A warning: This story contains physical abuse, drug-use and graphic depictions of violence. Please step away now if this is not for you.
Don't Look Back
- 1 -
Bitterness / Bruises
What should've been evident from the first day of term — from the moment Draco Malfoy appeared in the Great Hall, late for the Feast and visibly disheveled — actually takes her more than a month to riddle out.
There was a wildness in his eyes when he sat down to dinner that night, flaring up at the sight of Harry and the freshly broken nose he'd given him. Hermione might've noticed if she were accustomed to paying him any attention at all.
As it is, she's not. And it's only Harry's dogged obsession with him over the following weeks that gets her to blink and pull Malfoy into focus.
Something is very wrong.
"What's wrong is he's a Death Eater," Harry says, more than once. Adamant. "He's one of them."
But it's more than that. She's sure of it.
Certainly, he's more withdrawn. Always leaving meals early. Skipping classes once or twice a week. But Harry has no proof beyond what they saw at Borgin and Burkes. No Dark Mark to solidify his suspicions. Malfoy's sleeves are never rolled up.
His wrists, however — they tell another story entirely.
Hermione catches a glimpse one morning in potions. They're brewing the Draught of Living Death. Attempting to, anyhow. And Malfoy has always been better at cutting his herbs than she is, though she'd never admit it out loud. She glances his way to see how he's slicing the Valerian Sprigs and instead finds her gaze drawn to bruises.
Dark and mottled smears of violet and blue, splashed upon his wrists like he's dipped them in spoiled wine. They stop just above his pulse point. A sharp cut off. She takes one look and thinks — Lucius.
Harry's not really listening when she tells him this theory; he and Ron are distracted by his prize — Liquid Luck. How he's managed to lunge from the bottom third of their Potions class to Slughorn's star pupil, she has no idea.
It doesn't matter anyhow. Her theory proves incorrect less than two weeks later. Malfoy raises a hand in class and the bruises are fresh, color ripe as a plum. They're more than a month into term. Lucius can't have done it.
She considers self-harm, for a short while. But it seems an ill-fit for Malfoy.
And in the end, the answer presents itself by pure coincidence, on a Friday in October.
It's the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she passes him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step.
There is Wolfsbane in his tea.
Hermione does her best to recover herself quickly, the scuff of her shoes on the flagstone apparently not enough to rouse much attention. She manages to make her way to the Gryffindor table and tuck herself in beside Neville, but her eyes are unfocused as she spreads marmalade onto her toast.
The scent of aconite is so distinctive — she's certain she can't have mistaken it. But to take it in tea. She's never heard of such a thing, and even for Malfoy it seems like an awfully bold choice. How does he expect to keep it from the other Slytherins? Certainly, some of them will notice —
She gives herself a small shake, realizing she's been scraping a dry knife across the worn-down slice for far too long. How is it this that she's wondering? Of all things? Of all the other connotations that come with adding Wolfsbane to a cup of Earl Grey like it's cream?
Malfoy is a werewolf. That's the gist of it.
Taking mercy on the toast, she sets it back on the corner of her plate and clears her throat, running a hand through her curls with what she hopes is some measure of subtlety in order to clear her view of him.
If she wasn't sure before, she certainly is now as she watches him drink it.
Earl Grey doesn't typically make one's face scrunch up that way. Malfoy looks like he's drinking paint thinner, sharp jaw working overtime just to manage each swallow.
How long has he been like this? She thinks it can't have been going on for more than a few months — wants to believe she would've certainly noticed otherwise. Lycanthropy wears on the skin and bones, often visibly affecting one's appearance. Lupin, for instance. While his condition might not have been immediately clear to the naked eye, he had a frailty about him. A look of illness and exhaustion.
Malfoy's clearly not far enough in to be wearing such side effects—
A hand waves in front of her face. Ron. She leans back quickly and diverts her attention to her water goblet.
"Yes?"
"Said we're going to Hagrid's after classes. Are you coming, or do you—"
"I have a paper to write."
Ron nods like he heard the words in his head before she said them, but she bites down on the lick of anger she feels because he follows it up with that sweet, disarming smile of his. "I swear, Hermione — one of these days, those books are going to swallow you whole."
"At least then I'll be surrounded by big words."
Seamus guffaws at that, jabbing Ron in the side with an elbow, but Hermione takes care to smile back at him when she sees the blush fan out across his face.
As it is, she doesn't have a paper to write; she finished it last night. She's not even sure why she said it, and it takes the rest of the day and several classes spent only half-focused to realize what she's carving out the time for.
But then Malfoy stands up from his usual seat in front of her in Charms as the class ends, and she catches herself tracking his movements — watching the subtle shift in his weight as he reaches the door to determine whether he'll turn left or right. She herself waits until Harry and Ron have left, taking her time sliding her books back into her bag.
