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Padfoot's Lament
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As soon as the Keepers subdue the enraged Horntail, McGonagall, Mad-Eye and that great oaf rush over to greet Hogwarts' second-rating champion. People are still howling, Bagman's bellowing about how quickly she'd achieved her task 一 Draco scowls into his binoculars, while McGonagall ushers her away from a grinning Moody and a sobbing Hagrid, towards wherever it was the Champions had emerged from.
The crowd is restless: people are standing, stretching, dancing, shuffling around. Some dart down the steps from the stands onto the enclosure, blocked by Moody and the wall that is Hagrid from going towards the Champions or the dragons. .
Not a few minutes later, she returns to the grounds; Potter is by her side, to no surprise of anyone. But the sight of Weasley flanking her other side makes Draco's blood boil under his skin.
As usual, the Gryffindor trio are victorious. They can achieve better versions of themselves, at the cost of everyone else.
Unanimously, hundreds of heads turn towards the Judges' stand. Draco clenches his jaw, as he follows suit.
From the tip of Maxine's wand, a long silver ribbon shoots out into a figure of eight. With the ensuing applause, he glances at the trio, who are all grinning. Sneering, Draco moves his eyes back to Barty Crouch Sr, who shoots the number nine into the air.
Weasley wraps an arm around Granger and shakes her slightly, yelling something undoubtedly imbecilic.
Draco expects a ten from Dumbledore, and almost snickers at the nine that glows in the air. Of course, he can't show too much bias. Just one up on Diggory. When Draco has the urge to rip out a chunk of flesh from the shrieking Beauxbatons girl next to him with his teeth, he takes several calming breaths.
With his third, gradual, exhale, the number ten shoots out of Bagman's wand.
The only thing preventing Draco from succumbing to his disease is the knowledge that Karkaroff is the next, and final Judge. And he doesn't disappoint.
"Four?" Finnegan roars from a few seats away, making Draco flinch slightly, as Dean Thomas starts throwing curse words at the Durmstrang Headmaster. "Biased git! Yeh gave Krum a ten!"
Training his binoculars on the three Gryffindors on the enclosure, Draco's sneer twists into a smirk; he doesn't need to hear Weasley over the mixed outburst of the crowd to tell he's also babbling some choice words up at the Judge's stand. Granger seems unfazed, but he's come to learn that the trick to figuring her out is in her eyes. If he were closer…
It's easier than he thought it would've been to slither through the crowd. The way people move is predictable 一 they'll usually shift in the direction they're looking at, their legs will poise when they're about to step forward, they'll glance over their shoulder if they're wanting to move back 一 and Draco knows it's the creature he's infected with that's been taking note for months. This wasn't something he was consciously aware of before.
The buzzing of the crowd plays a symphony with the constant ache in his head. Slowly, people are rising from their seats, filtering out onto the steps, off the stands. Speeding up his pace, Draco's glamoured shoe crunches against the sand of the enclosure.
A Keeper enters the enclosure, too, and Draco's eyes narrow at the signature Weasley red-head. The man rushes to the trio, exchanges some words, then runs off to another direction; Draco continues stepping forward until the three laugh among themselves and swivel around. From here, he can see a tent pitched at the side of the enclosure.
Saint Potter, Weaselbee and Mudblood Granger amble towards the tent.
When Bagman comes bouncing not far behind them, Draco snarls at himself more than anything.
As swiftly as he can, he seeks refuge in a quiet place.
Until the requested window in the Room of Hidden Things goes dark, Draco doesn't move from his conjured bed. He's sure most of his glamour spells have worn off by now; unlike his headache, which has maintained a constant presence. It hasn't allowed him to sleep nor relax, so in the end, he decided some flying over the twilight grounds would help soothe him.
The air has a biting chill, nipping at his ears and the tip of his nose, but the moment he kicks off the frozen grass of the Quidditch fields and soars into the sky, he breathes it in with relish. The scent of charred hay and dragon scales is still heavy in the air, which leaves Draco to ponder as he zips through the goal posts.
The first task was dragons. There are two more tasks to go. Would there be another creature to fight? It would be far too predictable.
