Don't Look Back
- 8 -
Effusion / Deflection
The last thing Neville deserves is a wand in his face, but that's exactly what he gets. Not half a second after the doors shut behind them.
"—the fuck did you bring him here?"
Neville jerks to a halt, going wide-eyed and stiff. His hands raise from his sides somewhat instinctively.
"No. Don't put your hands up," Hermione snaps, stepping in front of him. She tries to reach for Malfoy's wand but he yanks it out of the way, aiming the tip over her shoulder at Neville again.
"Are you out of your mind? Longbottom?"
She steps to the side, blocking him again. "Lower your wand. Now."
"What's going on?" asks Neville in a quiet, timid voice.
"Lower your wand."
"Longbottom?" he demands again. "Of all fucking people?"
She snatches for his wand once more, this time managing to grasp hold of it and yank it out of his hand. Malfoy gives a startled scoff of disbelief.
"How dare—"
"You're lucky he's here," she hisses, tossing his wand off to the side. It clatters to the floor and rolls away into darkness. "Neville is the best Herbology student in the school. Maybe even in the history of the school."
"Oh…" Neville starts to say from behind her, sounding shy. "Erm…thank you, Hermione—"
"No. Don't thank her," growls Malfoy, jabbing a finger at him over her shoulder. "No. No, no. Leave. That's what you should be—"
"Silencio."
Malfoy appears to continue to shout for a moment before his jaw goes slack and his eyes slide to her, flooding with rage as he watches her slip her wand back into the pocket of her skirt. She's never been good at reading lips, but she's certain the word 'fuck' is uttered more than once.
"You can speak again when you realize how grateful you should be."
Malfoy takes a step towards her. A step that must look aggressive enough, Neville has a gut reaction. He reverses their positions, stepping in front of Hermione again and saying, "Wait. Wait. Stop. I — I don't want to cause any trouble, okay? I—"
Malfoy makes a very rude gesture.
"That is it." She steps around Neville yet again, this time to seize Malfoy by the sleeve of his shirt. "Neville, I'm sorry — can you wait here for just a moment? I'm sorry."
"Erm…yeah. I — yeah." He turns in a slow semicircle, a little nonplussed as he watches her drag Malfoy towards the doors. She shoves them open and tows Malfoy out into the hallway, waiting for them to seal up behind her before releasing his sleeve.
"You — look at me. Look at me." She prods him hard in the chest with her finger. "You have two options. That's it. Two. You either go to Dumbledore, or you accept Neville's help. You don't get to sit in there on the floor and brood about your dead plants, because I refuse to be put through that. So decide." She crosses her arms in front of her, ignoring the rage she knows is his as it simmers to a boil in her stomach. "Quickly."
Malfoy lets out a rough, audible breath — the only sound he can make — his jaw tightening and his hands balling into fists.
"Well?"
He appears to fight against whatever muscle makes his lip curl up in that way it does, taking several long, silent seconds to gather deep breaths and blink methodically. Then, just barely — and done in such a halting way it looks as though it causes him physical pain — he nods.
"Finite."
"Fuck you, Gra—"
"Silencio."
She lets him stew in that for another thirty seconds or so, watching his face darken with fury. Then,
"Care to try again?"
He inhales sharply through the nose. Nods once.
"Finite."
Malfoy doesn't immediately speak this time, but he does step in close, all at once becoming a long, looming shadow. She clears her throat and tilts her chin up in answer to the movement, trying not to think about the last time he was this close to her.
"You should take extra care, Granger," Malfoy says, voice low and dark. "I don't appreciate being backed into corners." His eyes glimmer as though he's just thought of something particularly vicious.
"Unfortunately for you, all your threats are meaningless," is her response. She works to keep her tone light, even if that look in his eyes unsettles her beyond belief. "We've established you can't hurt me."
Malfoy huffs at that — a sudden, quiet laugh. "You're mistaken," he says, taking that one final step that has the toes of their shoes meeting in the middle. "We've established why I shouldn't hurt you. Never that I can't."
Her breath hitches — she can't stop it. Not when he reaches out suddenly, placing deft, barely-there fingertips over the flesh of her collarbone.