And then — when she's sure no one's watching — she follows him.
This goes on for two weeks.
Hermione manages to keep a modicum of control over herself and only follows him on certain days of the week. Only when they share a final class of the day. She doesn't do much other than observe, the way Harry's been — although for an entirely different reason. She studies where he goes, often finding he secludes himself in an alcove somewhere to read. She's curious what he's reading.
She's curious why Crabbe and Goyle no longer follow him around.
More than anything, she tells herself she's watching for some sort of change in behavior. She keeps track of the moon's phases, taking note of the way his coloring seems to grow paler the more it waxes, eyes becoming sunken and shadowed. His gait shifts to something tense and slow, almost defensive, as the full moon draws near. His hair grows more unkempt. She watches and takes note of all of this for reasons she's not quite certain of, and all the while she tries to convince herself she's not being obsessive.
She thinks she's getting away with it, too. Always so careful to duck back behind whichever pillar she's tucked against when she thinks he's about to glance in her direction.
But there's something she doesn't account for. Something she should've considered early on.
And on the evening before the full moon — a Thursday — as she's tailing him at what she thinks is a reasonable distance on his way back to the Dungeons, he rounds a corner and she loses sight of him for half a second. Casually, she turns that same corner — and abruptly finds a wand in her face.
"Granger," Malfoy spits, voice bleeding with frustration and malice. "What are you playing at?"
She takes a measured step back, trying to calm her racing pulse and gather her senses — trying to put a few more inches between the dark tip of his wand and the skin of her throat.
"Malfoy," she replies when she can manage it. Makes her best effort to sound confused and even a bit affronted. "You'd do well to lower your wand."
He does no such thing. He fills that space she made between them and actively digs the tip of it into her flesh. "Why are you crowding me?"
"I have no idea what you're—"
"Don't play dumb," he seethes, shifting his stance so she's forced to back against the wall. "You know exactly what you're doing."
"Malfoy, I don't—"
"I can smell you," he growls, and that shuts her mouth in an instant.
Because of course he can. For the sole reason she's been analyzing him so closely. And she realizes how stupid she is not to've considered it.
They stare at one another in the harsh silence, his eyes boring into hers. A strange, clinical side of her is thrilled at the opportunity to study them up close, despite the precariousness of the situation. What she can see of his irises are dark rimmed and tinged with spots of black, like ink has splattered across their usual faded grey, but his pupils are enormous. So enlarged they block the majority of his irises out. Deep red stains the sunken flesh of his lower lids, as though brought on by severe exhaustion. It's the look in his eyes above all, though — deadly.
It reminds her to speak.
"What do you m—"
He cuts her off again, "You're still playing dumb. It doesn't suit you." He presses his wand in a little harder for emphasis. "I know you know."
It takes a great deal of restraint not to spit out the word 'what?'
The viciousness in Malfoy's gaze warns her not to.
So instead she asks, "How?"
He sneers at her, upper lip curling. "What, did Potter train you in the art of subtlety, Granger? The both of you are rotten at it. It's been obvious for weeks. Would've been even if you weren't stalking me—"
"I am not stalking you," she splutters, finding her sense all at once and screwing up the courage to shove him back with both hands. Her throat aches where his wand was, and she rubs at it defensively, stepping aside to put a couple more feet between them.
"No? What would you call it, then?" He jolts up his eyebrows. "Following me from classes? Shadowing my every move? Prying into my affairs like a—"
"Does Dumbledore know?" she blurts out, if only to stop him from saying whatever horrible word he had poised on his tongue.
Malfoy falters at the question, expression in his eyes flickering — a little surprised.
"Of course he knows," he says a moment later, dismissive. The sneer makes its way back onto his face. "What do you care?"
She starts to twist the strap of her book bag around her fingers, if only to give them something to do. She hardly notices she's cutting off her circulation. "I suppose I'm just curious."
Malfoy stares at her for an extended second, gaze flat. "Don't be," is his response — just a hiss of breath.
She shakes her head, and the words are instinctive. "That's not how curiosity works."
Malfoy steps back. Scoffs and rearranges his bag on his shoulder. "I'm not one of your fucking books, Granger." He slides his wand back into his pocket, and she only realizes then — as her shoulders finally drop — how tense she's been at the sight of it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something important to brew."
She knows it's not a figure of speech — just as she knows exactly what it is he's referring to. She's never seen it successfully brewed before. She has the recipe committed to memory, having studied it and its ingredients a hundred times over. She even attempted it herself once, obtaining disastrous results. Wolfsbane is an inordinately challenging potion.
And the words are out before she can stop them, halting Malfoy in his tracks halfway down the Dungeons staircase.
"Can I — would you…would you let me watch?"