Chapter 11

Hermione screamed. Over and over again she screamed. It had been a clean shot. Cho had rolled over from the impact. Her sentient eyes – the only part of her that had been moving since she'd been stunned – glazed over. Open and dead. Staring out at nothing.

"What'aveyoudone?" Hermione screamed. The words came out as nonwords. A stream of cries. Irrelevant. No one was listening to her, anyhow.

Malfoy had dropped his wand like it had burned him. Seared the palm of his hand. Like a foreign object that had no place being on his person. He had dropped it and ran. Ran past Hermione. Past her screams. Past Ron, who'd been abandoned by Neville to his own devices. Past Harry, who was just beginning to thaw. He had run to Luna. Luna's body. Neville was already there, blubbering and incoherent. Nott was screaming for someone to get him a wand, or a cloth, or something, or anything. He was ripping Luna's blouse away from her body. Using the snow to clear the area, inspect the wound.

Malfoy was removing his shirt at a run. He threw it at Nott before he even arrived at his side. Nott folded it in quarters and pressed it into Luna's chest.

"Is she," Neville sobbed, "is she going to make it?"

"Find my wand, Neville," Nott instructed.

Malfoy stood over them, his pale body nearly translucent against the snow. He stood, white and slim, like another birch tree. He held a fist to his taut mouth, watching Nott hold the shirt tightly against the bleeding gash in Luna's chest. She was lying in a pool of bloody snow. The hot blood was melting it. It bubbled around her. Spread.

Hermione ran to Cho. Grabbed the jacket that had slipped off of her when she rolled. She searched the ground for Nott's wand but there was no time to really look. She ran toward the others. When she arrived, Malfoy looked up at her from underneath his brows. The rest of him didn't move.

"Here," she said, tossing the jacket to him.

He grasped it out of the air and donned it over his naked torso.

"Theo," Hermione dropped to her knees. "Theo, tell me what to do!" She held her wand out.

Nott shook his head. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know what to do."

"We have to do something!" she screamed. "Tell me what to do!"

Nott raised his face to look at Malfoy. The latter tightened the fist that he kept against his mouth. His knuckles whitened. He walked around Luna's body and picked Hermione up under her arms. She struggled, fought against him as he dragged her away. "She's suffering, Hermione," he was saying in a low voice.

"No!" she screamed. "No! No! What is wrong with you? She's your friend!"

She saw the tears coming in his eyes, despite the hard look on his face.

"She will be okay," she pleaded. "She's going to be okay. Please. Please don't do this. Don't do this, Draco."

He held her tightly. His fingers dug into her arms.

"We can save her," she whispered.

"How?" he said.

She saw the hope in his widening eyes. Heard it in the cracking of his voice. She was changing his mind. And she had to cling to this wavering of his resolve. Her mind raced. How? His grey eyes sparkled, luminous within a frame of deepening red. "Snow," she said quietly. Then, louder, "Snow!"

Malfoy's grip on her loosened and she ran past him back to Nott. Back to Luna. "Nott, use the snow to constrict the blood vessels!" she screamed.

Nott turned around to look at her. "The wound is too big. It's too deep."

"Just try!" Hermione screamed, picking up an armful of snow on her way.

She piled it over Luna's wound.

"It's not enough," Nott said. The snow was melting instantly upon contact with Luna's bleeding body. He kept the pressure over Malfoy's shirt as Luna's blood drenched through it.

Hermione looked up at him angrily. "Do something, Nott!"

Hermione looked about the clearing frantically. Looked for inspiration. She saw Malfoy, standing at a distance, watching her. She saw Ron's form farther out. Neville was nearby, still sobbing. She saw Harry, finally stirring after the ice that had encased him melted.

"That's it," she whispered, blinking through her tears at Harry.

"She's going into shock," Nott said firmly, placing a hand over Luna's forehead as her body started to jerk.

Hermione directed her gaze back at Luna's sweating face. She whipped out her wand and pointed it at Luna's chest. "Glacius!" she said. The blue stream of light hit Luna squarely in the chest and spread across her body. The light was followed by a crystallizing ice that frosted over Luna's torso, then her arms, and legs, and finally her face.

Nott looked up at Hermione with astonishment. "That was," he breathed, "brilliant. That was brilliant, Hermione."

Neville crawled over, wiping at his face ferociously. "You saved her?" he was still sobbing. "You saved her, didn't you?"

Malfoy made his way toward them, his gaze trained on Hermione. He didn't say anything. Just slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and sucked in his cheeks, a faint smile forming on his face.

…

"Finally," I say.

He lifts his eyebrows. "Pardon me?"

"Finally, Hermione did something."

