Hermione's deep in sleep, and it's incomparable to other nights—incredibly tranquil and soothing, like the universe is awarding her with a more precious gift than its natural assortment of amethysts, gems, minerals. She's needed this moment for a long time—a night uninterrupted and unplagued by the troublesome obligations which have been thrust upon all of them.
But a stifled argument on the other side of the door drives Hermione out of that slumber.
She's cradled in Draco's arms one moment, her legs tangled between his and her neck warm with the supplement of his tepid breathing, but once she perceives a hushed yet verbal argument slip through the cracks of the door, and then subsequently hears a low thump smack against the ground, Hermione immediately jerks up and faces the door. Rouses Draco in the process. The hand that's wrapped around her body shifts and grips her arm closest to him as they both listen to the sudden noise from the living room.
Draco rubs his eyes with his free hand and clears his throat, dispelling that callous morning voice just enough that he still sounds like honey, but there's a tinge of lemon too. "What the hell—"
The conversation heightens, morphing into a yelling match, and Hermione determines based on the rumbling cadence of the tones that it's two male voices. Two male voices who usually sound so sweet, so soft-spoken, so positive in that which they do and say. Now, in the early hours of this morning, they're arguing with one another.
There's another resounding smack against the floor, followed by a grunt and a desperate plea—"wait, Adrian!" That supplication, engrossed with passion and desperation, causes Hermione to leap out from under Draco's navy duvet and ground her feet on the floor. She starts for the door, but when she realizes that she's still completely naked from the previous night, Hermione grinds her teeth and darts for her pair of jeans on the floor. Yanks her wand right out of the back pocket and rapidly conjures a t-shirt and pair of comfortable, cotton shorts to wear for the time being. It's all she can think of and do as the argument escalates.
Draco's out of bed at this point too, but he reaches for a pair of boxers and slips them on, simultaneously glancing at Hermione every other second with a concerned look painted across his face—a splattered landscape of puzzlement and distress across his cherry cheeks.
But while he's dressing himself, there's a brief lapse of consciousness that streaks across Draco's mind, almost like a meteor strike, and Hermione watches in a pang of distress as he plants the palm of his right hand on his forehead and wraps his left hand around the edge of the headboard of Adrian's bed. He balances himself, shakes his head, takes a few deep breaths, and then is able to push himself off of the bed and stand on his feet again.
Hermione's at his side a moment later, touching his arm and asking whether he's alright.
"I'm fine," he says, centering himself. "Just got up too fast."
As quickly as she surrenders her attention to Draco and his wellbeing, it's abruptly wrenched away when the sound of the struggle grows closer, and then she hears the door to the bathroom just across the hall slam shut and someone's fist pound against it over and over again.
"Adrian? Adrian? Come out, please. Come on."
It feels like there's a globe lodged in her throat when she hears the way that Harry desperately pleads with Adrian. Misery seeps through each of his words as he continues his distressed string of pleas.
"Adrian, just take some deep breaths. You... you don't need it—"
Soaring across the room, Hermione reaches the door and swings it wide open. Finds Harry standing just to her left at the entrance of the restroom, wildly knocking his fist against the wood and unsuccessfully attempting to twist the doorknob.
By that time, the others have started congregating in the living room as well. Pansy and Theo stand in their doorway to Hermione's immediate right, concern strewn across both of their expressions as they watch the scene unfold in the natural hours of the morning. Across the shared living space, Daphne pauses and stands near the entrance of the kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest and her bare legs quivering in the chilly air. And Blaise, dashing across the apartment and turning that sharp corner of the hallway that leads to the bathroom, places his hand on the wall and furrows his eyebrows.
"What the hell is happening?" he asks, casting his free hand in the direction of the door to the restroom.
"I don't know," Harry explains, his voice fragile and his hands, burdened with the incessant beating against the door, falling to his side in surrender. "One minute we were just talking, and the next he became rather anxious. He said... quite candidly... that he needed some of his... y-you know..."
"Drugs?" Blaise interrogates, his eyebrows raised in impatience. "Drugs, Potter? It's not a dirty word, you know. Call it what it is and move on—"
"Yes, sorry, drugs," Harry quickly answers, shaking his head. "He said it was the only thing that could make his head and arm feel better. I told him I didn't know why he'd want any more of that stuff after what happened to him, and he got really angry with me. Perhaps I overstepped, but I... I just..." He grows quiet for a second, sighing like the weight of the world is right there atop his chest. "I don't really know what I'm doing."
A cabinet crashes, and the sound of glass splintering after the impact shakes Hermione to her core. Unnerves everyone present.
Harry spins his head around and meets Hermione's eyes. Anguish is all those green irises know and symbolize as they implore Hermione to do something, save Adrian from his fate, drag him out of the restroom and... what... force him deeper into his withdrawal? Make him feel just as brittle and helpless and powerless as before?
Hermione knows the conflict that Harry has dipped his toes into. She remembers the apprehensive ambiance to it all. Watching Draco do it to himself—attempt to withdraw and then ultimately cede himself to the pain—was scarier than anything she'd seen in the war. It was the ghost in his eyes and the grey in his skin that ignited her fear and uneasiness, and it was the confusion and frustration of it all that stamped itself on the back of her mind like a warning sign for weeks to come, should it happen again.
