When she sees the precursor to a sea of red in the hollow light of the Memory Beam, Hermione panics.
"No, no, no." The words tumble from her lips like rocks off of a cliff, and when they crash into the open waters below, it's as if someone's pulled and activated a tripwire in her system, an alarm that sounds through the cavernous core of her mind.
She's undeniably rattled by the prospect of what's to come, and so to avoid watching that scene unfold in a graphic affair, Hermione swivels her torso to the right and swings her legs off of the bed. She drops the empty vial from her damp fingers in the process, having been playing with it all while watching Graham's memories. It simultaneously kept her distracted yet focused. Grounded her in the truth of his life. And in that rushed moment, Hermione stands and faces the window.
A glow out of her peripheral and the muffled sounds of glass shattering and someone groaning confirms that the memories are still playing, but she can't watch them.
Instead, Hermione crosses her arms over her chest and shivers. The breaths that escape her mouth are full of titanious pressure, each exhale heavier than the last. And shaking that last image of Graham—towering over his bathroom sink and gripping a piece of broken glass—out of her mind feels as strenuous as the demons that Graham fought himself.
Everything feels so heavy.
She can hear the duvet of the bed rustle and crunch behind her, and then she also hears a sharp hum in the air, one that she remembers hearing in Aberfield's office a few months ago when she watched Adrian's memories. Then there's a brief whiz, and that aqua light in her peripheral ceases to exist.
She pleads with the invisible string between her and Draco to coil, twist, and tighten. Drag him towards her so that he can wrap his arms around her trembling body, sink his face into her hair, and whisper reassurances in her ear. Because even though she's strong-spirited and deeply resilient, there's a part of Hermione that craves comfort and security.
Draco is still here. There hasn't been an auditory sign of him leaving; in fact, Hermione can hear him breathing a few feet away. So, where is he? Why hasn't he teared through the patch of hell between them to reach her, hold her, promise her that everything will be okay?
With a cautious glance over her shoulder, Hermione beholds Draco's stance. He's at the foot of his bed, his fists bunched up and colored pale white, and his jaw gritting and jerking with every twitch of his nose. Flattened lips begin to curve down into a scowl, and then a surge of hot air blows from his nostrils like smoke leaving a dragon's snout.
His anger is unquestionable.
"Son of a fucking bitch," he growls under his breath, drawing more pressure to his tightened fists and shutting his eyes to keep them from setting whatever they land upon up in flames, because his glare is as deadly as the killing curse.
Hermione doesn't know whether to drop to the floor in a pool of her own tears or saunter to Draco's side to cool him down. On the one hand, she wants to comfort him any moment she can. Prove to him that he is deserving of kindness. But on the other hand, she's tired—so fucking tired. Overwhelmed. It's in her nature to search for solace—to balance her bright rays with luminescence that harbors a cooler shade. And she just wants to crumble. Hit the floor and weep for the way she once considered Graham to be dispensable. But she wants to do so in Draco's arms, not alone.
And there she goes again with her odd little complex. Self-pity in the face of cataclysmic discoveries seems to run rampant in the organization of her emotional being. Overtime, she's learned that it hinders the formation of connections with people around her, and so Hermione has tried to be better about her tendencies to steamroll over others for the sake of feeling accomplished and mighty.
Nevertheless, she feels horrible for thinking those things about Graham—for being... glad... that he was the one who ended his life, as opposed to Draco.
Perhaps she would've loved Graham just as much as she loves the others now. And that possibility—that admittance of fault—tips the scales within her off-center, and with that imbalance, Hermione's back collides with the wall, and she slides down and lands on her arse, bending her knees and setting her thighs against her chest in the process.
She cries. Knows that she looks pathetic doing it. But she weeps for Graham. Weeps for Draco. For Adrian, Daphne, Blaise, Pansy, Theo. For Narcissa and Lucius, who she now knows more about too.
Behind her tear-soaked retinas, Hermione posits Draco's reaction to it all. Evidently, he's galled. Enraged with the visions projected before him in that source of light. But underneath the perceptible and irate emotions present on his face and in the sly movements of his body, there dwells another response to the memories. Beneath those fiery eyes lies a complicated lattice of shame and sadness, and before Hermione knows it, those same grey eyes fill with glistening tears. None sink onto his cheeks, though. Draco is able to suppress them easily, just as he has always suppressed everything in his life.
But Hermione doesn't make a mistake when she witnesses the shimmer in his soaked eyes.
It's clear as day—he's crying.
But above all else, Draco is angry.
"I could kill him," Draco says, the rasp in his voice both chilling and inspiring. He shakes his head and cracks his knuckles in the concaves of his hands. "I'm... I'm going to kill him."
Hermione purses her lips, sympathizing with those zealous feelings. "Draco—"
"Don't give me any bullshit about showing mercy, Granger," Draco snaps, jerking his head to the side and glowering at her, the red in his cheeks spreading to his ears. "He didn't just hurt Graham. He hurt my mother. My father. Poisoned them the same way I've been poisoned when what they really fucking needed was someone helping them. They didn't have someone like you who gave a shit about them, okay?" He pauses, attempting to control his intemperate resentment, and when he's able to reach that point of composure, Draco continues. "I went down that path of mercy already. I listened to you and let Andrew go because he was just a pawn. But there's... there's no chance in heaven or hell or whatever other fucking dimensions of this universe there are that I am letting Aberfield walk away alive. With his legs. With a heart. Not after what he did to my family. He is as good as the dirt that he'll be buried under once I'm finished bashing his fucking skull into the ground."
She quivers, not because she's scared, but because she doesn't doubt a single word that he's saying. Hermione knows that Draco has a rough touch to him. His nature is composed of two base reactions—tough and tender. Tender is the side that she wishes would wrap its arms around her to comfort her, but tough is the side she craves protection from. She's convinced that either side would lay its life down for anyone.