Malfoy looks away from me. He doesn't like it when I speak of her in this way. It hurts him. The trouble is that his Hermione and my Hermione are different people. "Hermione," he says quietly, careful not to offend me, "Hermione did everything." The night is still young and he's still quite sober and I can tell that it's weighing on him, my attitude.

I wonder why he still sits with me, night after night. He must dislike me, by now. Perhaps, he can sense something between us. Assuming there is anything to sense.

And me? I wonder if I'm testing him.

…

"You didn't have to kill them!" Hermione was yelling.

Malfoy dropped the last of the stones back around the fire pit haphazardly. Nott looked up at him warily but continued assembling the firewood in silence. "What would you have had me do, Granger?" he yelled back. "They weren't themselves anymore! Imperiused, or possessed, or whatever you'd like to call it."

"We could have helped them!" she cried. "Kept them stunned or tied them to a tree until we figured it out! They didn't have to die, Malfoy!"

"Are you joking?" he sneered. "We can barely keep ourselves alive!" He threw his arm sideways in the direction of Ginny's hut and Luna's frozen body. "How would we have managed? Tell me. Kept them fed, warm? Somebody has to make the difficult decisions."

"You call that a decision?" she said derisively. "A decision demands forethought, Malfoy. A weighing of consequences. Deliberation. That was fury."

"We all knew they had to go, Hermione!" he shouted. "It was a matter of when."

She was shaking her head. "You're cruel."

Nott kept glancing up at Malfoy, as if waiting for him to snap.

"You need to understand something," Malfoy said, his voice dropping suddenly to a much more dangerous tone. He always sounded more menacing when he spoke quietly. "You," he pointed at Hermione, "them," he pointed at the clearing, "you lot are what matter to me now! The others," he said resolutely, "the others are gone. Deal with it." With one last contemptuous look, one last toss of a boulder, he turned and stormed off.

Nott's muscles relaxed. He brought his attention back to the fire he was building. Inserting the last of the logs over the white ashes of the previous fire, he said, "We need more wood."

"I'll get some," Hermione said placidly.

Nott rose. "I'll come with you."

"No," she said, looking up at him. "You stay. Just in case. Watch Luna. And Ginny's not doing so well."

He nodded at her. Lifted his hand to brush at the remainder of tears that glistened around her eyes. He sighed. "Take Draco, then," he said.

"Absolutely not."

Nott held onto her face calmly. Waited for her to cool off and change her mind. "Give him a break, Hermione," he said. "We're all trying our best."

Hermione looked away from him. She saw Malfoy hovering over Luna's body near the treeline. Heard him shout out to Harry, who was just walking out of Ginny's hut. "Potter! Help me move her into the shelter."

"Fine," she said curtly. "He can come as long as he keeps his obnoxious comments to himself."

Nott bit his lip but smiled. "I'll tell him to put a lid on it."

…

Hermione watched Malfoy chop the thicker branches of a white birch out of the corner of her eye. He worked mutely. In fact, he'd barely said a word to her since leaving camp – had only muttered a few logistical concerns about there only being one axe. Hermione, they decided, would collect the kindling. Sticks, bark, pines cones. She even found a cluster of fireweeds, whose cottony seed capsules were extremely flammable, and whose leaves they could cook and eat or dry and drink as a tea. The plants were mature enough that the leaves could even be eaten raw. Hermione cringed remembering how Neville had distributed the first fireweeds he'd found a few weeks ago. They tasted awful. But, he'd said, they were chock-full of vitamins. She was elated to find more and more long stems sticking out of the snow, their purple stalks winding through the trees like road markers. She followed their trail, musing how they could keep some of the leaves for Luna. Fireweed leaves made excellent poultice material and she could think of at least a dozen potions that required them as an ingredient.

When her sack was full of fireweeds, she directed her attention to the thick bark on the trees around her. She was no longer surrounded by skeletal birch trees. She looked around for Malfoy. No matter, she thought. She would just follow the trail of fireweeds back to him when she was finished. She went to collect a few branches. Snapped a twig. Reached and snapped another. When she grabbed the next one, it came alive in her hand.

She screamed.

The axe came down as he heard it. He thought, maybe the rush of wind against the blade? But there it was again. Malfoy was running before he even felt the nausea. The screams were Hermione's, he knew it. He'd recognize them anywhere. He'd heard her scream like this before.

Through a dense collection of trees that flew by his face as he ran, he saw her struggling form. He hurdled towards her, seeing her blindly shoot out charms while she wrestled with what seemed to be thin air. She was using both hands to shield her face and her spells were flying wildly around her. Then, as he raced toward her, he saw her throw something up in the air – two somethings – sticks? And point her wand up, a fireball escaping its tip.