No creature could be more glorious to battle than dragons.
Although, they weren't supposed to actually battle them. As he slows to a rhythmic pace, the icy wind kissing his face gentler, he scowls at the words he'd eavesdropped from some passing Hufflepuffs: "She wasn't supposed to harm the dragon or the eggs at all. The Fireball crushed some eggs accidentally because of a spell Viktor Krum shot at its eye… Nadine told me what it was called but I forgot… anyway he got deducted points because of it, but of course Granger didn't for exploding its bloody eye."
They are still tied, though. Granger and Krum, who have been spending an awful lot of time 'studying' in the library. He's heard the dramatic gossip from layers of walls, especially from the louder mouths like Lavender Brown's. Anyone with more braincraft than a Weasley could tell that the pair knew something from the start, and are helping each other to win.
What Draco's eager to find out is how they will resolve their scandalous partnership by the Third Task… there can be two cheaters, but only one winner.
Diggory is third, although Draco believes his game was the best of the four.
The only reason Delacour is fourth is because her dragon had turned its eggs into omelettes by the time the task was over.
His grip tightens on the polished hilt of his broom. Watching his feet dangle as he gradually comes to a stop, Draco gazes down at the Quidditch field. It's been a while since he's played a game 一 thanks to the alleged Triwizard Tournament, Quidditch isn't happening this year. Even if it was, Draco is sure he wouldn't be seeking, anyway. No eyes have seen him for more than a few seconds in over several weeks.
With smooth motions, he sails through the grey clouds, shutting his eyes momentarily, rising higher and higher. A milky glow makes his eyelids flutter, like the way his heart has started. Growling into the sky, he opens his eyes to glare at the half moon smiling at him from above a sea of grey.
"I hate you," he snarls. The moon keeps smiling.
Eventually, his hands become numb enough to convince him to tear his glower away, returning into the depths of the clouds, then towards the ground. There's bright white arches burned into his eyelids.
By chance, his eyes fall onto a great, shaggy black dog. Blinking a few times, he furrows his brows when no dog stares back at him. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight.
Swinging his broom over his shoulder, Draco watches his breath billow out and dissipate. With his feet crunching against the icy grass, his ears only twitch at the distant snapping of twigs, the hoot of an owl. He catches it swooping over the silhouette of trees up ahead, where the Forbidden Forest begins consuming the grounds.
Abruptly, he freezes, his heart racing. Drawing his wand, Draco whips around; he nearly drops it. The moon chooses that moment to seep through the clouds, casting a ghostly glow on the vast Quidditch fields and the skeletal figure.
Waxy skin is stretched tightly over the gaunt edges of his face, distinguishable even with the scruffy beard that covers it. Matted hair reaches down to his shoulders, and as he grins, a silver tooth glints in the moonlight. From his peripheral vision, Draco can see the tattoos etched underneath the Azkaban robes. A drop of sweat clambers down his neck.
"You're overdue a Dementor's Kiss," Draco snarls, pointing his wand at the notorious figure of Sirius Black. The man's alliances are unclear — last year, his parents had told him to be wary should he ever come across him. Most people who were on the Dark Lord's side wouldn't touch him, but with a nutter like Black, he has to be cautious.
A deep chuckle leaves the man's chest, and Draco can't help the shudder down his spine. "Little Draco. My cousin never introduced me, did she?"
"I'm not little," Draco snaps, growing hot in the face when Black raises his brows. It's almost funny, being ridiculed by a mass murderer. His Mother chose not to speak much of him for a reason. "And I suggest you keep your distance."
Black only laughs again, his lips turned as high as the moon's, as he takes several steps forward. Self-preservation makes Draco take a step back, wand shaking slightly in his hand.
"Not any closer," he hisses, and to his surprise, Black stops in his tracks. Like a dog, he tilts his head. There's a glint in his eyes — the same colour as his Mother's, and his own — that's making Draco's palms sweaty, too.