"I'm not trying to convince you that he deserves anything less," Hermione mutters, and that issues a tilt of Draco's head in her direction. "Aberfield deserves to rot for everything. For his association with Voldemort, the unethical practices he was able to implement, even murdering Graham. I just..." She pauses and purses her lips in fear of the consequences. "I just want us to consider how impulsive actions might lead to detrimental outcomes."
She knows this all too well as a Gryffindor, and perhaps that's why Draco takes it rather seriously. Why the anger in his appearance slowly dissipates the longer he perceives her.
"What..." She croaks. Needs a moment to compose herself before asking her very important yet terrifying question. "What do we tell the others?"
When his shoulders drop and his jaw untenses, Draco chases away the fury in his blood enough for him to behold Hermione, study her, accommodate her needs. He saunters towards where she's seated against the wall, and then he bends his knees in front of her. While crouching, Draco reaches his hand forward and cups her cheek, striking a tear from her cheek with one clean swipe of his thumb.
He finally speaks, and his answer is brief but exacting.
"The truth."
Hermione's eyes lift to meet his. "But do we show them?"
His large gulp implies apprehension, like he's trying to convince himself of the answer he's about to give. "Only if they want to see it."
"I worry about... Adrian," Hermione admits, tilting her head to the side to sink deeper into Draco's palm. It's warm there. "It seems like he and Graham were close."
"Very," Draco replies, nodding his head but retaining perfect eye contact. "But he deserves to know. He deserves to have that choice."
"And when it hurts him further?" Hermione pesters. "He's suffering enough as it is. I don't want to make things worse by showing him this."
"He would want to know," Draco pushes back, his fingers on her cheek losing their warmth and suddenly feeling cold, very cold, like his very interior is morphing into something different. Glacial. Taciturn and arctic dipped in a snowflake's condensation.
"You think he'd feel any better watching this?" Her tone is brusque, her motivation solely to protect Adrian. After everything that he's been through in the last few days, Hermione can't even fathom being the reason that he loses himself again.
Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes—a stab right through the skin on her chest. The bickering is frustrating but simultaneously grounding. Foundational and raw and authentic. It's all she's known with Draco—arguing. Sideward glances. Add a level of passion and that's what they are: two strong-headed individuals with a pension for being right.
"Ever heard of something called closure, Granger?"
She can feel the argument reach fruition.
"Adrian deserves it," Draco continues. "I know he thinks about Graham all the fucking time. So, it's not your decision to make whether he should know what happens. It's his, and deep down, you know it."
Plunging her head into her hands to avoid looking defeated, Hermione sighs against her skin, the weight of her breath settling on the palms of her hands. She whispers, "I can't bring any of you more pain than I already have."
Another scoff, like the idea is preposterous.
"When are you going to get it through your head that you are not the one bringing us pain?" he indignantly asks, clenching his fists. "When are you going to believe us when we tell you that you are the reason that we are even fucking alive at this point?"
Hermione lifts her head just in time to watch him collapse on his arse with an exasperated groan, and after bending one knee up to his chest and resting his elbow on top of it, Draco says to Hermione, "When are you going to start not just listening but understanding, Granger?"
Now. In this moment.
She's always considered herself to be a steamroller. Like a train, she glides on the tracks of life without paying close attention to what lies beneath the tracks or in those thin and narrow crevices. And she's famous for her adept self-pitying skills. She thinks it's because she's harbored such intense responsibility over the last several years of her life to keep the world in balance. Internalizing every mistake that she ever made was her downfall, and so rather than consider putting anyone in danger—rather than steamrolling over the people she genuinely loves—Hermione opts to protect them. Shield them. Not let them be privy to the devastating truth concealed in that tiny little vial.
But she can't protect everyone.
And she certainly can't drag the Slytherins over the finish line if they're not ready to cross it, just as she can't shunt them back towards and beyond the starting line. They deserve to run at their own pace—finish the journey in their own way. They've earned that autonomy. Withholding these memories would be a disservice to their route towards healing. And that's exactly what she wants to avoid.
Draco is right. Hermione can't shield them from this. She can hold their hands as they amble through the valley of death, but she can't hold them back. Can't shove them forward. She has to reach a balance.
"I steamroll," she whispers, tears sticking to her eyelashes.
Draco replaces his scoff with a chuckle. And it's brief, but it's consoling.
"And I have anger issues. We all have shit, Granger."
That moment of authenticity and self-awareness leads the side of Hermione's lips to curve in a trying smile. But it fades rather quickly when she reminds herself of the pain she just witnessed. Graham's life was much more complicated than she thought, and she wonders how someone so soft-spoken and docile in those memories could've been the same person that snickered at her in the corridors of Hogwarts. Called her a mudblood once or twice in passing.
She never thought much of him in those moments—figured that he was likely just going on with what his friends considered to be funny. And anyways, she'd grown numb to that dirty word by year three. But Hermione did sometimes notice bouts of apprehension in Graham's mannerisms and in the cadence of his voice.
But he was still there.
It's all convoluted and, to be quite honest, confusing.
She wishes that she knew this Graham as opposed to the other, whose walls were high and mighty. Not because she wishes she could fix him, but because he seems to harbor more compassion here rather than in her own memories.
But then again, they were all rather cruel to her. Draco, Blaise, Theo, Adrian, Pansy—even Daphne snickered in her direction several times. Yet now here they are, all begging to be near Hermione, and so if she can forgive the others—if she can recognize that they were all capable of change and acceptance—than she ought to give Graham the same benefit of the doubt.
He just needed someone.
And that's no excuse, but it's certainly humanizing.