Now, she's more prepared, more equipped, more knowledgeable of the effects and angst of it all. It's easier for her to sympathize with Adrian, Draco, any of the others, because nobody wants to feel pain.
Happiness—that's what people crave. A sense of security and collateral. But it's... it's so complicated, because the price of the insurance seems extortionate.
And so, what does she do in a situation like this? Withdrawals, as she's come to learn, can be physically painful, but where the pain really dwells is in the mind. It's in the voice—soft-spoken and tempting yet underlyingly dangerous—that tells them to keep going. That one more line cannot hurt. And that voice is built on the back of agitation, depression, exhaustion, and a general sense of melancholy, and those feelings latch themselves onto whatever they can in the body, replacing the spots where dopamine usually resides and flourishes. Now, it's chemical and inorganic, and it's fake. It's all an imitation of what real happiness is.
And so, yes, a withdrawal is physically painful, and the level of pain depends on the person, but it's also mentally draining. It reinforces the propaganda of the drug—the idea that this high will last forever and be perfect and euphoric and everything one could hope for—and then it tears down the walls inside of its victim. Rips the fortifications down brick by brick until there is nothing left, and that nothingness—that total void—begs its host for another indulgence. Another line. It feeds on fraudulent happiness and cries when someone begs for a sliver of authentic bliss.
It seems that Adrian has had enough of feeling weak these past few days. Maybe it's his newfound relationship with Harry. He is still with Ginny—hasn't spoken to her for several days, though. Can't bring himself to pick up the telephone or send her a Patronus. Perhaps it's that limbo which Harry and Adrian find themselves in that set him off.
It could have to do with his friends. The tension surrounding everyone hasn't gone unnoticed. It seems as though distance has crept its way into the apartment, and in a time when they ought to feel closer than ever, there is a level of uneasiness about a plethora of things that sluggishly coaxes them apart. Perhaps that shift in the dynamic triggered this episode of resentment.
However, Hermione suspects that it's mostly to do with himself—Adrian's very own perception and standards that he's created to define who he is. Constantly trying to touch the sun when the earth continues to drag one down is grueling task, and even the strongest all people could not possibly reach that high and feel the warm beams with their fingertips when the soil beneath their feet continues to sink, sink, sink until it ultimately drags them down—swallows them whole.
Harry interrupts Hermione's wandering thoughts. "I just thought that after what happened a few nights ago, he'd never want to go near that stuff again."
"It's not that simple, Potter," Draco whispers under his breath, folding his arms over his chest as if to reject any further explanation of what he means by that.
But Hermione knows. She's come to understand the authenticity of that statement. It really isn't that easy to let it go. It takes far more than sheer willpower to pull oneself out of this malady.
She steps forward. Knocks her knuckles against the door three times and then waits a moment before calling out for him.
"Adrian?"
He doesn't answer—not immediately. It takes another knock at the door for him to finally answer her.
"Speaking?" The lilt of his voice is cheery again, and it's rather troubling.
"Adrian, it's Hermione. Can I come in?"
There's a beat, and then the door swings open.
Adrian emerges and stands tall in the entryway, almost reaching the top of the post. He leans coolly against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest, offering a mischievous smirk. A lively color already seems to be returning to the pallid hue of his cheeks, but Hermione attempts to dispel that silver lining.
It's not real, she thinks to herself. That's not real happiness.
Surveying the crowd of his frightened friends one by one, Adrian whistles in relief. "Apologies if any of you were alarmed by Potter and I's brief dispute. Just needed a quick recharge—"
"Are you alright?" Blaise inquires, sweeping around the corner and attempting to get a better look at Adrian—inspect his face, his color, his nose, where tiny flecks and traces of cocaine rest just on the crest of his left nostril.
Adrian's eyebrows shoot up, and he nods twice. "Peachy keen. Better than I've felt in a while."
The worried eyes of his friends cause Adrian to chuckle with a bright smile. "Merlin, who died and sent you all to such vexation?" He points to Hermione, his mouth curving into a small circular shape. "I think that deserves some points coming my way, no?"
"Adrian—"
"Hey, you know what I realized?" Adrian interrupts, pushing through the crowd and sauntering back to his corner of the couch. "You never actually told us what happened yesterday, Granger." As he plops down onto the indigo cushion, Crookshanks scuttles from behind the couch and leaps onto the cushion beside him, leading Adrian to reach to the side, lift him from his belly, and settle him upon his lap. One hand strokes the crown of Crookshanks' head, while the back of his other hand quickly slides below his nostrils to wipe something away.
And then he sniffles. Harshly. Exhales a satisfied breath and tips his head down to garner a response out of her.
"I'm dying to hear all about the trouble you caused our favorite mentors, yeah?"
It's awkward, but one by one the others make their way back towards the living room. She wishes that candid conversation could be more present here, but she doesn't want to overstep any boundaries. Can't risk the relationships she's made thus far with impositions far too burdensome on them. Perhaps that unhealthy—perhaps she's wrong for wanting to protect them. But it's how she feels. She'd be lying to herself if she admitted anything different.
