Don't Look Back
- 9 -
Fractures / Fragments
It's not that she's refusing to read it.
Or, well — perhaps she is. She tells herself she wants to make her way through the more scientific texts first. Though, if she's honest, she feels a fairly overwhelming sense of dread every time she looks at that pale blue cover.
A book written by a paramour isn't likely to contain the best advice when it comes to undoing it.
But that's just it.
With each passing day, it feels more and more as if there is no undoing it.
Malfoy's reaction to the ritual keeps replaying itself in her head like some dark, tireless omen. Never in a million years would she've expected it to backfire so ferociously. Not when there's nothing to hold them together. Not when he is the very antithesis of her. Not when she is built out of everything he hates.
They should've split apart as easily as glass shatters. Should've snapped clean, like a bone.
This isn't clean. This is a compound fracture.
And, for perhaps the first time in her life, she hates that all she can do is read.
Known Anomalies, continued:
Dedicated nocturnal scholars have come across certain lycanthropic subjects who undergo a process called 'bisection.' This occurs when a mental rift has formed between the portion of the subject which is human and that which is wolf. A subject who aggressively attempts to resist lycanthropic instincts, particularly when a transformation is near, can 'bisect' — or shift into a consciousness very unlike their own. Loved ones and acquaintances of these subjects describe coming into contact with massively altered personalities and foreign mannerisms. Some even compare it to interacting with a stranger.
These bisections occur when the subject is still in human form, often closer to the full moon. Certain experts suggest avoiding all interaction with a bisect, believing it to be dangerous. Others suggest bisection is merely a coping mechanism — a way to safely prepare one's consciousness for transformation. They believe these bisects to be relatively harmless when compared to other side effects of the lycanthropic condition.
She's far from sure what this entry is really describing.
Still — she bookmarks it.
Neville is trying to explain something to her about the medicinal properties of Wolfsbane when the sharp pain explodes across her gut.
At first, she only stumbles. Gives a short cough and covers it up by clearing her throat, working to retrain her focus. They're on their way to the Great Hall for the lunch break between classes. Neville leans closer to show her the sketch of Malfoy's terrarium he's done. It's an impressive likeness. She opens her mouth to tell him so—
Something hits her full on in the face with the force of a battering ram, and she's knocked clean off her feet.
"Hermione! Hermione, are you okay?"
Neville swims into view above her, a little fuzzy thanks to the way the back of her skull smacked the flagstone — but that pain is nothing compared to the throbbing ache in her cheekbone.
"What happened? Are you — you hit your head, are you okay?" He grabs her by both elbows, helping her up off her back.
"I…I'm fine, I think. I — I tripped," she fumbles lamely, clasping for his offered hand to get to her feet. A few other students in the corridor are looking on, confused. Millicent Bulstrode giggles into her palm.
"Are you sure?" Neville searches her face.
"Yeah. Yes, I'm—"
The pain hits again, sharp and out of nowhere, this time just beneath her ribs. She doubles over, nearly collapsing against him with a choked gasp.
"Hermione—"
It's in that same instant that the sound starts to echo through the hallway, faint at first but slowly growing clearer. A chant most school walls are all too familiar with.
"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
And her knuckles suddenly burn, hand spasming into a fist where it's wedged against Neville, still holding her up.
No. Oh, no.
She forces herself to straighten up, grasping Neville's arm for support.
"What's going on?"
But she can't explain. Can only stumble forward, rushing towards the sound, arm belted around her stomach. Neville hurries to keep up, quick to steady her when another phantom blow to the gut knocks her breath away.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
They round the corner, and Hermione breaks free of Neville, grasping the wall in his place and watching the next strike as it happens.
Well.
Now she knows what it feels like to be punched in the face by Theodore Nott.
She sees stars. Her hand flies to her mouth, pressing hard where the pain explodes — where the blood should be — vision going for a spin and taking a while to refocus.
A small crowd of students has gathered around the commotion, mostly Fourth and Fifth Years from a myriad of Houses — and they're chanting that damnable word over and over again. She can only stare over their shoulders, watching Nott and Malfoy land blow after blow.
At the moment, it looks as though Malfoy's losing. Certainly feels like it.
Nott is on top of him — has him pinned to the stone floor, elbow jabbing into his collarbone. The sharp pressure of it has her throat closing up. But it's that fist more than anything, just slamming into his face — again and again and again.
At this rate, she might pass out before he does.