"And if you ask me," he murmurs — a distracted sound now, with his eyes unfocused as he watches the movements of his hand, "we've never fully addressed just how much I would like to."
By the end of the sentence, his fingers have trailed upward, dangerously skimming across the expanse of her throat.
She doesn't want to think about why she lets him. He's saying horrible, ugly things, just as he always does. And yet there's an ache, someplace low in her stomach. Something raw and uncertain. Something that sends the most reckless, unbidden curiosity flying through her head.
She wonders what it might feel like if he grasped hold.
Malfoy goes rigid, glazed eyes abruptly flooding with panic. He drops his hand — takes a massive step back, and it's abundantly clear that he felt that unspoken curiosity. That he knows exactly what she would've let him do.
He makes a quarter-turn away from her, facing the wall, and for a while neither says a word.
She hopes he's as desperate to put the moment behind them as she is, clearing her throat when she can manage it and forcing out, "I trust Neville. Possibly more than anyone."
And Malfoy seems somehow both relieved and irritated. He scoffs and crosses his arms, glancing sideways at her.
"I do," she presses. "He'd never tell anyone. And I haven't even told him myself. I was going to leave that to you—"
Another scoff, along with a roll of those gray eyes. "As if he hasn't already made the connection." He gestures to one side, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh — let's see. Wolfsbane." He gestures to the other side. "Wolf. Amazing!" He snaps his fingers, dealing her a savage, plastic sort of grin.
"Neither of us owe you anything," she bites out. "Especially not after last year."
Malfoy's expression screws up and he makes a sound low in his chest, once again closing a bit of that distance between them to seethe and jab a finger into her face. "Do not bring up last year. Don't. You don't get to."
"Then don't make me."
He growls and shakes both hands in front of her face, as though he's imagining squeezing her head between them. He's done this twice today. And she forces herself to remain perfectly still — to raise an eyebrow and nothing more.
"Make a decision, Malfoy."
"It's not a decision at all, is it? You've forced my hand."
She smiles sharply. "I'm glad you understand the situation."
Eyes narrowing to slits, he backs away — moves towards those iron doors, hissing all the while under his breath, "—you. Why did it have to be you? Can't fucking stand you..."
"If you're rude to Neville, that's the end of it," she warns.
He shoves the doors apart.
"Amazing…" comes Neville's voice from within. He's no longer by the doors, he's in the middle of the room, leaning over the terrarium.
Hermione sees Draco's body jolt, preparing to make a run for it, and she reaches out quickly to snatch his sleeve again, stopping him.
"I can promise you he's not hurting your plants," she huffs when he turns to glare at her.
"Amazing..." Neville coos again. Glancing back his way, she finds him delicately adjusting the Wolfsbane's petals, hands already clad in conjured gloves.
"See?" she says to Malfoy quietly.
"This is an impressive cultivation you've got here, Malfoy," calls Neville excitedly over his shoulder.
Malfoy appears momentarily stunned, but then she watches his face sink slowly back into disdain. "Impressive? They're fucking dying, Longbottom. Use your eyes."
"Malfoy—"
"Oh, no. They're not dying."
"What?"
She and Malfoy say it at the same time, and Neville turns around to face them. "They're not dying," he repeats. "They're in the effusion stage."
"Effusion?" Malfoy spits the word out like a curse. "There's nothing about effusion in the texts."
"Malfoy—"
Again, Neville takes his arrogance in stride, unaffected. "It's not widely known. Most growths of Wolfsbane don't live long enough to enter the stage at all."
"Effusion as in…releasing fluid?" Hermione asks.
Neville nods excitedly, turning back to examine the plants again. "Species composed of toxins do it every few months. Almost like a pressure release. It prevents it from poisoning itself."
Malfoy sighs and drags his hands tiredly down the expanse of his face. "I fucking hate this plant," he mutters, then strides off into the room's dark corner to hunt for his wand. "Go ahead, Longbottom," comes his bitter voice from the shadows. "Say whatever it is you want to say about my condition. Let's get it out in the open."
Neville looks back from the terrarium and meets Hermione's gaze, confused. She can only offer an apologetic shrug, massaging her temple.
"I…erm," he says, going a little red in the face. "I didn't really think it mattered. It's not my business."