Hermione's arms are crossed as she settles on the couch opposite of Adrian, and when Draco slides right next to her and closes the gap between her arm and the edge of the couch, she feels a brush of security inhabit her worried disposition. Lets the sensation of Draco's arm against hers calm her down.
"Erm," Hermione starts, not even fucking knowing where to begin. Not knowing what the consequences of uncovering the sinister truth of the program—a truth she still hasn't quite put together yet—will be once everything is exposed and out in the open.
She begins by explaining what happened at the Ministry. How Kingsley still hadn't returned from his business trip, how she stormed into Aberfield's office to find him and Bruiser, how they essentially admitted to tampering with the Draught of Peace and watching all of their memories. Everyone listens intently, processing the news in their own personal ways.
But she's interrupted when she begins to talk about the moment Draco arrived.
"Yeah, he seemed all too eager to rush into danger to save his girl," Adrian comments with a sly grin. "Are we sure he's not actually a Gryffindor in disguise?"
"Oh, fuck off," Draco huffs, leaning his back against the couch and crossing one of his legs over the other.
Hermione continues her narrative of the evening, describing every action that led to the moment she snatched Graham's vial from its spot behind the others. When she reaches that detail, she quickly decides to emit it from the events of the night—wants to wait to tell the others about it when things are less chaotic, or, at least, until she explains everything that happened with Aberfield and Bruiser. Bringing up Graham's memories could be too onerous for them to handle right now. One thing at a time seems to be the smartest approach.
When it comes out that Bruiser was not who she's been claiming to be—that her name is actually Rose Mulciber, daughter of Tyrion Mulciber and sister of Cassius Mulciber—the Slytherins drop their mouths and widen their eyes in shock. No ounce of disbelief is spared in their dazed eyes and outraged expressions.
Hermione holds her breath.
"You're telling me that Bruiser is not even... Bruiser?" Theo asks, creasing his eyebrows and sending them so far down the center of his face that they look about a centimeter away from crossing one another's paths.
Hermione nods and gulps. Explains exactly what Titus told her and Draco about Aberfield and... Rose. She has to remember to refer to her as Rose now, as strange and fucked up as it is.
Dumbfounded is an understatement. They're wordless, speech usurped from every inch of their beings. The news comes as a shock more electrifying than a surging current, causing Hermione to feel like a god of lightning who strikes at a moment so unexpected, so unanticipated, so out of the blue that it shakes all of them to their cores.
"And they're at Amortentia now?" Pansy asks, shifting a little closer to Theo.
Hermione nods. "Yes. Keeping a close eye on them is particularly important because Kingsley is out of the country for another day or two, and there's really no one else we can warn who would be able to do anything substantive to help us reprimand the behavior."
"Of course," Blaise says, nodding his head. "Makes sense."
"Can we see the bastards?" Adrian inquires, raising an eyebrow. "I'd love to give them a piece of my fucking mind. Perhaps remind them that drug tampering is an offense punishable by law. And that I'm pretty sure that poisoning someone falls under the same scope of immorality and corruption. Wouldn't you all agree?"
Hermione produces a trivial laugh from her throat, shifting in her seat and brushing her leg against Draco's. "Yes, we can go see them. At this point we need a confession, or at least concrete evidence about the things that they've done to you and everyone else involved in their programs. Our priority should be uncovering those affairs."
"Oh, I love it when you talk business, Granger," Adrian jokes, puckering his lips. "Makes me feel all tingly." His eyes shoot to catch Draco's. "Doesn't it make you just feel tingly, Malfoy?"
Draco sardonically snorts and smirks. "Yeah, Pucey. Like my whole world is on fire."
Adrian whistles. "Now, where do you find a man who says things like that?"
Hermione laughs, because she knows that the intone of Draco's response leans more towards facetious than it does sincere, but there's something about the echo of his sentiments in her head that supply her with the hope that he's not simply teasing. That there is a part of Draco Malfoy that firmly believes in Hermione's warmth and likeness to the sun, setting the world and him totally ablaze with whatever amount of compassion she has to give. And that's everything.
"Soon, then," Blaise decides. "Sooner rather than later, I think."
"I'm so tired," Daphne whispers, dragging her fingers over her heavy, purple eyelids. "I think I need to go back to bed." She turns to Blaise, who looks at her with worry in his eyes. "I have the aches again."
That settles it almost immediately. Blaise rises from the couch, reaching for Daphne's frail hands, and he pulls her up and gently assumes the side of her waist, his arm wrapped around her lower back. With a gentle kiss to the side of her head, Blaise turns to the others and says, "Just give us an hour or two, yeah? Then we can all go."
Hermione nods, as do the others. "Of course," she answers, and then Blaise and Daphne as trudging back to their room on the other side of the apartment, and her head is nestled on his shoulder, her golden hair cascading down his arm, and he's whispering little phrases into her ear—muffled, hushed so that no one else can hear—and then they're in their room again, the door closes, and it's all very quiet. Silent.
She doesn't even bother asking anyone if Daphne is alright. A question like that is so oblivious to the evident answer—no. Of course not. Daphne is not alright at all. Chemicals are shifting, moods are swinging, color is dying, and the air is suffocating. All unsparingly. Like a constant reminder of her imprisonment to it all.