"We can tell them together," Draco says, interrupting her inner thoughts. "But they should know about this now. No more waiting around."
No more waiting around. Hermione couldn't agree more with that statement. There's a lot of things that need to transpire sooner rather than later.
Aberfield and Rose need to be exposed.
And Hermione needs to find Kingsley.
Wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, Hermione rises with a newfound sense of motivation. She reaches for her wand and glances at Draco.
"Before we show them, I want to try something."
Draco rises with her, stuffing his hands into his pockets and watching her movements intently.
Hermione takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Thinks of a happy memory—a recent one. One that replaces the habitual memories of late nights with Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor Tower, sneaking a brief kiss with Anthony Goldstein during her fifth year in the Owlery (she doesn't know what she was thinking then—she lends it to her rebellious phase), and even punching Draco square in the face.
She can smell her memory as it cleanses her mind: mince pies. Mince pies and snowy dew. Mince pies and snowy dew and Christmas day, all wrapped in the general memory of him, standing next to her as they faced the Shrieking Shack those several weeks ago. Mint seeps into the plethora of scents as Hermione settles herself back in that moment of kindness. Draco handing her that tin of mince pies feels like forever ago, but it's already replaced her memories as one of the brightest she has. It was a moment of reconciliation and new beginnings, and that gesture was enough to make her modify her memory bank—slip that one at the top like the prized recollection that it is.
And just like that, an otter appears from the tip of her wand, twirling in spirited and vibrant circles and then floating in the air just in front of her, waiting his instructions.
"Tell Kingsley... wherever he is... and if you can find him... that he needs to come back to the Ministry immediately. It can't wait any longer. Please. It's very serious."
The otter hesitates, and Hermione fears that because she doesn't know where exactly the Minister is in Europe, her Patronus will not know where to go. Perhaps he's too far for that beam of light to reach.
But that apprehension subsides when the Patronus darts towards the window and floats off into the sky like a shooting star. Hermione's eyes follow it until that light in the sky turns into a speck of solitary luminescence, and then when it passes over the moon, it becomes obliviate. Transgresses the power of the human eye and continues on its path to Kingsley, wherever he is.
With a renewed sense of empathy, Hermione turns back around to face Draco. He already has Graham's vial in his hand, and the beam within it circulates like it's itching, desperateto be explored again. With a mind of its own, the beam bursts back and forth against the glass, succinct clinks in the air confirming its need to be release.
She takes a step forward—apprehensive in nature but brave nevertheless—and then exhales to calm her nerves, because that's always helped. Perspiring all the worries away in one, perfect breath.
"Okay," she whispers, nodding her head. "Let's show them."
Once the Slytherins have been drawn from their bedrooms and are convened in the living room, their eyes fixed on Hermione as she stands before them with Draco to her side, Hermione feels that rush of trepidation shroud her body yet again. She struggles to open her mouth, because how does she even begin to explain what happened? Wheredoes she begin? And how can she ever express to her friends just how sorry she is?
Comfort takes the form of Blaise's face as he folds his hands in his lap and leans forward with a pleasant smile. "You said you had something to tell us, Hermione?"
The way Blaise speaks to Hermione is like he's had his hand locked in hers since the beginning, the finish line of their race against time in plain sight. Reachable with just a few more steps forward. It's soothing—the way he speaks. The manner by which his eyebrows rise on his forehead, like he was born predisposed to alleviation. Like all his life he's been a Healer, whether he holds the official title or not.
It pushes Hermione to speak up, be brave, and persevere in the midst of what feels like utter agony—like the edges of a roaring hurricane. Blaise is like the eye—tranquil in this otherwise unbridled storm.
She clears her throat. "Right. While I was at Aberfield's office yesterday, I grabbed something on the way out because we thought it might be of some value to have and to see." Holding up the vial in front of everyone to see, Hermione gnaws at her lower lip and then just forces herself to say it. "It's Graham's. It's his memories."
All of the Slytherins react in unique ways, but it's Adrian that Hermione's focus shifts towards. It's in the way that he straightens his back and places his hand on his knee to lift him up. He's next to Harry on the couch, and when he makes that sudden motion, Harry turns his head and regards his it clearly. Begins to ask him a question.
"Did Graham—"
"I want to see it," Adrian snaps, his eyes glued to the vial and his plump lips parted. "I want to see his memories."
Hermione lightly bites her. It's exactly what she feared he's say, but how could she say no now?
On the couch opposite of them, Pansy shrinks out of Theo's arms and leans forward onto her knees, her eyebrows angled downwards in a state of concern. "Adrian, are you sure you want to see—"
"Hand me the vial, Granger," Adrian orders, his voice assertive as he rises from the couch. Hermione's eyes follow him up as he straightens himself out, and suddenly he looks much taller than usual. It's in the tone of his voice—it almost makes him look menacing. Threatening. His extended arm and his solemn frown are confirmation that he's repressing his typical playful mood. There's no ounce of mischief. Only urgency.
She hesitates. Tries to fight that steamroller within her.
But when Adrian takes a foreboding step towards her, Hermione passes the vial into his hand. Seals his fate with that gift.
Hermione opens her mouth as Adrian frantically slips the cork out of the mouth of the vial. "There's a spell—"
"Do it, then," Adrian commands, his frown quivering and his eyes ablaze. "Do it. I want to see this."
Everyone's faces harbor grave concern. They look between one another as Adrian stares at Hermione, waiting for her to fulfill his request and activate the memories. When she finally raises her wand and mutters the charm, the blue and white light seeps out again, and just as it did before, it expands and rewinds and begins to display moving scenes from the moment Graham's tracker was implanted to the moment right before his inevitable death.
Adrian watches with tear-glistened eyes, and he finds it particularly difficult to remain standing upright when he rereads the letter which Graham wrote him the week before his death.