Malfoy emerges from the shadows slowly, eyes tight and suspicious.
"Pretty Gryffindor sentiments," he scoffs after a long while. "As usual."
Hermione shakes her head at him. "You really aren't making a case for yourself."
"I'm not trying to make a case for myself."
"I could help," says Neville, despite it all, faltering a little when Malfoy's sharp eyes shoot to him. "Just — just with the plants, I mean. If anything goes wrong."
"And why would you want to help me?" Malfoy spits.
"I…I'd like to study them."
Malfoy makes a face — something between disbelief and annoyance, his gaze jutting back towards Hermione. She just raises her brows at him. A challenge.
Long silence ensues, Malfoy's narrowed eyes bouncing back and forth between her and Neville all the while. Then, teeth bared, and not without a threatening swish of his wand, he grits out, "If either of you do anything to jeopardize me or those fucking plants, I swear to Merlin, I'll—"
"You'll what?" she demands sharply, unabashed, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head to the side.
Malfoy sneers. "Use your imagination."
A moment later he storms from the room, tall doors slamming behind him — and she somehow feels he's acutely aware that he's getting far better than he deserves.
Hermione,
I'm sorry to make you wait — I couldn't risk writing in front of Remus. He and I have never seen eye to eye when it comes to this, and I can only say I'm glad your letter reached me first.
I want to help you. No one should go through this alone. As a paramour myself, there are things I can tell you that Remus can't. Important things.
We should meet in person. Can you get yourself to the Three Broomsticks this Saturday? Evening would be best.
You did the right thing, reaching out.
Tonks
A strange, mottled sort of hope fills her as she reads it. She's torn. Because she's fairly certain it means Professor Lupin has a negative outlook on paramours.
And yet, still —
Help is help. And she never really considered the possibility of meeting another paramour.
You're not a paramour, her subconscious reminds her. This is all a mistake.
It doesn't matter either way. She'll be there.
Tonks is a loud splash of color in the otherwise drab, muted tones of the Three Broomsticks. A couple empty glasses are spread out in front of her, and she's halfway through the third one when she catches sight of Hermione. Hops out of her seat, smile bright, pink hair brighter.
"Hey, sweetheart — how are you?" She wraps her in a tight hug, smelling like Butterbeer and a bit like Lupin's old office, from what she remembers.
"Hi, hi. Good to see you. I'm alright, thank you. Thank you so much for coming."
Tonks kisses both cheeks and gives her chin a squeeze before letting her drop into the seat opposite.
"Butterbeer?" she offers, signaling the barkeep over her shoulder.
"Please."
They make small talk until it arrives. Discuss classes and Auror missions and the new shade of teal she's learned how to make her eyelashes.
But as soon as that weak nip of alcohol gets set down in front of her, Tonks becomes all business.
"How are you holding up?"
Hermione sips deeply before answering, wiping her lip and shaking her head. "Not — erm, not too well."
Tonks nods knowingly. "It's incredibly hard in the beginning. Like phantom pains. No idea where any of it's coming from."
"It's not quite pain, exactly. Not for the most part. It's — it's more emotion, somehow. I'm not even sure if I am a paramour, to be honest. I don't want to call it something it's not. I could be overreacti—"
"Hermione?" Tonks raises a purple brow.
She swallows another deep swig, trying not to seem as nervous as she is. "Mm?"
"If you're feeling anything that doesn't belong to you, you're a paramour."
A heavy weight sinks into her stomach. Tonks must know, from the way she reaches out and rests a hand over hers.
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's not the sort of thing that should happen during your school years."
It's not the sort of thing that should happen at all, she thinks bitterly to herself.
Still, she squeezes her hand back, going in for another sip but finding the glass empty. "I don't even know how it happened."
Tonks signals again for the barkeep. "It's not always clear. I didn't know, if that helps. Not when it happened with Remus. Took us weeks to riddle it out."
And once Hermione's halfway through the second glass, she asks the question she seems to've been holding back.
"Who is it? Who was bitten?"
Hermione chews on the inside of her lip, averting her eyes and staring down into her drink. "I swore I wouldn't say."
She didn't. Not explicitly.