Hermione's done asking stupid questions.
But that doesn't mean that she's not still searching for some answers.
On the other hand, Harry—Harry, who's interactions with the Slytherins are still so fresh and innocent—doesn't yet know of the way that the drugs are eating them alive. So, he asks the question.
"Is Daphne alright?"
In the period of silence that follows, the Slytherins seems to search their mind for a sugarcoated answer to that question. Hermione can see it in their trying eyes, their parted lips, and their bouncing legs. There's a desire to soften the severity of the addiction—make it seem like it's not really a big deal.
But that's hard to do. And it's harder to convince Harry of that now that he's seen what even a day without it can do to someone. How quickly it can make them change. How vexed and aggravated and restless they become when that chemical burst of dopamine does not operate on schedule.
Sighing, Pansy finally answers Harry. "No." It's the honest answer—blunt and unchanging. "No, Potter. Daphne's not alright." She pauses again, lifting her index finger to her lips and briefly biting down on her nail. But immediately she scoffs and drops her hand in her lap to secure it with the other—her left, which shakes far less than her right. Her eyes find Harry's across the room, and after sucking on the inside of her cheek for a moment, somehow hoping that the words can just permeate through the membrane and exist no longer, she blurts out, "None of us are alright. We're fucked."
Three hours pass, and once the color in Daphne's face has returned—once the trembling in her hands subsides and the fatigue in her eyes fades away—the group quickly disapparates, because time is of the absolute essence. Always has been.
Landing back in Amortentia is chilling for the Slytherins. It's filled with blissful and perfect memories, but a recent splotch in the continuum of happiness has tainted the club. Made it almost impossible to enjoy again.
And so, instead of lingering on the dance floor and reminiscing about spots where everyone danced, kissed, or screamed in enjoyment, the Slytherins march straight to Titus' office—exactly where Draco explained that they left Titus, Aberfield, and Rose the night before.
Hermione can already hear commotion before they reach the office, but it's not booming or boisterous.
She first heard a laugh—a cackle is perhaps more appropriate. Low inflections of the voice confirm that it's Aberfield's, and that causes Hermione's skin to crawl with discomfort. His laugh is devilish, presumptuous, and cocky.
"You believe that you have me all figured out, don't you—"
"I know exactly who you are, Quincy."
Titus. Without a doubt. His voice is undeniably aggravated. It sounds as though he's a moment away from gritting down too hard and sinking his teeth right into themselves.
"Frauds, the both of you!" he continues. "Nothing more than swine and vermin."
"And yet, you're the one with a job fit for failures—"
There's a muted thump, followed by two distinct grunts.
Titus is shaking his wrist and inspecting his swollen knuckles when everyone arrives at the front door to his office. He's also backing away from two chairs—one where Aberfield is tied down, and another where Rose is.
Rose. Rose Mulciber. Hermione still can't believe that reality. Finds it suffocating to even try.
And Aberfield, whose head hangs to the side, and whose cheek now sports a throbbing, red bruise, laughs. Again. Makes eye contact with the Slytherins halfway through his spout of insanity and then exhales like he's been expecting them. Like it's some sort of relief, or perhaps a larger thrill, that they're now here to berate him further. Like he gets off on it.
Rose is to his right, but her demeanor is the complete opposite to Aberfield's. Whereas he's rather erratic and delirious, Rose is completely stoic. Calm. Almost dead inside. The life in her eyes is dimmed beneath her dilated pupils, totally transfixed on Hermione as she ambles through the door and into the office, the others stalking closely behind like a tight pack of wolves.
"Well, well, well," Aberfield mumbles, and gods Hermione wishes he would've opted for a less cliche greeting, "look who's shown up again at just the right time?" He tuts sardonically as the group files in—forms two horizontal, parallel lines and flares at their trusted mentors with poison in their eyes. "I find that endearing, really."
Hermione hears a quiet click, like knuckles cracking, and she twists her head to the right and looks down to see Theo doing just that—pushing his palm down against his folded fingers to protect his anger and save it for another moment. But the way his jaw tenses confirms for Hermione that he's angry. Furious. Seething with rage beneath his cherry-tinted cheeks.
But it's not Theo that Hermione is most worried about. Behind her, she can hear Adrian breathing heavily out of his nostrils. It's clear that he's irate, the events of two night ago probably fresh in his mind. Air seems to leave his nose the way it would an unbridled stallion's, and Hermione fears that he'll gallop and charge in the next moment, especially because when Aberfield's eyes land on Adrian's, he chuckles. Knocks his head back and sighs at the ceiling.
And that triggers Adrian further.
"And my oh my," Aberfield starts, his voice high and soft and straight from his head, "isn't that a lovely sight? All of you, together again. Plus, a Chosen One. Seems like just yesterday that that—" he attempts to point towards the door with his finger, but his hands are tied, so he settles on gesturing his head forward— "was the door to our seminar room. Of course, you all didn't look as cohesive." Aberfield shifts in his seat, obviously baiting a reaction. "Seems as though something had made you all stronger, no?"