There's another hoot of an owl, a little closer, but not close enough. When Black's head twitches slightly in its direction, Draco narrows his eyes. Something else is shuffling in the undergrowth of the forest, something surely human… but Draco won't turn his back on a madman. His first cousin, once removed, gives him a calculating stare. Draco's wand is slippery in his grip. "I could snap your neck right here, if I wanted to."
Draco swallows over his dry throat, pointing his wand harder in a replacement for words.
"But I don't want to. I would simply like to warn you never to put your hands on my godson again." Jaw slackening slightly, a series of thoughts and recalculations roaring in his mind, Draco watches as Black gives another grin, but it's a grim one, he realizes; a sudden movement causes the spell on the tip of Draco's tongue to escape through his wand, but he seemingly doesn't dive in time for the flash of red light hurtling towards his direction.
When Draco wakes up, he's in the Hospital Wing, facing the ceiling. There's a dim grey light filtering above, the beginnings of a late November dawn. Apart from Madam Pomfrey bustling around in her office, the only other sound's the heightened, ragged breathing of someone beside him, raising gooseflesh across his skin. Where his hands lay on the mattress on either side of him, they clench into fists.
Tilting his head to the side of the breathing, he glares at Mad-Eye Moody. "I assume some Dementors are being sent over?"
One of his gnarly brow bones lifts. "What for?"
"Sirius Black!" Somehow, he'd heard; which means somehow, he has sources in the castle; which means that, if he truly cares about his godson, Potter is in contact with this criminal.
Of course, Saint Potter wouldn't have anything pleasant to say about Draco. That's not the kind of attention he currently needs, nor, now that he thinks of it, that he would ever need.
A hacking laugh from the grizzly man causes indignation to rise in his chest, and he gets the strongest whiff of that potion. "He's a wanted man, and you're an auror!"
"Was an auror," Moody corrects, as if that's a relevant topic.
Draco shoves himself upwards, wincing at what must be a bruise at the back of his head. "You're not going to do anything about him being on Hogwarts grounds?"
"Why should I believe the words of a troubled child who has Narcolepsy?" Draco feels his cheeks go pink, different reasons for each shade.
In response, he simply glares at Mad-Eye.
"You're all a creative bunch, aren't you?"
"What are you talking about?" Draco demands.
A wheezy huff of a chuckle leaves Moody's mouth. "Granger woke up here, not a couple of weeks ago, asking about the werewolf in the Forbidden Forest." As his blood runs cold, any doubts he'd had about her understanding of his condition is completely squandered.
She took her nose out of a book and stuck it straight into his business. Of course, he knows he's guilty of that too... Merlin had decided he needed to be punished even further.
Grunting, Mad-Eye shifts to a stand, and Draco quickly clenches his jaw which he realizes was just slackened. "Dumbledore will be here soon. He expects you to be back in your lessons by the end of this week." Draco's heart hammers against his chest as Mad-Eye shuffles away. Briefly, he pauses, not turning his head around; but Draco knows that eye is watching. "Your parents will be present, too. A happy family reunion."
It's as if his stomach has dropped to the ground, glaring at the back of Mad-Eye's head before he hobbles out of view from beyond the curtain.
What must've been a few hours ago, Draco was face-to-face with his barmy, murdering relative Sirius Black; yet now he wishes he was still staring at the grinning, skeletal man, his silver tooth glinting in the moonlight with his steely eyes. Nothing can be worse than catching the disappointment tucked in his Mother's folded hands, the aristocratic arch of her brows.
The unhidden fury across his Father's sneer.
They weren't coming into Hogwarts for no reason 一 and if Moody's obliviousness is to be a united curtain over all of the professors, then it has nothing to do with his first cousin, once removed.
...
When they enter the Gryffindor common room through the portrait hall, she is not at all surprised by her surprise party. Lee Jordan has let off some Filibuster's Fireworks, so that the air's thick with stars and sparks; Dean, who's very good at drawing, had put up some impressive new banners, most of which depict Hermione dancing around the Horntail with rocks and sparkles in the air. A couple show Diggory with his head on fire, which she has some traitorously mixed feelings about.