"I remember that," Adrian croaks, shaking his head as the scene disperses and another one takes its place. "I remember that letter. It's here. In the drawer of my nightstand."
The memories continue, each Slytherin entranced in their own way by the sight of Graham's final days on earth. They scowl when Aberfield arrives, cower and grunt but also almost weep when their parents are shown, and then holds their hearts when they perceive Olivia.
Adrian in particularly shakes at the sight. His legs grow weak as he watches the way that she looks at Graham and he looks at her, and as evident in his watery eyes, Adrian feels entirely despondent about the entire situation.
And when that fatal moment comes—when Graham finds himself alone in his bathroom snorting cocaine, chugging firewhiskey, punching the mirror above his sink, and then sliding glass over his arms to stop the festering pain of his mark—the group collectively looks away. Everyone but Adrian.
As if his eyes and the beam are magnets that have searched the world for one another's electric tug, Adrian retains his gaze on the memories as he watches Graham end his life. Hermione has to look away—couldn't bear to watch it the first time and still can't bear it now—but Adrian... he watches. Frozen in place, he watches as his best friend takes his own life.
And when the light in the beam fades to black as Graham takes his last breath, and it seeps into the vial without cajoling, Adrian does the unthinkable.
He drops to his knees, lets the vial roll out of his palm, croaks once to avoid crying, but then succumbs to the tears that are pooling at the corner of his eyes.
Adrian weeps for Graham.
And perhaps he does so because the realization that it could've been him washes over him in that moment.
Hermione's never seen him cry before. Never considered that tears could swelter in his optimistic disposition.
Yet here he is, crying. No, not crying—sobbing. Raging ballistically on his knees like Graham's body is right in front of him. Like he's found him. Like his blood is on his hands and painted across his crumbling heart.
Hermione covers her eyes and turns her head, and it just so happens that Draco is right there to catch her. Hold her in his arms and let her cry into his shoulder.
She can hear the echoes of other tears swarm the acoustics of the room, creating the most painful symphonic number ever composed. And through those tears, she hears the couch squeak as Harry rises, approaches Adrian's side, falls to his own knees, and dips Adrian's head against his shoulder. He molds perfectly into the part of Harry's body where his shoulder curves into his neck, and in that cocoon, Adrian cries. Allows himself and his emotions to run free like a river.
"I should've been there," Adrian rasps, shaking his head. "I should've answered his letter faster. I should've tried to find him immediately. I should've done something—anything at all—differently than how I let it play out."
"It's not your fault," Harry whispers, looking over Adrian's head at Hermione with a look of fright in his eyes. He repeats himself, caressing Adrian's arms as he does so. "It's not your fault, mate."
Daphne's cuddled in Blaise's arms, her eyes heavy with tears, but she removes herself and darts for Adrian. When she reaches his free side, she drops down, nestles her head against his, and throws her arms around his waist in a comforting hug. She shushes him sweetly, coaxing the tears to either reembark up the path of his cheeks and into his eyes like a receding waterfall, or fall faster from his irises like an unrestrained monsoon until there's nothing left—until the skies themselves have dried up.
Blaise rises. Begins to pace. "We have to show someone," he exhales, flagging to Draco's side. Hermione looks up from his arms at Blaise, and he delicately lifts a finger to wipe away a tear from the bottom of her eyelid. It's a careful action, characterized by that natural healer within him.
"I've sent Kingsley a Patronus," Hermione whispers, lifting herself from Draco's chest and facing Blaise. "He has to see this. I can't understand how he wasn't aware of all of this before. But it's necessary that he know about it now."
"This doesn't end with Kingsley knowing. The man could give less than a shit about us," Adrian seethes over his shoulder. "This ends with Aberfield's severed head on a fucking stick. I'll take Dementor's sucking the soul out of my body in a tiny cell in Azkaban if that means I get to be the one drives that curse right through his tiny, black heart. Him and my arseholeof a father. I'd kill him all the same."
Hermione's experienced this side of Adrian a few times before, but the anger in his voice is so palpable that it sends shivers up her spine. She physically trembles; watching her shake, Draco takes Hermione's arm and pulls her back into his chest. He holds her tighter. More possessively. Like if he ever lets her go, he'll lose her.
Adrian turns his head over his shoulder, his eyes bloodshot.
"We're going back," he says to Hermione. "First thing in the morning. We're going back to Amortentia, and I'm going to beat the living shit out of that psychotic arsehole. Perhaps tonight I'll sleep and then dream about killing Aberfield. It's deserved, wouldn't you agree?"
Adrian directs the question at Hermione. Truth be told, she does agree. Harmony elates her spirit as she realizes that she shares Adrian's anger, because Aberfield deserves to rot in a grave six feet under for his crimes in the Wizarding World. For his surface level yet uniquely deep obsession with Voldemort. For his discontent for the lives of other. For his improper and nonconsensual use of ingredients in potions, and for his trackers, his dark magic, his complicity in the death of so many people.
Sleep is required. A necessary endeavor after this exhausting day.
But in the morning, Hermione expects that retribution will rise with the sun. Its rays will stretch beyond her wildest imagination, touching each of the Slytherins' souls individually and compelling them to face Aberfield and Rose.
She expects that the sun will give her that strength, too. It always has.
Hermione rises with the sun at the crack of dawn. Takes a moment to gaze out the window and admire the bright hues of the sky. Behind white, translucent clouds there is a sky bluer and more inviting than ever. She wonders what it would be like to float on those clouds, and then she feels the ghost of Draco's lips on hers, and she comprehends it—the feeling of soaring. And with the sun beating down and shining its eclectic rays on the duvet it patches of beauty, Hermione knows something beyond soaring. She knows exploration. Understands redemption. Appreciates new beginnings and rebirths and restoration.