"Yeah, hating you," Pansy mutters under her breath.
Normally, at the sound of Pansy's dry humor, Theo would wrap his arm around her shoulder, press his lips to her temple, and smile against her skin. But based on the severity of the situation, he stands stoically next to her. Barely acknowledges her snide comment. He's too angry, his positive vision clouded by a vengeful fog.
Aberfield scoffs, unphased. Locates Hermione's gaze and flicks his tongue thrice against the roof of his mouth as if to scold her.
"Ms. Granger," he almost sings, "you are out of your league here."
Hermione stands her ground and shakes her head. "No," she responds coolly, "I'm not. In fact, I'm right where I belong."
With a laugh that's entirely contemptuous, Aberfield rocks his head from left to right in nothing short of disagreement with the statement, the sentiment, the entire bloody goal of this intervention of sorts.
"You're all delusional," he chirps through the chuckle.
Draco bursts forth from the group, wraps his hand around the head of a spare chair, and sets in front of Aberfield. He lowers himself onto it and stares the man down, his arms folding on top of the back of the chair and his back leaning forward.
"On the contrary," he starts, no ounce of fear beheld to any part of his body, "you're the fucking deranged one here."
"And I suppose you think that because now you're privy to some conjectures, that you have every single thing about me figured out, hm?" Aberfield tests, cocking his eyebrow and pursing his lips. "You're just so sure you know everything there is to know about me."
"We know enough," Hermione adds, taking one step forward. "I've ruminated over our lessons plans. I've seen memories from the time you were at Hogwarts. I've heard your confession. We all know now that you're completely erratic." She turns to face Rose, who's just as indifferent as she was when they first arrived. "And we know exactly who you are."
Rose scoffs, the features of her face barely changing when she does so. It's just a small huff from her nostrils. "You don't know one thing about me, little girl."
"Little girl?" Adrian booms, stepping forward. "You're seriously referring to her as 'little girl,' when there is not a doubt in my mind that she could annihilate your fucking anemic arse in about two seconds?"
"Just as I thought," Rose whispers, her eyes locked on Adrian. "Far too much confidence for your own good. You should really mind your words, Mr. Pucey."
"Mind my words?" Adrian seethes, pointing at his chest. "Mind my words? You think I'm somebody who minds my fucking words? You psychotic bitch. You two-faced, insipid, nightmarish, she-devil, pain in my fucking arse scum of the fucking earth cunt. You poisoned me—poisoned all of us, actually. And you think I'm not at liberty to call you a bad name or two?"
Harry quietly mutters, "Adrian—"
"I just think that you should mind that tongue of yours," Rose unemotionally states, inclining her head to the side in the most condescending tilt the world has likely ever witnessed. "It can land you in precarious situations if you're not careful."
"Gods, you're a bitch," Adrian spits. "How, even after you've been tied to a fucking chair in the basement of a club, are you still threatening us?"
Rose smirks. "I've heard those words thrown in my face countless time before you, Mr. Pucey. I can assure you at this point there is nothing you can say that will enrage me to my wits end."
"Maybe not you," Hermione says, and then her eyes glaze over to Aberfield. Erratic. His face is beet red, eyes on fire. "But something tells me that he's not as resilient."
Aberfield clenches his jaw as Hermione inches towards him, combatant and almost belligerent in her dawdling steps, like a lion stalking its dazed prey. She stands beside Draco, who rises from the chair and tosses it to the side with a loud clang on impact. Aberfield jolts in his seat, grumbling at the aftermath of the sonorous collision.
"I know my experience at Hogwarts was sometimes dark," Hermione starts. "Some people weren't so nice to me. They called me rather offensive names. But overtime, I've come to forgive them, because they've grown to learn and amend their actions. Tell me something. Have you forgiven the people who did that to you?"
Aberfield huffs, frowns, and ignores her question.
So, she presses him again with the same inquiry. Forces him to face the emptiness and lack of closure still plaguing his life.
"Have you forgiven them for calling you what they did?"
"I'm not a mudblood," Aberfield seethes.
"You are one," Hermione says. "Just like me. It's okay. Doesn't make us any less capable or different—"
"I'm not a mudblood," he repeats, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I'm not a mudblood. I'm not. I'm not."
"The sooner you admit it, the easier you'll come to terms with the way you were treated—"
"No—no! I'm not a fucking mudblood!" he exclaims, and now Hermione begins to understand just how frenetic he is. Just how damning that word became for him. His denial, his renunciation, his absolute abandonment of who he is in order to try to be something else. It's in the way his purple veins seem to bulge out of every pale space on his body—paint him as an absolute madman. There's anger that courses through them, and it's manifested when he begins to leap up and down in his chair, causing the feet to soar in the air for a brief moment and then collide with the hard ground again. He lands over and over in a fit of steam, heaving that frustration in and out of his mouth. "I'm... not... a... mudblood."
"You can try to convince yourself of that, but I know it's not true. I've seen what happened to you—I saw through McGonagall's eyes. I know how people treated you."