From one side of her, Ron grinning toothily, and a surge of warmth creeps up her chest. It's as if she's just reunited with him, from the point she was announced a Triwizard Tournament Champion to the point she was in the Champions' tent with Madam Pomfrey fussing about her, tutting disgustedly about dragons and child endangerment. He had attempted to apologize, but she'd cut him off, telling him to forget it, because in the end, he was one of her best friends, and she wasn't going to hold a grudge.
On her other side, Harry is smiling… but she notices that it doesn't make his eyes gleam. It's fixed, set, a barrier to something unspoken. That's when she becomes hesitant in participating in the party made for her; he needs to talk to someone about whatever it was Sirius had said, and for some reason, he hasn't told Ron, who, being as oblivious as ever, is bellowing, "Eat fire Diggory!" towards a laughing Dean.
The golden egg that she'd been clutching with the crook of her arm, is placed on the table as she settles onto the sofa with Harry and Ron on either side of her. Bagman had told the Champions that the egg was the key for a clue in terms of their next task. Her eyes had met Krum's, and he'd given her a playful smile — "to victory", it translates to.
Now, though, she scrutinizes the crevices interrupting the smooth gold of the oval as she traps her bottom lip under her teeth. Lee struts towards the table, his hands clamping around the egg; he groans arguably dramatically as he lifts it, exclaiming, "Blimey, this is heavy!" For a few seconds, he weighs it in his hands before he directs his stare to her. "Open it, Hermione! Let's see what's in it."
Ron chest vibrates against her arm as he chortles, while some other people like Dean and Seamus echo Lee, gathering towards the table with bottles of butterbeer and food in their fists (of which Fred and George, of course, had nicked from the poor House Elves slaving downstairs).
Lee passes Hermione the egg, and she digs her fingernails into the crevices until she manages to pry it open.
It's completely hollow and empty inside — but the second it opens, a horrible, wailing, screech fills the room. From her peripheral vision, Neville drops his plate of sausage rolls; Fred doesn't need to bellow, "Shut it!" while he covers his ears, as she slams it shut again.
"What was that?" Seamus asks. "Sounds like a banshee, 'Mione."
From beside her, Ron snickers while rubbing his forehead. "Can't be worse than a bloody dragon."
"It was someone being tortured!" Neville cries out, drawing all eyes to him. He's gone very pale, which casts her mind back to Moody's first lesson, and the three Unforgivable Curses. Knowing about them meant constant vigilance, according to him. "You'll have to fight the Cruciatus Curse, Hermione!"
"Don't be a prat, Neville, that's illegal," said George. "They wouldn't use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing… maybe you've got to attack him while he's in the shower, Hermione."
"Want a jam tart, Harry?" Fred adds suddenly. Maybe everyone's noticed how quiet he's being; when she shifts her stare from Neville — who slowly regains his colour and shuffles over Dean and the plate of custard creams on his palms — to the right, though, Fred's grinning like the devil and Harry's eyeing the plate. She, with anyone who doesn't live under a rock, knows all too well the little prank item experiments the twins have been conducting over the course of the year, and she suspects Harry's thinking about the same thing.
"It's all right," he says. "I haven't done anything to them. It's the custard creams you've got to watch —" Neville chokes and spits out the one he'd just bitten into, at which Fred laughs. "Just my little joke, Neville…"
By the time she heads for her dormitory, it's one in the morning.
Hermione had asked the twins how they'd gotten to the Kitchens; they'd responded that there was a portrait with a bowl of fruit, of which they had to tickle the pear to gain entrance. Filing this information away for future reference in terms of progressing S.P.E.W, it had turned out the that custard creams had been tampered with: "Canary creams," George had announced with a grin while Fred apologized, as the large canary that was Neville molted, reappearing back into his ordinary form.
After a loud and excitable evening, Ron yawns loudly and bids them goodnight. "You'll have one hell of a sleep, 'Mione," he says giddily, eyes unfocused as he ambles up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. The anxiety that has been weighing on her chest like the golden egg against her arm finally settles itself into her mind.
Firstly, she'd hurt the Hungarian Horntail. Badly. Charlie Weasley had told her that she would be temporarily blind in one eye; he'd assured her that the school had a "Wizarding insurance of sorts, I think that's what dad says that Muggles have, anyway they're covering the cost for the reconstruction of her eye, so it's okay."