Students holler and groan with each collision, egging them on. Malfoy coughs blood up into Nott's face, spluttering out, "F-Fuck you," in a drunken sort of voice.
"Get a Professor," she blurts to Neville, thinking her voice doesn't sound so different. "Please. Hurry."
"I — okay. Okay." He hesitates only a moment before disappearing from her side.
The jab of Nott's elbow eases off in the next instant, only for him to sit up and drag Malfoy with him by the shirt collar, lifting his back from the ground. "Say it again," he spits, giving Malfoy a rough jerk as his fist aims to strike again. "Say that shit again!"
It looks like Malfoy might not be capable of saying anything, the way he's gone lax in the other boy's hold, blood seeping from his nose and out the corner of his mouth. But his eyes aren't quite shut, and at the angle Nott holds him now, his gaze slips sideways and lands on hers.
The look in his eyes says he forgot all about it. The way they pop wide and come to life, brows meeting in the middle as he takes in her slumped posture against the wall — the hand she has pressed to her mouth.
Something shifts.
It happens so quickly, she almost doesn't catch it. One moment Nott has the upper hand, and the next he's flat on his back and her knuckles are burning. Malfoy reverses their positions like he's caught the most intense second wind imaginable, and suddenly Nott is the one getting beaten to a pulp.
Her hand falls from her face to cradle the right one against her chest, warding off the growing ache as Malfoy lays into him, fist cracking across his cheek more times than she can count.
"Stop! Stop!" she cries out, at first not even realizing she's the one who says it. "Enough!"
A few heads swivel to stare at her, expressions like she's spoiled their fun.
But Malfoy's next punch doesn't follow through, and instead he lets Nott drop from his grip, barely conscious. "Yeah," he huffs, spitting blood out onto the stone next to him and lurching to his feet. "Enough."
He's quicker than she is, all things considered. He shoves his way out of the crowd and slips through the side entrance to the courtyard before she even manages to push off of the wall. This time, though — well, she really doesn't care how obvious her pursuit is.
She steps gingerly past the crumpled form of Nott and tails him out into the courtyard, jaw still aching, ribs still tender.
Malfoy doesn't turn around. Not as she follows him all the way across the bridge and down past the stone circle, even when she's sure he hears her footsteps. Not when she picks up her pace to try to match his stride as he veers off to the right, towards the tree line.
Their shoes crunch in the frozen grass, breath rising in front of them in steaming clouds every few seconds.
"How far are you planning to go?" she demands at last, gathering the thin cardigan of her uniform in tight around her.
Malfoy's even pace falters, but he doesn't stop, chin jutting slightly to the side to say, "That depends. How far are you planning to follow?"
She can see the dark bruises slowly developing across the plane of his face from that angle. The sight stops her short.
He must hear her feet scuff in the grass — continues about three more steps before he stops too, turning to face her just at the edge of the tree line. "What do you want, Granger?" he huffs. "I'd prefer to walk this one off in peace."
She breathes in and out in silence for a moment, arms crossed in front of her, both to keep the heat in and the pain at bay. "You're not the only one walking it off — in case you forgot."
Malfoy's expression flickers. Just slightly. And the snark in his tone sounds forced when he manages to respond. "Think I did worse than you, yeah?" He gestures to his blood-spattered face.
"I don't know about that." She lifts her chin, but the movement makes her wince, ache in her jaw returning full force. She sucks the air in through her teeth. Murmurs, "He punches hard," as an afterthought, massaging the expanse just beneath her ear.
"He didn't know he was punching you." Malfoy spins back around, taking a couple more steps towards the tree line and collapsing down on a large rock.
"You're defending him?"
He scoffs, letting his head hang down and rubbing the back of his neck. "Hardly."
"What…" she takes a curious step toward him, not wanting to upset whatever precarious sort of balance this is. They rarely manage to have a normal conversation. She'll take what fragments she can get. "What were you fighting about?"
"Not really any of your business, is it?"
"Well." The next step toward him is indignant. "Seeing as I got punched in the face for it, I think it's only fair. Don't you?"
Malfoy lifts his head, hand dropping out from around his neck to rest limply over his knee. The knuckles are split open, stained a brilliant red like they've been smudged with lipstick. He flexes his fingers, sending fresh blood rushing to the surface. "I punched him first."
Faint echoes of that livid sting scamper across the nerve endings in her own hand, and she heaves a sigh, closing the last bit of distance.
"Give me that," she says, holding out her hand for his.