Hermione pauses when an idea enters her mind. She recalls a conversation she had with Theo once where he mentioned that he was a Legilimens. That his father worked him for hours and hours every day in the summer before his sixth year of Hogwarts to be a proficient mind reader. How the lessons were grueling and painful but absolutely worth the secrets that he would one day be able to uncover.
"And I know how we can see it again."
She turns around to face Theo—ingenious, smart, resourceful Theo.
"You're a Legilimens," she says to him.
He nods in response. "Yes. I am."
A grin slides across her face, already anticipating a win for them all. "Care to do the honors?"
Theo glances at Aberfield, recognizing the weight of Hermione's request, and for the first time that day, he smiles. "Don't mind if I do," he says, stepping forward, removing his wand from his pocket, and pointing it right at Aberfield. Aberfield, whose frown is now curved even further down, and whose nostrils flare in abject indignation. He almost growls in dissent, like a guard dog, but Theo tilts his head to the side and smugly smiles. Is clearly not afraid of a little bark or bite.
"Were you ever trained in Occlumency, Aberfield?"
He doesn't answer. Just grits his teeth, shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and frowns some more.
Theo sucks in a breath through his teeth and shrugs. "What a shame for you, then. This will probably hurt. Legilimens."
Hogwarts courtyard. The trees are just beginning to change color, and there's a crisp wind in the air that snakes through the branches and compels the leaves to fall to the ground. Settle on the dying grass in sporadic formations and color the courtyard an autumn tint.
He's at a bench. Reading. Studying? No, just reading. Leisurely. His brown curls settle just at the tip of his forehead. His fingers are cold. They tap against the leather binding of his book, his history book, his History of Wizards encyclopedia, to be quite precise, in order to stay warm.
The commotion of the courtyard means nothing to him—not when his eyes are this entrenched in the words on the pages and the way they string together such compelling and inspiring history.
And he's alone. Unbothered by his solitude. Seems to prefer it.
But he's alone, and that's what matters.
"Well, would you look at that!"
There's dialogue, but it's muted, almost watery, and it comes from a group of young boys trudging through the courtyard and passing by him.
"The mudblood is trying to learn about what he wishes he could be."
He seems to ignore the comment. Does look up once to scoff at his bullies, but then he's right back to being absorbed by the words and images on the pages.
"Bet you the mudblood doesn't even know half of the wizards in that book."
Resounding laughter. Yet he still remains passive and docile. At least, his words remain that way. His bugged eyes tell a far different story as they attempt to focus on the literature instead.
"Your kind won't even exist in a few years," one of them taunts.
Before he can close the book and offer a retort, the boys saunter away, reveling in their laughter and enjoyment.
He returns to his book, and it's obvious in the curves and dents of his features that he's sulking. He's tired. He's angry.
Before anything else happens, there's a sudden flash of light.
The image fades out.
In its place is another scene.
The library. Fresh snow lines the windowsill next to where he sits. He looks a little older now—a few years, perhaps. It must be his last year. His arms are bigger, his chest more defined, and, if at all possible, his eyes far hungrier than before.
A newspaper takes the place of his reading. Dyed parchment—a tan color. Faded. The pictures move. They tell of a rising Dark Wizard, a figure so formidable that the Wizarding World has never felt such tension between light and dark, good and evil, right and wrong.
He's enamored.
His hair is a little more structured, not bothering his forehead with its looseness. It's moussed back to reflect the style of the year.
But his face is the same—lonely. Content with that loneliness. Unbothered.
He just reads. He leans his shoulder against the wall, occasionally glances out the window onto the wonderland of snow outside, and he reads. Erratically. With zest and vigor. Like his life depends on the story before him. Like he has only ever seen in black and white, and there is finally color manifesting in his world.
The flash of light returns.
The image fades out.
In its place is another scene.
The common room. Emerald colors coupled with wooden decorations. A fire crackling in the thick of the evening.
He sits on the couch, but this time he's not alone.
There's a girl. She's sitting on the chaise across from him. Long, thin, brown hair hangs on the sides of her face, and it's rather untamed. Not frizzy but tangled in some spaces. Her lips are plush yet chapped, her eyes empty. Purple bags and uneven nails confirm her ticks.
He raises his eyes from his reading and looks up at her. Waits for her to look at him too.
She does. Raises her eyes after a single blink and just stares at him. Briefly smiles when she notices the curve of his lips. Devilish. Like it's obvious.
They return to their books. Read in silence.
Again, the flash of light controls the transition.
The image fades out.
In its place is another scene.
The Dark Lord is there.
He'sthere.
She'sthere.
Others are there.
It's a gathering. An assembly. An initiation.
But he's unhappy. Disappointed, even. There's a speck of water in his eyes as the Dark Lord speaks to him. A shake of the head. A grit of his yellow teeth. And then, a dismissal. A flick of his hand and a sharp turn away.
"What you are offering me is far too insignificant. This cause requires more capable and powerful wizards."
"My Lord—"
"Neither of you possess the qualities for which I am searching for many, many reasons. Your place is not with us. Perhaps, once you've proven yourself, you may take the mark. Until then... remain loyal. Prove yourself in other ways, my children."
They both turn, slowly. Don't bother putting up a fight with someone like him. Hold their heads in shame and leave the room, and it looks like it's for good.