When she sighs an arduous breath, Draco rises. His body seems to react intuitively, like her sorrow is a signal for him to grow tall, wrap her in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and cradle her back to glory.
His hand touches her lower back, and it's with that endearing placement that she swivels her body around, swings her legs over his waist so that their bodies create a cross-shape, and then settles the side of her head against his chest. Breathes against him. Feels his heartbeat through her ears. Can trace the pattern of his tattoos by just being close to him. He leans his chin atop her head, and with his fingers, he strokes her hair. Softly. With immense care. Searches diligently for natural knots in her curls so that his fingers can get lost in her beauty.
The moment is serene, but Hermione knows all too well that those are always bound to end in pain. So, to avoid that sorrow, she resolves to pull away from him. Find those silver, morning eyes and smile as they connect with hers.
"I'll wake the others," she whispers, her voice soiled with dreamless sleep.
She turns to climb out of bed, but before she can swig her legs over, Draco grabs her wrist and pulls her back.
"Wait," he rasps, clearing his throat. "I want to try something."
Hermione halts and intriguingly watches as Draco twists his back and reaches for his wand on the nightstand to his left. He sits back upright, rotating the wood in his hand and staring at it with a sense of... hope. Desperation.
Optimism sweeps across his pupils as he leverages the tip of the wand up, and after another deep inhale and an equally profound exhale, Draco says, "Expecto Patronum."
And it's as if she's been transported to a medieval time, because all Hermione sees in front of her is the manifestation of Draco's happiness in a brilliant, white light that bursts from his wand—a massive dragon that emerges and circles around the room. Draco's lips part in a small exhale of relief as he regards his Patronus. The light reflects off the glisten in his awestruck eyes, and Hermione smiles all the same at the sight. Giggles at the beauty which Draco's dragon possesses.
It lands in front of him, his wings outstretched and his snout long and full of intrigue. The dragon flaps his wings over and over in beautiful strokes that swimmers would be envious of.
"Wake the others," Draco says to his Patronus. "Tell them we need to leave for Amortentia as soon as possible."
With several noble flaps of his broad, pointed wings, the dragon leaps from its spot in the air, cartwheels three times around itself, and then sails out of the room, percolating through the door with ease.
Hermione turns to study Draco's face. The corners of his lips are spun up in a soft, vulnerable smile. But it's that contented look in his eyes that compels Hermione's question to burst out of her mouth:
"What was the memory?"
Curse her curiosity.
But Draco doesn't seem to mind. He lifts his eyes to gaze into hers, and Hermione melts.
"It was more of a... feeling... associated with multiple memories."
She's like ice cream on a sweltering, summer day. Dissolving into a puddle of abject wonder and love, Hermione gingerly huffs out of her nose and offers a trying smile. Because perhaps there's something stronger than Draco's happiness at play here. If it was more of an emotion than a memory that caused him to cast his Patronus, then that emotion must've been stronger than simple happiness. Perhaps the amalgamation of memories into one base feeling—a feeling stronger than anything else in the world—that Harry spoke about nonsensically towards the end of the war—is enough for Draco to produce that beam of light.
Perhaps he feels the same way about her that she does about him.
Draco laughs to himself; it's contained but joyful, nonetheless. "I just think that my Patronus—"
Hermione cuts him off rather quickly. She surges forward, swinging her right leg across his body to straddle him. She sets her hands where his neck meets his head, right at the base, and then she passionately parts his lips with her own. The drive of her fervent action pushes him backwards, and his head and back collide against the headboard with a pronounced thud. He accidentally bites her lower lip at the jolt, but Hermione could care less. Draco could care less. Nothing else matters, and is that so wrong? In the midst of absolute turmoil, is it wrong for both of them to seek light where they can find it?
Hermione finds light when she kisses him because it's as if she's entered a heaven of sorts. Draco's lips are infused with redemption and resurrection, and Hermione can feel her body ascend through clouds and time itself. His tongue is sweet against hers; it's like a gentle caress meets an icy fire, and it resembles a burn that feels good, like sun-kissed weather.
But before they can continue—before Hermione's fingers can find the waistband of Draco's briefs—there's a light hum in the air.
Pulling her lips from Draco's and turning over her shoulder, Hermione gazes down behold a Patronus on the floor beside the bed. A shimmering, reflective golden retriever stands at the side, his tongue out in a pant and his eyes bright with a message. He smiles and stares at them, his tail wagging back and forth in cheeky little strokes.
"You showing off with your colossal Patronus now, Malfoy?" It's Theo's voice that comes from the dog, and it's just as mischievous as Hermione knows him to be. "We'll be ready in two minutes."
As the retriever turns to leave, he stops and notices a fuzzy, orange cat stroll around the foot of the bed and meet him in the middle. Crookshanks' face is curious but cautious as he patters his paws on the hardwood floor to reach the dog. Theo's Patronus lowers his front legs and sticks his backside in the air, and he shakes his hips to invite Crookshanks to play. Perking his ears in intrigue, Crookshanks mirrors him, shimmying his backside up in the air before pouncing on the Patronus. And somehow, it becomes a piece of matter in the world. They're able to roll on the floor with one another, coiled up in a playful rendezvous. It's spirited and humorous to watch Crookshanks and the manifestation of Theo's happiness play with one another; Hermione swears that the Patronus grows even brighter as if Theo himself knows that his Patronus is here with Crookshanks. Finally, after they grow tired of frolicking, the retriever finds his bearings and disappears in the air, and Crookshanks settles himself in the space between Draco and Adrian's bed, pleasantly thumping his tail against the wood and relishing in the merriment of that moment.