Hermione doubled over, panting, just as Malfoy arrived, stopping a few steps away and also out of breath. "Did you just –" he said, gasping, "did you just incinerate those Bowtruckles?"

Hermione looked up at him with an aggrieved expression. Her face and neck were covered in cuts. "I did," she whimpered. "I killed them."

Malfoy stepped forward. "They'd have gouged your eyes out if you hadn't."

Hermione's lips quivered, contorted. She began to shake.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "You had no choice, Granger. It was them or you."

"What makes me better than them?" She sputtered.

He took another step. Held out a tentative hand to her arm. "They're only Bowtruckles, Granger. I'd have done the same."

She moved her shoulder out of his reach. "That's no consolation, Malfoy."

Malfoy's face hardened. "I suspect they're not the last things to die by our hand before we're through with this place."

Hermione was staring ahead, past Malfoy, her tears still pooled within her eyes. "You were right, Malfoy," she said coolly. "They had to go."

Malfoy watched her swimming eyes dry before more tears could escape. "Are we still talking about the Bowtruckles?" he said finally.

…

"The runaway ensemble," Malfoy chuckled resentfully. "That's what she used to call us."

I begin to know him so well that I could tell exactly how many drinks he's had just by looking at him when I walk into the bar. Squinting his eyes when he looks up at me from a distance? Six. Swaying slightly on his barstool without noticing I've arrived? Eight. Slurring his words to the point where I can hardly understand what he says? Ten. Ten drinks. I'd be under the table in less than five. He's built up quite a tolerance over the years.

He likes to mix too. Whiskey, then beer, then whiskey again. Sometimes, he gets really wild and takes a few swigs of absinthe. This isn't served at the bar; he carries a flask. He brings a flask to a bar. The fear of being without torments him perpetually.

I cringe. "That sounds judgmental."

Malfoy scoffs, hiccups. "She was right."

…

Hermione wiped her face with the back of hand, smearing blood over her cheeks. Malfoy didn't know what else to say to her. Without giving anything away.

She was preoccupied with her guilt so she didn't hear right away. He heard. Heard the crunching of snow. Footsteps. Slow, methodical, human. Malfoy grabbed Hermione with both hands and spun her around, slamming her into a nearby tree. He stood so close to her that he was practically leaning against her. His body concealed her entirely from the world; concealed the world entirely from her. His face hovered above hers for a moment before he looked up, his eyes darting back and forth, taking in their surroundings.

Something about Malfoy's body made her warm – always. It must have been the jacket he was wearing that was wrapping itself around her now that they were standing so close together. It wasn't Malfoy that made her want to throw caution to the wind and bury herself within his chest, sheltered by the soft lapels of his jacket. It was his warmth that beckoned her. Or, rather, her warmth, when he was near.

She looked up at him, her face tear stained, covered with dirt and dried blood. Twigs in her hair, wisps of fireweed seeds. His heartrate accelerated; they were in danger. But he couldn't seem to concentrate on the approaching footsteps, nor the escalating voices. Because all his senses at once were attuned to her hands that she'd placed one over the other, and over his chest.

He stole a moment to look at her, their safety be damned. At her weary eyes, roused by the imminent danger. At the red outline of her cracked lips. Her flushed cheeks, still hot and blotchy from her latest crying spell. The sparkle of tears that hasn't yet dried beneath her eyes. And her wet eyelashes. She watched him, also. Her fingers dug into his skin. Frightened.

The footsteps were right behind the tree now. They had nowhere to go. If they ran, they'd be caught. If they moved around the trunk, they would be heard. If they stayed absolutely still, what were the chances of them going unobserved?

Malfoy lowered his head into Hermione's. Placed a hand over her two on his chest. And breathed.

Hermione breathed too. Raised her face slightly. They'd be taken. But before they were taken, couldn't they just –

The footsteps were beside them. Slowly, Malfoy and Hermione turned their heads to face their captors.

"I saw someone, I swear it," one of the two cloaked figures spoke. A Death Eater, unmasked. He looked around at the trees and seemed to look right though them.

Malfoy furrowed his brows. Hermione's hands shook and he squeezed them in his palm.

"The screams came from nearby, I'm sure of it," the other figure spoke. When he turned to face them, Hermione flinched. But he didn't seem to see them either.

When the Death Eaters had walked on and disappeared from view, Malfoy turned to face Hermione once more. She was smiling, laughing. "How did they not see us?" she was saying. Her hands were already falling away from his chest. She was already raking them through the knots in her hair. She placed them over her cheeks and blinked up at him in shock.

He watched her in his own bewilderment. How, indeed?

She was leaning against the tree and when she went to detach herself, her hair caught on a twig. As she was unravelling herself from the branch, she skimmed her palm over the ragged bark. "Of course," she whispered.