But it really isn't okay.
Quite frankly, Hermione had been acting purely on the adrenaline coursing through her veins… but it was never her intention to damage the dragon in any way.
Well.
There was something in the back of her mind. Urging her to hurt it. To spill its blood.
Perhaps it was sheer panic.
She doesn't really want to dwell on the matter, instead shelving it away for quiet psychology research in the library.
Secondly, she'd had a conversation with the dragon — yes, full blown, verbal communication with a giant reptile. In an attempt to have a peaceful exchange with the Horntail, the creature simply laughed down at her and claimed that her accent was terrible.
Before she'd spat fire at her, though, the Horntail left her something to mull on: "You stand here thinking that you are a champion, and yet you don't realize that you are as much a bit of property to them as I am."
And finally, Harry.
Apprehensively, she searches his blank expression in the gloom of the hall. Quick to raise a smile, he mutters for the hundredth time, "Well done, 'Mione," while placing his hand on her shoulder. "That was mental. Can't imagine I would've lived to tell the tale."
Scoffing, she nudges him with her elbow. "Shut up, Harry." That weasels a chuckle from him.
"You gonna tell me about Padfoot?"
Pursing his lips, Harry takes his hand off her shoulder and glances up the staircase to the boys' dormitories, then down the stairs to the gloomy, dozing common where only the dying fireplace flickers. When he returns his stare to her, he whispers, "I need to find something. Are you too tired?"
They both know she won't say she is.
Dumping the egg on her bed (having to quickly pull herself away before Lavender and Parvati trap her into a hair-braid chat about dragon slaying and banshees), Hermione scampers out of her dormitory, down the staircases to the entrance of the portrait hall. Harry's arm appears out of thin air, making her squeak, and drags her underneath the invisibility cloak.
They meander through a few hallways, the only noise they make being his bag brushing against their legs, until they stop outside of a gargoyle. The only time she'd been in Dumbledore's office was while discussing the important rules of the Time Turner last year, with McGonagall by her side. "Sherbert Lemon," Harry whispers.
The gargoyle doesn't budge. Clicking his tongue irritably, he tries, "Acid Pops," to no desired response.
"Fizzing Whizbees," Hermione tries.
"Chocolate Frogs."
"Cauldron Cakes."
"Cockroach Clusters."
Finally, the gargoyle shifts to Harry's furiously muttered, "Sugar Quills."
As they ascend the staircase, Harry hisses several curse words at gargoyle they pass; under different circumstances, Hermione would have struggled to hold back her giggles. Right now, though, her mind is racing a hundred miles per hour — they're going to Dumbledore's office at nearly two in the morning, under an invisibility cloak. Clearly her encounter with the werewolf hadn't killed her curiosity, but then, she supposes he hadn't killed her.
Half-expecting to see Dumbledore snoozing on his desk, she instead takes in the empty chair behind it. There's a sort of silvery glow flickering across the office, and if it wasn't for the drawn curtains, she would've expected it to be the moon. Across the wall, portraits are snoring and grumbling; because of Hogwarts: A History, she knows that they were all the former Headmasters of Hogwarts, a parting honour to those who'd once led this school. There's a table against the wall with several curious trinkets puffing smoke, though her attention is quickly captured by the magnificent creature dozing on a perch, adjacent to a window a few feet behind Dumbledore's desk.
Harry had told her about Fawkes the Phoenix, but she'd never imagined such a sight beyond the sketches on textbooks.
"He's beautiful," she whispers in awe, but Harry's attention is elsewhere.
With his hand wrapping tightly around her arm, he drags her towards a black cabinet, on the opposite corner of the office. Extending his wand from underneath the cloak once he reaches it, he mumbles, "Alohamora!"
Nothing happens.
"You try," he demands quietly, and after casting him a troubled look, she does. The cabinet door clicks; Harry is quick to pull it open.
