CHAPTER 12: Barbarism Begins At Home

(TW: mentions of domestic violence/abuse)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything belonging to JK Rowling or the world of Harry Potter.

…

The second half of the Christmas break passes far quicker than I like, and before I know it the Hogwarts Express has made the long journey back up from King's Cross Station.

I pull my coat tighter around my body, icy January weather causing a chill to settle deep within my bones, and tug my hat further down over my ears. Groups of students head towards where I'm stood leaning against one of the outer castle walls by the grand entrance, the cold from it seeping into my back through my clothes, and I crane my neck to see if I can spot any of our group.

Not that I particularly want to see them – not in the state I've been in since Christmas day.

I've barely left the girls' dormitory in the past week since receiving the mysterious letter, and I know my face looks gaunt and my limbs look frail, having skipped most meals to remain within the safety of the Slytherin quarters. And when I have attempted to eat, my appetite has been virtually non-existent, food feeling like cardboard in my mouth. And all of this because of some mysterious correspondence.

Even I think I'm being pathetic about it.

Before I can stop myself, the words come back to haunt me again, flashing through my mind uninvited:

Miss Arachne Messer,

I know why you're at Hogwarts and I know who you work for. Asking questions and bringing attention to yourself is not wise, girl, so consider this message a firm warning: either keep your nose out of business that isn't yours or leave while you still can. I will not ask again. Nor will my seniors.

You will do well to heed these words, Miss Messer, or the consequences will be unsavoury.

Season's Greetings

I shiver, but not because of the cold.

From the top of my head, I haven't been able to think of anyone who would be aware of my identity or my true purpose for attending Hogwarts (apart from Draco, Theo, and possibly Blaise, but I've already ruled out their handwriting), unless there's a mole in the family operation, which I wholeheartedly doubt. Very very few people know about what we do – I can count the number on one hand – and having known each and every one of them for as long as I can remember, I don't believe that they would turn against us.

Though, in the current political climate anything is possible.

But, logically speaking, it would make sense if it's the same person who has been blocking my attempts at killing Draco. However, there's no plausible reason as to why they would wait until now to threaten me when I last tried in October, three months ago, so that possibility feels flimsy.

That leaves only one more option.

The owner of the partner Vanishing Cabinet. The one I sent that letter to.

But why would they be so hostile?

People pass by me and into the warmth of the Entrance Hall. I hope I don't have to wait too long out here in the freezing temperature – I don't think my frayed nerves can take it, because on top of the worry I have over the letter, I'm still nervous about seeing Draco and haven't yet decided how I feel about that whole situation, sending myself in circles over it.

Kiss or kill?

Kill or kiss?

Neither?

Both?

I spot Pansy's raven hair jutting out around a pair of fur earmuffs and push myself off the wall. Strolling her way over the icy ground, I notice she's deep in conversation with Draco – Daphne, Blaise and Theo not with them from what I can see.

I have half a mind to turn and leave, but before I can act on it, Pansy spots me and comes bounding over.

"Arachne!"

She grips me in a fierce hug, arms like iron around my chest, then takes a step back and grabs my shoulders, tilting her head up to take in my face since she's a bit shorter, asking, "Is everything alright?"

I laugh but it sounds hollow. "Of course, Pans, why wouldn't it be?"

She scrutinizes my face for a few seconds, brow furrowing slightly, before shrugging and letting go of me with an air of nonchalance, though I notice her concerned expression doesn't diminish. "No reason."

I look over at Draco. Then stiffen.

What the fuck happened to his face?

From afar, I didn't notice, but up close I see greenish bruising around his left eye and a half-healed gash slicing his lower lip, making a stark contrast with his skin which, pale normally, is a ghostly white colour. He's visibly lost weight too, not like the fluctuations I noted during the previous term, but drastically, his jaw razor sharp and cheekbones too prominent, and I can do nothing but stare.

"Arachne," he acknowledges politely, and I look away guiltily.

"Draco," I say in kind, and before I can summon up the courage to ask him how his Christmas was, he excuses himself and walks off.

"What happened to him?" I ask Pansy once he's out of earshot.

She stares at his back and chews the inside of her cheek for a second before linking her arm through mine and starting towards the castle. Her reply is quiet for once, "Trouble at home. As you've probably heard, his father was released from Azkaban a few days before Christmas."

Oh.

Guilt gnaws at me once again. I could've easily picked up a copy of the newspaper over the last couple of weeks and found something like that out, as I'm sure it would have made the news, but instead I retreated into myself and subsequently stared at Draco just now like an insensitive idiot.

Not that I should care.

But I have been very confused lately.

My heart sinks. "No, actually, I didn't hear."