But it's easier this way.
Tonks eyes her carefully for a moment when she looks back up, then seems to swallow whatever her next question might've been. Nods. "Right, well," she says, tone lighter as she twists and starts to rummage through a bag sitting on the bench at her side. "I come bearing gifts."
They're books. Heavy and dense. A stack.
They look like old friends to Hermione's slightly tipsy eyes.
"I'm betting the Hogwarts Library isn't going to tell you anything you don't already know. These, though — they should help you through. This one especially." She taps the pale blue cover of the book on top. "All about paramours. Written by one, too."
She can't help it. It slips right out, more desperate than she ever intended.
"Is there any way to stop it? Reverse it?"
A brief flash of sympathy flickers in Tonks' dark eyes. "I understand…why you might want that now. Really, I do."
"Tonks, I—"
"I do, Hermione. I promise. I know it feels wrong at first. And I know it isn't fair. But — you have to understand. This is an evolutionary phenomenon. A force of nature. To go against it is—"
"I have to," she says, words jamming together in her rush. "I have to. It can't — I can't be attached to this person. Neither of us want this. I have to try. At least try."
Tonks stares at her for a few long seconds. A small, fond smile crosses her lips. "You sound like Remus."
"But you're in love with Remus," Hermione presses, desperately — desperately needing her to understand. "And he loves you. This is different. It's — it's wrong. It's so wrong."
Tonks purses her lips. "I take it you don't like each other?"
"We hate each other."
Her sad sigh does little by way of comfort. Even so, she pulls the top two books off the stack to pick up the one bound in burgundy. "Before I show you," she says, bright pink of her hair fading to a pale, conflicted shade, "I want to make sure you understand that this should be an absolute last resort. For the worst case scenario only. Please — promise me you'll try to work through it with whoever it is first."
"I promise."
Promises are made to be broken.
That's the way she sees it. But even then, she isn't breaking her promise. She firmly believes, with every fiber of her being, that this is already the worst case scenario.
By the time she gets back from the Three Broomsticks, it's half past midnight. Tonks left her with another kiss on the cheek and a private address.
"Write me anytime."
Logically, she should rest. Think. Deal with it come morning.
But she doesn't want to wait.
And she sits against the wall in that corridor leading to the Room of Requirement for at least thirty minutes, trying to think of the best way to wake him. At the very least, it's enough time to sober up from the faint effects of the Butterbeer. She needs to be completely lucid.
Her best idea is a simple one. So simple, she's not certain it will work.
Burgundy tome clutched in her lap, she fixes her eyes on the opposite wall, inhales deeply and holds her breath.
The first several times, her lungs give out after about forty seconds, and by her sixth or seventh attempt, she's lightheaded, heart thudding in her chest.
It's entirely possible that Malfoy feels none of it. That she can't manifest sensation in him. That he's sleeping soundly somewhere down in the Dungeons, oblivious—
She doesn't expect him to round the corner at such a breakneck pace. He's dressed haphazardly — like he threw on the first things in sight — shoes unlaced and blond hair askew, his face all flushed.
It's surprising enough that she's managed to wake him. More surprising still is the way he comes at her. His hands find both her arms before she's even fully let that last deep breath out.
Her head swims a little at the rush of oxygen. Or maybe it's the way he yanks her to her feet.
"What are you doing? What are you doing?" he demands, giving her a rough shake. "Are you — are you hurt? Are you sick?" His palm flattens against her forehead suddenly, and she's so shocked by the movement that it takes her a while to manage a response.
"I…I was just trying to wake you up."
Malfoy goes very still as the words register, that one hand still pressed to her head. He yanks it away a moment later, grip on her arm tightening. "Are you mad?"
"Did you just…check my temperature?"
"Are you out of your mind?!" He takes her other arm in hand and shakes her again. "What were you trying to do? Suffocate the both of us?"
"I needed to get you out of bed."
"Why?" It's the roughest shake yet, and the back of her head strikes the wall unexpectedly. "Fuck!" Malfoy winces. "Fuck. Merlin, I'm sor—" He cuts himself off abruptly, releasing her and backing away. Rubbing compulsively at the back of his head. "What? What was so important? Fucking hell. I thought I was going into cardiac arrest."