Flash. Again.
The image fades out.
In its place is another scene.
He's older. Tucked away in a small loft. Wooden floorboards creak beneath the soles of his shoes as he ambles from one room to another. Undefinable rooms. They're mostly empty, save some books, some half empty glasses of water and whiskey, and a bed. That's where his wand is. And that's where he arrives a moment later to sit and tinker with his magic.
Wand in the air, he conjures streams of blue and white lights in the air, muttering something to himself—a spell? A mantra? An affirmation? Perhaps, a series of important words?
No. It's the same two words twice.
Facio te. Facio te. Facio te.
Over and over and over.
And each time is more purposeful than the last.
"Facio te."
He's creating something.
The flash returns in the midst of his generation.
The image fades out.
In its place is another scene.
The Minister of Magic's Office. Indigo walls. Indigo tiles. Artifacts and books and golden decorations. A man in the grand chair, another seated opposite and across the golden desk. There's conversation, exhibited through pointing at sheets and reports and data.
"Welcome to the Ministry, Mr. Aberfield." The man's voice is booming. Resounding. Low and direct yet soft and welcoming.
There are several nods. A handshake. And that's when Fate seems to step into the limelight of it all. Grabs the reigns of the world and holds on for dear life as stallions drag her through space and time, and with her, she pulls this man forward.
Flash.
The image fades out.
In its place is another scene.
He's in a room with a dozen or so people. They're seated in a circle. It's a purposeful arrangement or individuals, fashioned to his and everyone else's liking. There are old faces—parents—and familiar faces—a fellow student—yet the ambiance is almost foreign. Tense.
Hands are settled in laps as he speaks. He's older by around two decades, and that's deciphered based on his facial hair. The new lines of wrinkles present on his frailer skin. The tiredness in his eyes—tiredness that doesn't actually match with the level of the others.
Some look like they'd rather be in Hell. Their gazes are hollow, reflecting their ever-disengaged intentions with the conversation. Their fingers fiddle in their laps, and their lips purse when certain statements are made. Sometimes, their eyebrows crease in shock. Confusion. Astonishment.
Two have platinum blonde hair. One has short, brown hair. It looks soft. He looks young, so young, too young to be here, too young to have ever been involved.
Others look intrigued. Cheeks are pink and flushed with marvel. Their minds turn through their eyes, ravenous to hear more. With straight backs and engrossed countenances, they listen to and heed his words with fervor. If they could write notes, they would.
Brown hair seems to be a constant among the concentrated listeners, as if their genes unquestionably reflect that reality.
It's a similar image to what's been fostered these past few months. It's analogous—perhaps, almost indistinguishable.
Too quickly, the scene is gone in a final flash of light. The continuum regurgitates lost time, and everything returns to the present again.
When Theo lowers his wand, Aberfield groans in total agony. Seeks breath in the atmosphere around him now that Theo has exited his mind.
Hermione watches with crossed eyebrows as sweat slowly trickles down Aberfield's pale forehead and temples, and he grits his teeth to mask the pain, anger, discomfort—whatever other sweltering emotion lies beneath his heated eyes. He looks bizarre and irrational, almost foaming at the mouth, when his eyes settle back on the Slytherins and he catches his breath.
Theo stumbles backwards, his lips parted in disgust. Hermione can tell by his tightened fist and contemplative eyes that he's debating whether or not he should throw a punch at Aberfield or simply walk away. Let fate handle him in its path of valor and righteousness.
Beside Aberfield, Rose still looks perfectly calm. Unbothered by everything around her.
Merlin, she's like a fucking psychopath. The both of them are, just in different ways. Whereas Rose is perfectly hollow and void of emotions, Aberfield is erratic, almost unpredictable. His quick jolts and sounds that come from his mouth make Hermione feel entirely uneasy, like he'll break free of those ropes in a moment and wreak absolute havoc on them with just the sheer force of anger gushing through his bloodstream.
"Theo?" Pansy asks, approaching him from the side and tentatively placing her hand on his arm. "Theo, what did you see?"
Still in a state of shock, Theo responds, "I saw... everything I needed to see and know about this man. About her. And I think about who they've done all of this for."
And there it is again, echoing in the small office. Aberfield's laugh is as daunting and uncomfortable as nails on a chalkboard, and it's augmented by the crazed look in his eyes and the demented twists and fidgets of his fingers.
"You still are so very much in the dark," he sighs, sloping back in the chair and elongating his chest to the ceiling. "Gods, those drugs have done wonders to your brain cells—"
"Oh, kiss my fucking arse," Draco seethes, balling his fists and almost stepping forward to seal the deal—connect his fist with Aberfield's cheek, which is only something he has been patiently waiting to do since the first F.D.E.R.E. meetings.
Aberfield moans a satisfied breath, and that steers Rose to smile for herself. Enjoy some still surreptitious truth that they've yet to successfully uncover.
And then, a moment later, Hermione remembers where she might be able to uncover the full truth—the reason for his involvement in this program—and it lies in a small, clear vial in the pocket of her jeans back at the apartment.
The answer might lie in Graham's memories.