"Oh, I don't know how you didn't, since there was an enormous feature in the Prophet about it," she pauses and looks around us, before dropping her voice even further.

I've never seen Pansy so serious.

"I know you're a pureblood, Arachne, but I don't know how much you're aware of their customs – the way they tend to parent?"

I look at her warily. "Not much, I'm afraid. Mother and father are… shall we say… progressive."

She nods as if she knew that already. "Right, well, the thing about old-fashioned pureblood parents is that, regarding the punishment of their children, when they don't believe words will suffice, they like to get handsy." She narrows her eyes at me knowingly. "If you know what I mean?"

Resentment, cold and harsh, courses through me at the image of Lucius Malfoy using his son as a punching bag. I don't even think about the fact that Draco is my target, that my indignation is wrong, and that damned itch returns, this time for my enemy instead of against him.

I want to kill someone.

That someone being Draco's father.

Pansy, taking my silence for agreement, continues, "And not to mention they like dishing out punishment all too easily in the first place. You know, I once got in trouble for setting my napkin on my knee at a slightly incorrect angle."

"I didn't even know there was an incorrect angle," I bite out through clenched teeth.

"My point exactly."

By now we've made it to the castle, and we cross the packed entrance hall to the dungeon staircase. I sigh and force my jaw to loosen, not wanting to draw attention to myself. "Where are the others?"

Pansy raises her voice, seemingly glad for the change in topic. "Blaise and Daphne caught a different carriage to Draco and I – Prefect business – and Salazar knows where Theo is. Probably sharing bodily fluids in some dark corner."

We share a grossed-out look and a laugh before descending. "Did he tell you I caught him out at the Christmas party?"

"No, he certainly did not!"

"I bumped into him when I left to get some air. He'd slinked off to see his lover and thought we wouldn't notice." I smirk.

"To be fair, I didn't, and you wouldn't have either had you not stepped outside." Pansy turns to walk backwards so she's facing me and raises her eyebrows, calling, "You were gone a long time, from what I recall."

Ah, so she did notice.

I force a self-deprecating smile to my face and say, "I had a lot to drink and decided that wandering a few corridors would be fun. Until I got lost," shoving the memory of what really happened to the back of my mind, the excuse bringing on a different one of Draco waiting languidly for me in the common room all those months ago, looking a world away from how he did just now.

My fist threatens to ball.

"You? Lost? I don't believe it for a second, Spider Girl." She laughs but there's a glint in her eyes that suggests it's not entirely in jest.

"Sorry to disappoint but I can't be perfect all the time."

We arrive at the common room and make our way inside, moving to sit on one of the couches by the fire. The room itself isn't that busy, with most students still greeting their friends or in their dormitories unpacking, but I find the low murmur of voices in the background comforting after the painful silence of the last two weeks.

Pansy and I talk idly about the Christmas holiday for a while before Daphne and Blaise enter the common room, shortly followed by Theo, whose collar is suspiciously turned up against his neck.

"Happy New Year," he says cheerily upon approaching us. A little too cheerily.

"Hickey on the first day, Nott? You work fast." I raise an eyebrow.

Theo tries, and fails, to send me a glare and ends up grinning while the others laugh and tease him too. And it seems, as if by magic, like things are back to normal, the threatening letter and my mission worlds away.

But they're not. And after seeing Draco's appearance earlier, I know I have to act. Do something.

And soon.

…

Following a delicious welcome-back-feast, which I hardly touch and where Draco is, once again, notably absent, we head back to the Slytherin common room where the remaining five of us talk and play exploding snap – a game I don't enjoy since there's no real skill involved - until late. Daphne heads to bed first at around eleven o'clock, shortly followed by Blaise and Pansy, and then finally Theo, leaving me with the dwindling fire and my plaguing thoughts for company.

I'm turning over Draco's beaten up face in my mind when the common room entrance creaks open and footsteps sound across the parquet flooring.

Perfect.

A part of me does feel pathetic that I've been waiting up for him – and rather late too, judging by the clock. The idea of what my parents would say flashes across my mind, but I've recently decided that what they think – what they want – doesn't matter so much anymore. They haven't even sent me a Christmas card this year, even though they must surely know I'm practically alone at Hogwarts for the holiday, which is yet another reason I get the impression they don't care about me, but rather the mission. The objective. And I'm starting to wonder at what the fuck I actually owe them?

I mean, apart from being on what seems like the brink of a wizarding war and my actions having a say in the outcome.

But I digress.

Time is of the essence, so I push my thoughts away and hunker down in the armchair I'm sat on, head ducking so I'm no longer visible from the back, as if he's caught me out. As if I wasn't waiting for him.

