a haphazard goodbye to Seamus and Dean, he follows her down the corridor and around the corner. "Where did you last—"
"I'm sorry," she says as soon as they're out of earshot. "It's not Trevor. I just — I need your help."