"If you honestly think that you can continue to hide everything from us," Hermione starts, shaking her head in the midst of her reprimand, "then you are sorely mistaken. The truth will come out. We'll make sure of it."
"I can corroborate whatever you need me to," Titus interjects, pulling himself off of his desk and glaring at Aberfield and Bruiser. "I know far too much. I've seen enough of it myself. And so, if you need me, I will be ready and able to help you bring these arseholes straight into the fucking dirt where they belong."
Aberfield ignores Titus, his eyes rolling first and then glazing back to Hermione. "The truth is never that simple, Ms. Granger," he slurs, dropping his chin to meet the top of his chest. "You may try to expose me, but at the end of the day, you are a child, and I am a man. I have the power. I have always had the power, even over you. I think, in another life, I was a thespian. I surely have a knack for the arts, wouldn't you say?"
"You're sick," she responds in a hushed tone. "You're sick, and I'll make damn sure that you never see a Ministry office for the rest of your life."
He gulps, but not in a fearful way. It's an impartial swallow, reflecting his attempt to remain as calm as possible as he sits on what seems to be another secret, or perhaps, just not enough evidence on their end.
"As long you remember one thing about me, then you can tell anyone whatever you please."
Hermione waits for that one contingency, and when he says it, her heart hits the ground, her arms turn to gelatin, and her patience runs thin, because Aberfield's denial is far more problematic and daunting than anything else he's done to them. It reflects just how dissociated he is from himself, and that... that's terrifying.
In a fragmented sentence, Aberfield says, "I... am not... a mudblood."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
They're sitting on Draco's bed later that evening. Returning from Amortentia drained the life out of the Slytherins, and instead of discussing things further, they all decided that it might be best to simply retreat to their rooms for the rest of the day, decompress, and discuss strategies in the morning.
There wasn't much to discuss at the time, anyhow. No one to turn to who would listen and be effective enough in bringing down Aberfield and Rose.
So, they all sat on the information. Napped and sulked and attempted to recharge after a day of intense revelations and unpleasant confrontations.
And there comes a moment towards the time of the day when the moon begins to rise and shine its light on the dark world in order to illuminate it—grant it knowledge, perhaps—when Hermione concludes that she needs to watch Graham's memories. Be strong and witness the horrors for herself in order to piece together why this happened and why it continues to happen.
"We can solve this right now," Hermione adds, holding Graham's vial in the palm of her hand.
Draco bites his lower lip, evidently apprehensive about examining the contents of his vial.
"We need to know what happened here," Hermione pushes, holding the vial in her hand and rocking it once in the air. "Theo could explain those scenes to us a hundred more times and it still wouldn't help us decipher how the program plays a role in his... sick and convoluted obsession with Voldemort. There has to be something here—a why. A reason for it all."
With a solemn sigh, Draco says, "You'll never be satisfied until you know, won't you?"
"I'm afraid that's in my nature."
He nods understandingly, shifting closer to her on the bed and placing his hand around hers, steadying his fingers and stroking his thumb over the back of her quivering palm.
"You're sure?" Draco asks one more time, raising his eyebrows in meditation, and it's in that moment that Hermione feels undeniably safe and protected, regardless of the content that is harbored between the particles of the beam itself.
"Are you sure?" she asks, lowering her head to meet his eyes. "He was, after all, your friend."
Draco purses his lips and ruminates on both the question and the insight. Hermione doesn't entirely know what Graham meant to Draco—if she recalls correctly, he seemed relatively unphased by the news of his death that first day in the Ministry. Was instead occupied with how he was going to attain some drugs in that moment.
But Draco has clearly changed from that first day, and Hermione has learned that it's unfair to judge him for the way he was feeling. With an insurmountable weight on his shoulders and an unexpected turn of events in his life, Draco was preoccupied in that moment. Probably didn't process the news he received until later that night. And his emotions were once as palpable as the wind, and so reaching into that hub of feelings within him was probably a task not worth ensuing—a lost cause. Now, that's different. Now, he's a cornucopia of sentiments, each one like a flower that must be nurtured and cherished so that they don't die out, shrivel up, and revert back to a measly root.
Hermione doesn't want to take the credit—she can see Draco doing it for himself.
Finally, Draco answers, "Yeah. I'm sure," and there it is. Hermione's confirmation that Draco is stronger than who he was before. That he's capable and ready and stable enough to watch such catastrophic and unnerving events unfold. He's emotionally here, and it feels like he's taken forever to get to this place, but it's good. It's progress. It's almost perfect—almost.
With her thumb and index finger working in tandem, Hermione unhooks the cork of the vial and drops it on the bed. She lifts the glass in the air to allow the beam to seep from the top and expand in the space of the air around them. Graham's memories are so big, so packed, and so bloated with evidence that the light expands several feet in both length and height, and it's as if Hermione and Draco are in their own personal movie theater, and that feels wrong—so wrong—but it's also advantageous to guaranteeing that they catch any sly movement, any clue, any bit of information about Aberfield's involvement with what happened to Graham.
The blue light loses its opaqueness overtime, its transparent nature suddenly unfolding when mixed with the oxygen that surrounds it.
Hermione holds her breath, and out of that mystical, blue light appears Graham's memories.