Draco's even tread reaches me, and he sits on an adjacent couch, bringing his feet up to rest on the mahogany coffee table and leaning his head back against the leather, eyes shuttering closed.

I survey him out of my periphery. The gash on his lip looks worse in the low lighting of the room, the bruising of his black eye flickering in time with the last small flame in the grate of the fireplace. He looks broken, and sympathy rises in my chest which I don't try to dampen.

How am I supposed to kill someone who already looks so defeated?

With false confidence, I murmur, "Are you going to tell me why you look like you've been hit by the Knight Bus?"

He cracks open a dull grey eye and tilts his head in my direction, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Radiant is the word I believe you want."

I let out a huff of a laugh at his parroting of my phrase and shift my gaze to the fire.

"Also, I hardly think you can comment since you look fairly awful too," he continues.

Another huff of air escapes me and, before I can stop myself, comment, "That's not what you thought before Christmas."

Silence.

I wait a couple of beats then look over at Draco again to see both of his eyes open and staring at his feet stretched out in front of him, expression closed and unreadable.

We stay like that for a while then, lips barely moving, he mutters, "Maybe what happened before Christmas shouldn't have happened at all."

My chest tightens.

He's right and I know it. The almost-kiss most definitely should not have happened. But the irrational, amortentia-riddled, annoying side of me isangry.

"What did you say?" I ask, dangerously low and even.

"What happened the night before the holidays shouldn't have reached that point. You and I both know it."

"If I recall correctly, you're the one who prompted it. Who prompted me to answer your questions then drew me in afterwards," I snap, the words a harsh knife against my throat.

He finally looks at me fully. "And if I recall correctly, you didn't push me away. In fact, you encouraged it."

We stare at each other, steel meeting fire.

"That suggests then, since our actions were pretty much mutual, that what happened wasn't a mistake, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps, but it doesn't change the fact that upon reflection I regret it."

Regret? Of the range of emotion I've gone through since that night, regret hasn't even crossed my mind, and I'm left speechless at his retort. All I can do is stare as he rises to his feet, his gaze never wavering from mine, and adds, "If anything, I'm glad we didn't kiss."

At that, I swiftly rise to my feet too, tongue ready and acerbic. "Glad? You really must be more deranged from sleep deprivation than I thought, Draco. Body language doesn't lie, so I don't know what you're trying to achieve with your poor attempt at it."

He inhales roughly through his nose. "I'm not lying."

"Bite me."

"You wish."

"And you don't?"

"No. I don't."

"Right."

We've moved closer yet again, less than a foot separating us now, as though we're magnets. A positive and a negative that can't help but gravitate towards one another.

Though which one of us is positive and which one is negative, I don't think I know anymore.

I step back, schooling my features into a cold blank expression.

Draco does the same, and mutters, "If you don't mind, Messer, I need to get to bed."

He looks over my shoulder at the entrance to the boys' dormitories, his face a picture of stone except for a small muscle ticking in his jaw just below his ear, my words having obviously affected him. Though, I don't know why since he was the one practically flirting with his eyes the morning after the ordeal and then seemingly has come back from the Christmas break a different man.

What happened at Malfoy Manor in that time?

Actually, I don't want to know the answer to that. I can all too easily imagine what went on.

"Of course. Goodnight, Malfoy," I respond blandly.

Pushing past him to the girls' dorm, I hear him say, "Goodnight, Messer," in an equally bored tone, and then his steady tread moving the other way.

Once in the dorm, I creep over to the bathroom and lock the door, casting a muffliato before shattering the nearest mirror with my fist.

…

"You were up late last night, Spider Girl."

I shoot Pansy a sarcastic smile in the midst of piling breakfast onto my plate (the house-elves made pancakes – today is going to be a good day, I can feel it), but don't bother to correct her. I was up late last night; following the encounter with Draco, I spent hours breaking and repairing the mirrors in the bathroom over and over again in an attempt to release all my pent up agitation, blood spattering the white tile until it looked like paint.

But with that anger came clarity. And now I know what I have to do.

Because, through the haze of pain and ire, I kept hearing Theo's words – 'he's not a bad person… he doesn't have a choice' – and that, coupled with a certain beat-up appearance, leads me to believe that Draco didn't mean what he said in the common room last night. And if he did, then I'll have no choice but to kill him.

A win-win situation, wouldn't you say?

"Have you two done the assigned reading for charms?" Daphne asks Theo and I, and we fall into casual conversation about the homework.

Until Draco turns up.

"Good morning," he greets quietly, and sits as far away from me as possible.

My smile is saccharine when I comment, "Would you look at that, Pansy? Seems Draco had an even later night than I did."