"A few minutes," Draco hisses, tightening the grip on Hermione's thighs. She turns her head back to face him, and he smirks. "We have a few minutes."
"If my memory serves me correctly, then I'm almost positive Theo said two minutes," Hermione teases, her fingers caressing the back of his neck and occasionally traversing up to get lost in his criminally soft hair. She envies how collected his is in the morning—hers has a mind of its own when she sleeps.
Draco jokingly rolls his eyes. "You and your undying need to be right."
"Pretty sure that you have a similar complex."
"Fair, but mine's a complex. Yours is in your nature."
"It's a good thing that I'm often right then, isn't it?" she teases, placing a quick kiss on his lips.
But before she can pull away enough to look at his face again, Draco's hand finds the back of her head, his fingers get lost in that untamed pile of hair on her head, and he tugs her back towards him. Allows his lips to linger just before Hermione's as he says, "Yes. It is a good thing."
He kisses her. Arduously. Perhaps with the chance that she'll fall privy to the soft yet passionate caress of his lips on hers and then decide that she wants to stay here with him forever. Leave the troubles of the world to whoever else finds themselves unlucky enough to fall into the pits or trials and tribulations and just... kiss. Be here with one another. Find bliss in this shared feeling.
But Hermione knows that's impossible, because they can't be truly happy until they solve what's happening. They can't attain that higher love without sorting through who they are. And they can't cross that finish line until they're both ready to say to the other what they've been feeling for so long—how they've always felt, really.
So, as hard as it is, Hermione pulls her lips away and begins to dismount him. It's much to Draco's disappointment, but when she rises from the bed and begins to dress herself for the day with the aid of her wand, she can hear Draco amble off the bed and do the same for himself. And once they've charmed new and fresh clothes to wear for the day, they turn over their shoulders and meet one another's eyes. Trailing the edge of the bed and meeting Draco in the middle, Hermione places her hand in his, and they exit the room together, but not without Draco stealing one more desperate kiss.
There's a clear dichotomy of emotions present in the room. Exhaustion holds the Slytherins and Harry captive, but there's also a twinge of vengeance in each of their eyes, Adrian's in particular. His pupils speak of nothing but fire; even when the rest of his body appears withered by a thousand storms, his eyes glow with revenge. There are ember flames dancing beneath his skin.
"Are we ready?" Adrian asks, temperament etched into his tone.
Everyone nods in response, like they're afraid of speaking. Hemione can't imagine that Adrian would hurt even a fly, but there something about the way he speaks that's disconcerting. She fears that he's bottled up too much these past few months, and now comes the moment of complete fruition. One more thing could set him ablaze—ignite him like a fiendfyre scathing land and sea.
But when Harry slips his hand through Adrian's, there's a diminution in his anger. A pause. A moment of grounding, like all Adrian needed was someone to alleviate the stirring ache in his heart.
Without saying a word, Adrian disapparates, pulling Harry with him. The others follow quickly, and soon Hermione finds herself emerging from a white mist in the middle of Amortentia's dancefloor. Her feet touch the floor, and her hand squeezes Draco's. She shudders on arrival, because...
Something feels different.
It's too quiet.
Silent.
She doesn't know what she expected to hear when she landed, but it's not silence. Hermione predicted anything else—commotion from the office, Aberfield rambling, Rose evilly chuckling, Titus shouting. Verbalizations of all kinds.
But none of those sounds greet her ears today.
She does, however, hear a cough. A gasp—more like a wheeze. More silence. And then another desperate wheeze—a plea for air.
The others hear it too, and it's coming out of Titus' office.
Draco's hand embraces hers tighter, and his eyes widen as the sounds continue. Without warning, he charges forward, calling Titus' name as he does so. The pack follows, the sound of their feet tapping against the floor like pouring rain on a window.
And then they finally approach the office, and the door is wide open.
Turning the corner and peering inside, Hermione's heart stops.
Her heart has skipped beats many times before. Bounced around in her chest in inexplicably terrifying ways. She's not immune to an ache or a tug or a squeeze in her chest. She's endured some of the most strenuous tasks that any person should ever face—came out of them alive and well, no less. She's found herself in situations most people would fail to crawl their way out of, yet she's been victorious. She's seen life and death—experienced the poles like the backs of her hands—and knows just how quickly one's breath can be their last.
But her heart has never stopped in thisway.
Flashbacks to finding Adrian in the bathroom seizing on the floor occupy her mind as her eyes land on Titus on the ground, convulsing, shaking, sputtering, choking, dying.
There's a shriek to her right—Daphne is the culprit. Her little screech echoes in the office like waves in a shell, and the reverberations pierce right through Hermione's frozen heart. Shatter it to a million little pieces.
Tunnel vision takes command over Hermione's eyes; they blacken. This time, she doesn't faint. She doesn't crumble to the ground in a fit of tears and shakes. Instead, she rushes forward and drops to her knees next to Titus. Begins to reach her hand out to touch his shoulder—stabilize him—but then she stops herself. Tries to diagnose where there's an injury, a malediction, something that is causing Titus to convulse on the ground like a fish out of water.
She doesn't want to restrain him—doesn't even know what's happening. Doesn't know how to help. Just knows that his face is turning purple and his chest isn't moving.
Then, their eyes meet. His lack life, though. They're greying, dulling—that jade beauty in his irises is nowhere to be found.
"Titus," she whispers, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. "T-Titus—"
Someone drops to her side as another person screams. She can conclude from the familiar scent that it's Theo beside her, and the intonation of that scream—it's Adrian. In more pain. Hermione can't bear it.
Theo's hands shake as he leverages them over Titus' shuddering chest. He too resists placing them on Titus, though. Opts to just pant and gasp and stumble over his words.
"Titus? Titus?" The desperation in Theo's voice is consuming and profound. "Can you talk? Titus, can you... can you tell us what happened?"