"Of course?" Malfoy questioned.

"Bowtruckles. They're tree guardians," Hermione said. "And these are no ordinary trees."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

"It's a Wiggentree," she breathed. "I've never seen one before. Outside of textbooks, of course."

"Naturally," Malfoy smirked. "So, the Wiggentree makes us invisible?"

"No," Hermione shook her head. "It protects anyone who touches its trunk from Dark Magic. I'm assuming that it camouflaged us, as it does the Bowtruckles."

Malfoy stared at her. "That's brilliant," he said. "Let's chop a piece to take with us."

He reached for a particularly thick branch, but Hermione grabbed his hand. "Don't, Malfoy! The Bowtruckles, remember? Unless you've some fairy eggs in your back pocket to distract them, they'll chisel your eyes out before your axe even hits the tree."

"There aren't any on this one," Malfoy peered around the crevices of the bark.

"You won't see them until it's too late," Hermione said. "They're skittish. They'll only attack if they feel the tree is threatened."

…

There isn't anything here. A desk. A chair – swivel. No artwork on the walls. No moving pictures. No enchanted clocks or floating objects. No strange books on the bookshelf. No. Theodore Nott's London flat is disturbingly ordinary. If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought he'd given up on the wizarding world altogether. But I do; I do know better. Theodore Nott has spent the better part of his life devoted to the study of thaumaturgic neuroscience. A concentrated effort on merging the study of magical healing with translational neurobehavioural research. Repenting for old sins, I presume. I wonder, standing in the doorway, if he's found what he's looking for. He turns to me from inside after hanging his jacket on one of two hooks on the wall, and his face betrays nothing.

I hesitate before entering. I wonder how this will work now. Now that he's invited me in. Now that he's no longer just a subject. Just a character from an old, ever-adapting tale. The story, it seems, has been molded and remolded. Within me, first and foremost. I don't know if I even truly remember the first edition. The brain is a malleable thing. Soft. Weak. Impressionable. Just ask Nott.

"Wine?" he says, striding into the wide-open space of the living room which clearly doubles as his study, what with the desk and the chair and the bookshelves.

"Of course," I say. He smiles before disappearing into the kitchen. I stand at the centre of the room, revolving. How will I ask him my questions now? Now that he's become – now that he's no longer Dr. Theodore Nott. Now that he's just Theo. I look back at him as he brings out the wine goblets. I collect myself, await the relief the wine should bring. My guilt can't even be a fraction of his. And he still lives and breathes.

He walks over to his desk and pushes on the left drawer. The entire left half rotates to expose a circular wine rack, with several bottles laid out on display while others are stacked away further in. I stare at the impeccable presentation before me in awe. He takes up a bottle and holds it out to show me. I suppose there is something here. Something that isn't a desk or a chair or a bookshelf. Theodore Nott is here. And, let me tell you, he is a delight.

…

Nott had added more logs to the fire as soon as they'd returned with the wood. Neville was skinning two of the four rabbits he'd caught with Ron earlier on. Ron was arranging the meat on skewers. They had set the fur aside for drying. Nott and Malfoy were sitting with their backs to the fire, facing the rushing water of the creek where Hermione was washing blood off her face.

Nott spoke first, watching Hermione cup her hands and bring the water over her face. "You two sort out your shit?"

Malfoy was also staring ahead. Also at Hermione. "It's sorted," he said.

Nott curled in his lips, biting into their flesh. He lowered his gaze. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. "Did you notice," he said, "where Wood was headed?"

Malfoy hunched his shoulders upward, wrapping his jacket tighter over his body. "I noticed."

Nott turned to look at him. "Now, what would he want with the shelters?"

Malfoy was still watching Hermione by the creek as she scrubbed the dirt from her hands. Watched the water glide down her cheeks and drip from her nose. Watched it slide over her chin, run down her neck, disappear under the collar of her shirt. "What, indeed?" he said.

As if on cue, they both looked over at Ginny's hut. "I sense," Nott said, "that we're not the only ones here with a secret, Draco."

…

Secrets. Everyone has at least one. I have a secret. I watch Nott pour the wine into the goblet, twist the bottle expertly, lift up the glass and hold it out towards me. I wait until he's poured his own to start drinking. He holds up his glass. "Cheers," he says.

That's when I realize. Correction: I've been realizing for quite some time. But I've been in a perpetual state of denial. Just like they are. But now I definitively realize. I have gone too far. This is sick. This is wrong. This is not me.

He doesn't know who I am. I could be anybody. But for how long? Sooner or later, secret or not, the truth, however distorted, infiltrates even the grandest illusions. Even the grandest delusions.