His fingers twitch minutely where they're resting on the rough wood of the table and he turns his head away from us.

"Yeah?" Pansy smiles back at me with questioning frown.

An uncomfortable silence falls over us all, the others at a loss for what to say, but I continue eating my breakfast merrily, tapping my foot in a steady rhythm against the floor, the handle of the switchblade stashed in my shoe prodding my heel with every beat.

My favourite blade, might I add. A present for my fourteenth birthday. Steel so sharp it slices skin like paper, with a beautiful bone handle moulded to my grip. Genevieve her name is. French, like her country of origin.

"What happened to your hands, Arachne?" Blaise breaks the silence, eyeing the many cuts on my knuckles and failing to mask the curiosity in his voice with smooth politeness.

"A happy accident," is all I offer.

Because the last thing I'm going to say is that I repeatedly tore up a bathroom because my target, who happens to be his best friend, said he's glad he didn't kiss me.

Do I have an anger problem?

"I see."

The silence returns and isn't broken until benches start scraping against the stone floor as people rise and make their way towards their first classes of the morning. I'm careful to get up last out of our group and trail behind the rest by a couple of paces.

It's Monday morning, which means Draco, Blaise, Pansy, and I have double potions, while Daphne and Theo have a free period, choosing normally to study in the library together. As the latter two turn towards the marble staircase, and Pansy and Blaise fall into conversation while walking over to the dungeons, I grab Draco's elbow and covertly pull him into a small antechamber off the entrance hall amid the chaos.

"What the fu-"

I cut him off by kicking the door shut while pulling Genevieve from my boot and shoving him against the nearest wall. Hard. I rest the tip of my knife against the nearly-translucent skin of his neck, and his bruised eye narrows.

"What's this about, Messer?" he spits out, and I push the blade further, drawing a single spot of crimson blood, which rolls down his neck and onto his pristine white collar.

"I don't think you're in a position to ask questions, Draco."

I have to hand it to him – he doesn't squirm or flinch at the tiny wound.

He does at the use of his given name though; "Don't call me that."

"It's your name, is it not?" I smirk.

"It is."

"Then I will continue to address you so. Draco."

His shoulders drop defeatedly and the haughty line of his mouth softens a fraction.

I narrow my eyes. "I knew it."

He raises an eyebrow in question, and I drag the switchblade lethargically along the too-sharp line of his jaw until it's propped under his pointed chin. "You didn't mean what you said last night."

"Yes, I did," he replies surely, and it would have been convincing had his voice not wavered towards the end.

I grin wickedly.

Moving in closer, my mouth millimetres away from his ear, I whisper, "I don't believe you."

"What's not to believe?"

I reply by pressing my lips against his sharp cheekbone – a bold move. A risky move. A reckless move. One that I'm not entirely sure will work.

Miraculously, though, it does.

His eyes flutter closed, eyelashes resting delicately against his porcelain cheeks. I step back but keep Genevieve firmly in position, resisting the urge to trace his chiselled features with my fingertips.

"I really don't want to hurt you, Draco, but you and I both know what we want is irrelevant in the situation we have found ourselves in." I finally remove the knife and collapse the blade into the ivory handle using my palm.

Draco, silver orbs now open, doesn't shift his gaze from mine.

"We're pawns in this game. Players to be used. Our opinions, our will, our feelings not important in the bigger picture. And, as such, we can either be allies – or friends, or civil, whatever you want to call it – or enemies," I continue, finally giving him the ultimatum I came up with at around three a.m. surrounded by blood and glass. "Come and find me when you've made up your mind."

I reconceal the knife deftly in my shoe and move to leave, but as my hand touches the door handle Draco calls out, "You once said that you didn't think we could be friends, Arachne."

I look over my shoulder as he steps towards me, indecisiveness lacing his expression.

"I think you were right," he presses on. "But allies could work. I'm just not sure if they should."

I smile sadly at him, at his voicing of the doubts plaguing me about this decision to propose allyship, doubts that sounded an awful lot like my parents, which I ultimately discarded at the realisation that Draco probably doesn't want what's been handed to him either. "Well, like I said, you let me know when you've made up your mind. The quaffle is in your possession, so to speak."

And before he can say anything else, I exit the room.

…

A/N:

Happy New Year everyone! Hopefully 2021 treats us all a bit better than 2020 did (though, I'm not banking on it haha).

Thank you to all of you who have stuck with this fic to this point! It means the world to me that people are actually enjoying what I've written, and I hope you're enjoying it so far – we're almost at the halfway point and things are about to get more… interesting, so to speak.

As always, let me know what you think, whether that be a review or a DM. I'm always eager to get feedback.

Thanks!

N.S

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