Malfoy leans back a little, looking confused and suspicious to an extent that's almost ridiculous.
She scoffs, making no effort to hide the roll of her eyes. Her fingers jolt at him expectantly. "My hand hurts too. Give me yours."
Malfoy's gaze twitches, eyes narrowing a fraction even as he slowly lifts his arm to set his palm down in hers. His skin is cold — slightly rough with dried blood. A little jolt whispers through her at the contact, gliding up the length of her arm.
Evidently, they're both content to pretend they don't feel it.
"Why did you punch him?" she asks, taking out her wand.
Malfoy's silent for a long time — watches as she casts the first of the healing charms, sealing the skin on the knuckle of his index finger.
"He made a comment about my father."
His tone makes it clear she's not getting any further details.
"And?"
"And I didn't like it," he says. A hiss.
She glides her wand across the middle knuckles, trying not to let her eyes follow the veins lining the top of his hand as they tense and shift.
"So you punched him?"
"No. I made a comment about his mother."
The next swish of her wand falters a bit. "Isn't his mother—"
"Dead. Yeah. I'm aware, Granger."
She clears her throat, quickly moving on to the last knuckle.
"Which is probably why he decided to bring up my mother." He flexes the newly healed digits in her grip, twisting to offer up his still-bleeding thumb. "And that's when I punched him."
"So it was your fault."
He scoffs again. "Maybe if you see the world in black and white, yeah."
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't put my face through that again," she murmurs, guiding the tip of her wand along the abused tendon leading up to his wrist. Her gaze stutters then, flickering across the skin faintly exposed beneath the cuff of his sleeve. "Rather selfish of you," she says, and now her voice sounds distracted, and she doesn't even notice she's lifting the edge of his sleeve with her wand until the fading bruise on his wrist comes into full view. The one she knows has nothing to do with Theodore Nott.
Without thinking, she lets the hand propping his up slip down and around, grazing the darkened flesh.
Malfoy yanks away the moment he realizes.
She clears her throat again, straightening up a little and brushing a stray curl out of her face. Playing oblivious.
"I'll keep that in mind," he tells her, in a voice that says he won't.
Suddenly, looking into his tired eyes, she wants to bring up the ritual. Wants to ask—
"How hurt are you?"
His question wipes her mind clean like a slate. There's no affection to it. No kindness in his tone. No overt concern.
And yet, the way he's looking at her — head slightly cocked, eyes tracing her features — it's as though he's searching for evidence.
She shakes her head, glancing sideways. Away. "I'm — no. I'm fine. It's fading. I'll be fine."
But when a long silence follows, she's forced to look back. His face hasn't changed. Gaze hasn't moved.
She bites her lip, rubbing warmth back into her arms to give her hands something to do. "I could…" she trails off, eyes drawn to the smears of blood beneath his nose and mouth, "I could heal your face, too. If — if you want."
Malfoy doesn't say anything in response to that. Just juts up one solitary, blond eyebrow and leans back slightly against the rock, bracing himself with his palms.
It's not a 'no.'
Carefully, she steps up to the edge of the rock, raising her wand again and slowly reaching out for his face. He tilts his chin up for her, still wearing that guarded look, but when the edge of her palm gently slides beneath the line of his jaw, it fades into something a great deal more uncertain. She guides his chin up a little further, tilting his head back to better align her wand at his lips.
She's grateful for the violently bright color of the blood. It gives her something to focus on. Something that's not his eyes, locked on hers.
She heals the split in his lower lip. Soothes the swelling, casting numbing charms and feeling the tension in her own jaw relax a bit. Malfoy breathes out slowly while she works — like he's trying to be careful about it.
When she tilts his head sideways to attend to the bruises on his cheekbone — the slowly forming black eye — meeting his gaze becomes unavoidable.
The question is there. Plain across his face. She's just the one who says it out loud.
"What are we going to do?"
He blinks, gaze flitting down and then back to her again.
"I don't know."
She steps back then.
Steps back even though she isn't finished. Even though his nose is still bleeding, his jaw still bruised. Steps back because something in her wanted to step closer. Lean closer. Lean in.
And the look in his eyes says he knows that.
"You —" She clears her suddenly dry throat. "You should apologize to Nott."
He leans forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees — watching her like he's studying her. Trying to riddle her out.
"I won't," he says.
She nods. "I know." And after a few more steps backwards, she manages to turn around, pocketing her wand and heading back up the hill towards the castle.
It takes a surprising amount of restraint not to look back.