Titus sputters drool out of his mouth and gingerly shakes his head.
"T-they... g-g-got... o-out—" He wheezes for air between words. Can barely get a sentence out without running out of breath in his lungs. "S-stole m-my w-w-wand—" Another gasp. His face grows more purple. "C-c-cursed me—"
Hermione waits for nothing else—lets that steamroller within her take over as she whips her wand out of her pocket and immediately mutters, "Finite," hoping that the charm will break whatever curse Aberfield and Rose have cast upon Titus to make him choke so violently.
But that doesn't seem to work. Titus continues to shake and sputter on the floor, and now the veins in his throat are edging out of his skin in deep blue and red lines. It appears so painful, so uncomfortable, and Hermione can't even imagine how tired Titus' lungs must feel as they desperately gasp for even a smidge of air, only to be met with the inability to expand and release as they were built to do.
She tries again. "Finite. Finite. Finite! Fucking damnit, Finite!"
There's no change, no improvement, no hope. Whatever curse Aberfield has placed on Titus is either too powerful—insusceptible or typical ceasefire methods—or is just too far along to be stopped.
But—no—there must be something. There has to be a way to stop the dark magic. Hermione has read hundreds of books about spells. There has to be one thing in her mind that she can refer to—one method for obstructing this curse from spreading any further—
Titus' hand lifts slowly to find Hermione's. He places his trembling palm on the back of her hand to calm her down—almost assure her that it's alright, he's okay, she doesn't need to try to save him. There's even a transfer of responsibility in that moment through his eyes and touch—Hemione can feel it in the sparks surging through her fingertips.
"H-H-Hermione—"
"Titus, please don't," Theo whimpers, shaking his head and allowing his curls to fall and spread across his forehead. "Please don't go—"
"Titus, please." Adrian's voice behind her carries like a ton of lead. His voice hits the ground with his heart—Hermione can't even bring herself to turn around and look at him.
And she doesn't even want to think about how Draco feels. How he looks.
Gods, you're pathetic. Turn around and help him.
No. No, don't. You don't know what he needs right now.
But you can't not look at him. You can't expect him to ever open up if you don't keep providing spaces for him to feel comfortable doing so.
Turn around, Hermione. Turn around and look.
You have to.
Her hand remains fastened to Titus', but Hermione does turn her head over her shoulder to behold the harrowing sight of Draco, curled up against the wall with his legs bent to his chest, shaking and crying and practically tearing the blonde out of his head with his quivering fingers. His bloodshot eyes have cobwebs running through them, red and despondent in nature. Staggered breaths are all that he's able to respire, and glistening tears as clear as the glow of the moon fall down his rosy cheeks. He looks the same as he did the night that they found Adrian just a few doors down—worse, perhaps.
His father is dying right in front of him. Slowly. Painfully. And there's nothing he can do to save him. Nothing anyone can do.
"H-H-Hermione."
She looks back down at Titus, who's now on the brink of unconsciousness. It's clear in the dark purple tint of his skin and the now severe bulge of all of his veins. Death seems to slowly work its way through his system, and as much as he fights its inevitable glory, he also knows that his time is dwindling. That his children—his family—are in the loving hands of Hermione Granger now.
Titus gulps, fighting with everything he has left to get this last thought out. "T-t-t-ake c-c-care of th-th-them. P-please." His voice cracks and pops under the weight of the curse. "D-d-do b-better th-than m-m-e."
"You did wonderful, Titus," Hermione whispers, gripping his hand tightly. "You are exactly what they needed."
He's able to shake his head from left to right just once before saying, "N-no. Th-they n-n-need y-you. R-r-rehab, and y-you."
"Blaise," Theo begs, turning over his shoulder, "you... you must have something that can help. Please. Anything."
Blaise's back is glued against the wall, and he's got Daphne cradled in his lap. Tears stream down his cheeks as he watches everything unfold from a distance, and then he parts his lips for a moment to speak. Can't get anything out, though. Just drops his face into Daphne's sunshine hair and continues to cry. Shake his head.
"I don't..." he croaks, continuing to move his head left and right in a fit of denial. "I don't know what to do."
"You have to," Theo begs.
"I don't!" Blaise exclaims, his voice now raised in a fraught yell. "I don't! I don't! Stop pressuring me! I don't know how to save everyone all the fuckingtime—"
"You haveto do something—"
"N-n-no," Titus interrupts, gargling his words. "S-s'okay. B-b-be n-nice t-t-o each o-other."
Suddenly, Draco's at Hermione's left side, his hand reaching forward to settle beneath Titus' head—cradle it from banging against the floor any longer—and there are tears falling from his eyes and staining the floor below him.
"Titus," he whispers, "Don't die. Please don't leave us. We can help you, okay? Just hold on a little longer. Don't do this."
Now violently choking on his own saliva, Titus does manage to force a smile, but it's haunting. Representative of inevitable mortality.
"Y-y-you all d-d-deserve t-to be h-h-happy. B-b-be h-happy f-for m-me."
"We need you," Pansy gasps.
"W-w-where's H-Harry—"
Hermione looks over her shoulder at Harry, who has Adrian's broad body somehow tightly sheathes around his lanky arms. Somehow, he's able to repress Adrian's shakes with that firm hold. But his eyes are watering, his lips are quivering, and his nose is doing that thing it does when he knows something will go wrong. When he knows that there's little he can do to help.
"I'm here," Harry mutters, and now his hands are in Adrian's hair, and he's streaking his fingers through his locks to soothe him.
"Y-y-you t-take c-c-c-care of m-m-y k-kids, y-you hear m-me? Y-you and H-Herm-mione. R-remember w-what I a-asked of y-y-ou t-that n-night."