"Harry, what—" Her eyes clap onto a shallow stone basin lying there, with strange carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that Hermione doesn't yet recognize. The silvery light is coming from the basin's contents, which is like nothing she had ever seen before. She can't tell whether the substance is liquid or gas; it laps against the basin yet sails seamlessly over each strand like clouds.
A movement in her peripheral vision makes her turn back to Harry. He has his wand pressed against his head, and in a perturbed way, it's almost as if he has a gun to his head.
"Harry!" she hisses, making him flinch.
"I need to concentrate!"
"On what, exactly?"
Shrugging, he mumbles, "I found a book on it. The spell. I've been practicing, but I only ever get wisps."
"Wisps?" She's baffled, now. "Harry, what—"
"Hermione, shh!" Pursing her lips, she struggles against her curiosity as she watches his eyelashes flicker, his gaze pinpointed somewhere over her shoulder, muttering incantations under his breath. A silver haze appears from the tip of his wand. Slowly, he draws the tip of it away from his head… then, it wisps into nothing. Harry sighs impatiently.
Nibbling her lip, Hermione glances at his bag and asks, "Do you have the book?"
They spend what must be half an hour pouring over the pages, analyzing the directions of movement, the pronunciation of the incantation. In her determination to help him, she pushes aside her burning questions about what it is he is trying remove.
"Memoria mea," Hermione pronounces slowly, emphasising the last two vowels. Harry repeats, while simultaneously performing the little swish before pressing it to his temple. By the time he extracts the memory successfully, there is sweat clinging to his forehead.
"Yes, Harry!" she breathes triumphantly, casting a furtive glance at the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Taking a flask out of his bag, Harry drops the memory into it before swirling it around. Running her tongue over her chapped lips, Hermione eyes zero in at it.
The book says that once it has left his head, Harry won't remember it.
Once she looks up at him, she can tell he's already much lighter; there's a glimmer behind his eyes, and a faint smile plays on his lips. It disappears quickly, though.
"Is that what Sirius told you?" she presses tentatively, nodding at the flask, unable to reign back her curiosity any further.
He shakes his head. Finally, he looks up at her. "Remember how last year, with the Dementors, I could hear my mum screaming?"
Gasping slightly as she raises a hand to her mouth, Hermione nods. Harry raises the flask in his fist. "This will show me that night."
"You mean…"
"How Voldemort killed her. Right in front of me."
"Harry…" she moans quietly, "don't watch it." For she knows now, based on the description from the book, the silvery glowing basin beside them is a pensieve. And with a pensieve, one can watch memories like a movie.
Clicking his jaw, Harry mutters, "Sirius told me how she really died. They never really expanded on the details while telling all the six-year-old witches and wizards about the tale of Harry Potter."
"Then why would you want to see it for yourself?" she demands, grabbing the arm holding the flask. She'd never really dwelled on how Lily and James Potter died. Whatever is floating in that bloody flask is a guaranteed nightmare fuel for a boy who'd believed his parents' deaths were quick and sudden and painless. When she'd watched Moody throwing an "Avada Kedavra" curse at a third test spider, her eyes had moved from Neville's wide, terrified ones, to Harry's pale complexion and clenched jaw. By far, she had regretted putting her hand up at all in that first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson; even though she knew Moody would demonstrate the Killing Curse whether there were contributions or not.
If the curling in of the spider's legs as it tipped onto its back, unmoving, had rattled him, she can't imagine what the contents of the flask would do.
Harry smiles grimly. "So I can try to figure out where he took her head."
Aghast, Hermione opens and closes her mouth several times. It takes many seconds for her to catch a thought from the current in her mind, and all she can formulate is, "Why…"
"That's what I want to find out."
It seems that Moody's insistence of "constant vigilance" has rubbed off on her best friend.
From the pale, flickering glow of the pensieve behind, the memory furling and uncurling in the flask below, Harry's eyes behind his spectacles are as hard as emeralds in a gloomy cavern. Hermione can only watch as the obsession claims them.
So, with the reflexes of a python, her hand darts out to the flask and grabs it from his slackened one.
Before he can even furrow his brows, she says firmly, though there's a waver in her voice, "I'll watch it. Alone."