She's fairly certain he almost just apologized, and a part of her desperately wants to press him about it, if only to watch him squirm.
Instead she takes a moment to massage the back of her own head, then bends to pick up the book he made her drop.
"I may have found a way to stop it."
"Stop what?"
She gives him a look as she straightens up — one she hopes conveys the ridiculousness of the question.
Malfoy narrows his eyes.
"Look," she says, flipping to the page she dog-eared and twisting to stand next to him. "It's a ritual. One that might be able to reverse the process."
"Where did you get this?"
"Does it really matter?" she asks, frustrated. Chooses to lie if only to move forward more quickly. "The Restricted Section, alright? That's hardly the point. If we perform this soon enough, we could undo it. All of it. Unseat me as your paramour, in a sense."
Malfoy takes the book out of her hands without asking, turning his back to her so she can't read it while he does.
"Malfoy."
"How do we know if this book is even legitimate?"
She scoffs loudly. "I'm not an idiot."
He glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised at an infuriating angle. She grits her teeth — thinks better of it and bites down hard on her own tongue.
Malfoy jerks and almost drops the book. "Fuck! What's the matter with you?" He rolls his tongue around in his mouth, grimacing. "Fucking lunatic."
"I'll miss being able to do that if we can actually get this right. But the sooner we do it, the better chance we have."
His glare lingers on her a moment longer before he looks back to the text. He starts to pace the corridor, reading through it, brows furrowed.
"I don't need you to approve it, Malfoy. I already checked everything. It's legitimate."
"Yes, but your opinion of what's legitimate doesn't count for much, now does it?"
She wonders if she can bite her tongue in the exact same spot twice, but Malfoy speaks again before she can attempt it.
"Do we even have all these things? Black candles and cyclamen? An obsidian blade?"
She gestures to the doors of the Room of Requirement.
"Everything's ready. All we're waiting for is you."
Malfoy meets her eyes, haughty and arrogant. "I'm ready when you are, then. Let's get this over with."
She's not sure if that's uncertainty she sees flicker in his eyes. Or just a trick of the light.
"You have to unbutton your shirt," she says, trying to focus intently on the cyclamen she's grinding up.
They sit across from one another on the floor of the Room of Requirement, encircled by the lines of the Dividing Rune she's drawn in white chalk.
"Why?" demands Malfoy, indignant as he lights the candles with his wand.
She doesn't bother to check her tone. Doesn't hide the roll of her eyes. "Because the Runes have to be drawn on your chest."
"So, what — you're going to strip too, then?"
Her eyes flit to him, sharp and hopefully full of warning. "Your Runes go on your chest. My Runes go on my face. Did you even actually read it?"
"I skimmed," he says plainly, then proceeds to lean forward on his hands so he can watch her do all the work. "By the way, Granger — I've been meaning to ask. Why the sudden change?"
"Change?" she echoes, voice clipped as she reaches for the knife.
"Yes. Why start dressing like a whore?"
She chokes on her own breath, pinning him with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"
"Was it for Weaselby?"
Her jaw tightens, and she makes quick work of the incision across her palm, the slice a brief, painful distraction. She squeezes that palm into a fist, letting the blood drip down into the bowl of cyclamen. "So that's the way of it, then?" she asks tightly. "When I start dressing well, it makes me a whore. But Parkinson? Lavender? Penelope Clearwater? Not them?"
Malfoy only smiles — a dark, malicious sort of smile. "Precisely."
She mends the wound with a flick of her wand, cleaning the blood from her skin and then reaching out for him. "Give me your hand."
"I don't want you to do it."
She snatches hold of his wrist too quickly though, dragging his hand towards her and making a vengefully messy incision with the knife before he can yank it away. It doesn't matter that the sting of it burns across her own palm too. It's worth it.
"OW! Merlin, Granger — that was way fucking deeper than yours!"
She ignores him, reaching for the bowl and holding it out beneath his dripping hand. "As I recall," she says mildly, "you walked face first into a door when you saw me."
"I tripped."
She nods. "Yes, right. Of course you did. Mend your wound. I'm not doing it for you."