Harry's frazzled eyes meet Hermione's. He nods. "Yes, okay. Of course, Titus."
Titus gags again, and then says, "I r-remember y-your d-d-dad. F-f-few tears o-o-older, b-but s-such a l-l-laugh. Y—you h-h-have h-his s-spir-rit. I c-can t-tell."
Tears fall from Harry's eyes, landing promptly on top of Adrian's head. Harry lowers his face and buries himself in Adrian's hair, trembling and crying.
Titus exhales another choke. Then another gasp—his second to last. He uses his last bit of energy to look at Draco, who's still begging him quietly to stay alive, fight, not leave them.
"If y-you're g-g-going t-to c-c-ontinue p-popping p-p-pills," Titus whispers, "th-they b-better b-be h-happy ones o-only. D-draco—a-a-ll of y-you—b-b-be h-happy—"
Suddenly, Titus takes one last desperate gasp for air. He grabs onto Hermione's wrist and squeezes it tight as he inhales one more time. With one ultimate bulge of his eyes and one final exhale of peace, Titus's body stops convulsing and freezes. The color in his face disperses. The veins against his skin sink.
And then he dies, praying on nothing other than the Slytherin's wellbeing.
Silence falls on the room again, save the occasional sniffles and whimpers from everyone else. Titus' hand falls limp in Hermione's, and she eventually sets it on his chest and unravels her fingers from his one by one. She glances over at Draco, whose mouth hands wide open in a state of total shock as he leans over Titus' stiff body, begging his eyes to fill with life again. Life that he knows will never return.
The room is eerie. There's hesitation in everyone's movements, everyone's breaths. Stupor strikes the hearts of the young adults as their true mentor wilts into oblivion.
And then, an eruption to Hermione's left.
Draco soars up, stomps towards Blaise, takes him by the collar of his shirt, and drags him to his feet. He uncaringly thrusts his friend against the wall, huffing hot air out of his nose and gnashing his teeth together in a state of total fury.
"Why didn't you do anything?" he cries, jolting him over and over again. Each time Blaise's back crashes against the wall, the room seems to rumble and shake as if an earthquake has struck the town of Hogsmeade.
Blaise flails his arms in an attempt to writhe out of Draco's grip, and in the process he's able to grab onto Draco's forearms. Grip his skin tightly.
"Draco, stop!" he shouts back.
"You always have the answers!" Draco bellows, his jolts slowing down and becoming more staggered. "You son of a bitch! You could've done something—anything!"
With one forceful shunt, Blaise effectively propels Draco backwards. He stumbles over his unsteady footing and runs into Hermione's back, causing her to quickly rise and reach for him. But as Blaise rolls his sleeves to his elbows and flares his nostrils, Draco lunges forward again, grabs his shirt, and shakes. But the action is weak. He begins to crumble.
"I'm not perfect!" Blaise screams into Draco's wilting face. "I'm not perfect! Screw you, Draco!"
"But you..." Draco trails off, his eyes falling to the ground.
"But I what, huh?" Blaise continues, pushing Draco again. "Stop putting me on a fucking pedestal and let me grievelike all of you get to do!"
Hermione finds Draco's wrist, pulling him back towards her. As cliché as it all is, Hermione prays that her touch will somehow draw him back to reality. Ground him. Give him enough strength to return to himself. She can feel his anger writhe through his veins and against his skin, but when the pumping slows down and Draco turns his head over his shoulder to meet her eyes, Hermione believes that it might just be working.
"You all get to grieve," Blaise croaks, shaking his head. "And I feel like... I feel like I'm being taken advantage of every time something happens because I sometimesknow what to do. I don't have the fucking timeto feel things, too." He wipes a stray tear from his eye, and Daphne appears behind him to hold his arm. Center him in the same way that Hermione does. "I'm sick of stumbling upon people I love while they die. It happened to Titus, it almost happened to Adrian, and it happened to my father, and the fact that you all think I can just save people without feeling a sliver of sadness about the situation—"
He stops himself before going too far. Bunches his fist and slams it against his thigh.
"Let me be human. For once."
Eyes glazing over to Titus, Blaise drops to his knees and cries into his hands. Daphne meets him on the floor and wraps her arms around him from behind, nestling her chin into his shoulder and crying with him. She holds him tightly, trying to stop him from shaking, but the tremble in Blaise's body is unquestionable. Suffocating, even. And then her eyes look up at Draco, and she pleads with those sweet, glistening irises to be civil. Practice compassion.
Draco gulps as Hermione squeezes his hand.
"I'm..." He pauses, looking down in shame. "I'm... sorry."
It's with those two simple words that Draco proves to Hermione, to everyone, to himself, that he's growing. Working on his anger. Learning how to center others' emotions before his own, even if that means he has to suffer a little more than others. There's a kindness that thrives in the pit of his stomach that soars to his heart and out of his throat.
And Blaise notices it. Closes his eyes and tentatively nods in appreciation.
Pansy has Theo wrapped in her arms now, and she's holding his head against her chest. She eventually lifts her eyes to connect with Draco's, and they flutter to hold back tears, because all that plays in her head is the voice of her mother, telling her to shove those emotions down, repress her feelings, ignore that sadness within her because it simply doesn't exist. And it's hard—impossible, almost—to fight what's been conditioned.
But a tear falls. Lands in Theo's chocolate curls. And she strokes his cheek and gingerly hushes his weeping.
"What do we do now?" Pansy asks, regarding Draco and Hermione as the source of their resolution. Her voice is frail yet determined.
"We fight like Hell," Adrian snarls, still sheathed in Harry's embrace.
Draco nods, glancing at Hermione over his shoulder quickly before adding, "We fight like Hell for Titus. For Graham. For all of us."