Malfoy scrunches up his nose at her, taking back the abused hand and cradling it like she set it ablaze. He heals the cut with wandless magic, and she'd be infinitely more impressed by that if he weren't such a prick.
"Now unbutton your shirt."
"Ask nicely."
"No." She reaches for the candles, starting to arrange them in the triangular formation the book depicts. "Do you know, from the way you're behaving, it seems almost as though you don't want to go through with this."
Malfoy sits up straight, going rigid and casting her a venomous look. "I want to be rid of you more than anything. And you know it." He reaches for the collar of his shirt, aggressively freeing the top four buttons. "Now what?" he demands.
She takes the bowl in hand, casting a spell to mix their blood with the crushed cyclamen. "Now I draw the Dividing Rune on you. And then you on me."
He appears to put serious effort into looking disgusted, but he still leans forward when she dips her fingers into the bowl and reaches for him.
The skin of his chest is pale and smooth. She has to pull the fabric of his shirt out of the way with her other hand to keep from staining it, trying to draw the symbol as quickly and accurately as possible. Malfoy, for his part, stays very still. Almost like he's holding his breath.
Maybe he is.
"There," she says, sitting back on her heels when finished. "Now you."
Malfoy makes that same overly-disgusted expression when he runs his fingers through the blood mixture, crawling forward a few inches on his knees and reaching out. "Move your hair."
She sweeps it back off her forehead, trying not to jump when his cold fingertips meet her skin. "Careful with those slash marks. Make sure they're precise."
"I know what I'm doing, Granger."
"You've never done this before."
"Well, neither have you!" he hisses. "Bloody hell. Tilt your chin up." And he draws his fingers down across her jaw, over her chin and up the other side.
"How does it look?"
"Ridiculous."
She rolls her eyes and pulls away at the same time he does.
"Now what?" he demands again, rather like a child.
"Now we grab hands — and heaven help me, if you don't wipe that look off your face. We're doing this to help you."
"I wouldn't be here otherwise." He thrusts out his arm like he's condemning it to death.
She grits her teeth and meets him in the middle, interlocking their fingers. Malfoy hisses out a breath like it hurts, but she'd know if it did and it certainly doesn't. "Focus," she commands. "This is the part we can't mess up."
"I am focused."
"Repeat after me. Conteram seorsum."
"Conteram seorsum." His Latin is flawless. She should've expected nothing less.
"We say it three times once the Runes start to glow, and while we say it, I trail the wax over our arms and we slide our hands up towards each other's elbows. Does that make sense?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"I'm not a fucking idiot, Granger."
She narrows her eyes at him, lifting the center candle and spitting out, "Incipere."
The Rune surrounding them on the floor glows a deep blue, and the Runes on their skin illuminate in tandem, shining as though beneath a blacklight.
"Conteram seorsum," they say in unison, and as their palms slide apart, finding each other's wrists, she begins to drip the hot wax of the black candle over them.
It's only wax.
And they've only said it once.
But the moment that black, viscous liquid meets their skin, Malfoy cries out. Not in the way he did when she cut his palm. Not for show.
It's a horrible, agonized cry, and it startles her so much that her hand falters, splashing more wax down over their arms.
Malfoy jerks like he's been stabbed, screaming and writhing and trying to yank free of her grip. "Stop! Make it stop!" The Runes around them glow red in an instant, washing them out in the color of blood. She feels agony, suddenly. Ripping, bottomless, inconceivable agony that's not her own.
And all at once he knocks the candle out of her grip with his free hand.
The ritual disbands. The glow of the Runes dies off.
Malfoy scrambles to his feet like the floor is white hot, tears glistening in his eyes and pain strewn across his face. "We—" he pants, voice in shreds. "We're never trying that again. Never. Never."
And he keeps repeating that word, all the way to the door, clutching his chest where the Rune is drawn like it's burning him.
"Never. Never, never, never."
The doors fall shut behind him.
Deflection
That's what the book calls it. She finds the term several pages after the ritual, in a section devoted to side effects.
A refusal to disband. Occurs when one half of the symbiotic connection is too entwined with the other to reverse its effects. Pain is inflicted to prevent the completion of the ritual which would, in this instance, inevitably result in death.