Chapter 39

Like the Dark

13th February, 1998

He had stopped stalking her. He no longer tried to approach her in Potions class, and he had stopped trying to talk to her in the corridors. At first she had found it easier to deal with. She had relaxed; she realised she had been afraid of him. But now she found herself unconsciously searching for him with her eyes in the corridors, and glancing at him every so often in Potions. She knew the feeling which rose up in her whenever she looked at him: guilt. But that was ridiculous. She had nothing to blame herself for. Or did she?

He scared her. That was normal. The sight of the hideous Dark Mark on his arm had awoken too many memories and a horrible epiphany – that Draco had been one of them, that he had probably tortured and killed Muggle-borns like her. She told herself she knew how to defend herself, but dark magic was dark magic and she still remembered the lasting pain Dolohov's curse had caused her in the Department of Mysteries. She found she wasn't afraid of what Draco might do to her – if he wanted to harm her, he would have already done it; besides, he wasn't stupid enough to attempt anything at Hogwarts now –, but of what he had already done. Whenever he drew his wand, she shuddered to think of what it might have done. She shuddered when she remembered Harry had used that same wand for some time.

It might not even have been fear. Maybe it was repulsion.

Whatever it was, it was fading steadily, giving its place to guilt, a feeling she absolutely despised. It made her feel as though she were the one who had done something wrong, as though she'd been caught red-handed doing it, as though the scathing gazes she occasionally caught from Pansy Parkinson were more than deserved.

She searched her mind. She knew what she felt guilty over: Draco and the silent treatment she had been giving him. She didn't know why. She had done nothing wrong. Had she?

As she remained deep in thought over this, her legs led her to the library, a place where thinking had always been easiest for her. She liked going there on Saturday evenings. He hadn't been there in over a week; she had noticed.

He was there today.

He was wearing Muggle clothes, which was a first. Faded jeans and a dark blue jumper that stood out against his pale skin, now more golden than ashen. He had regained some weight in the past few months, pulling him more towards lean than underfed, but his hair was still badly in need of a cut, falling into his eyes and slightly curling up at the nape of his neck. He sat up straighter when she entered, surprise and puzzlement in his expression.

"Hermione?"

"Hello, Draco."

She forced out the words, still staring at him. She eyed his clothes, and he must have noticed because he smiled. She had missed his smile.

"They're comfortable."

"Like I don't know," she said, pointing at herself and at her v-neck jumper, jeans and trainers. "Never thought I'd live to see the day where Draco Malfoy agreed, though."

"Yeah, well. There are a lot of things I thought I'd never see." He barked out a laugh. "I feel like this is the hundredth time I've said this to you, but... We need to talk."

"I know," she said, and settled in the chair across from him.

He looked surprised. And he had a right to, didn't he? She had refused to even meet his gaze for the past two weeks. The first couple of days, he had tried to talk to her. She had moved away and told him to leave her alone.

"So you'll talk?"

"I'll talk," she confirmed.

"What –"

"I ask the questions," she said quickly, knowing what she wanted to talk about and what she didn't.

He paused, then nodded slowly. "Sounds fair to me."

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands and forcing herself to look into his eyes. "You hurt Theo?"

He flinched, surprised. He hadn't been expecting her first question to be that.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He swallowed. "It... It was last year. The Carrows asked me to punish him."

"And you did it."

He nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Is he your friend?"

"The best."

She digested the information, then changed her tack. "How many people did you kill?"

"Five or six." He hesitated. "I know it sounds terrible, but I'm not really sure. At least five died by my hand. I participated in many more attacks."

The cold, dispassionate tone in which he parted with this information sent a chill running up Hermione's spine.

"Were they Muggles?"

"Not all of them."

"How did you do it?"

His expression darkened. "How do you think?"

"You didn't use the Killing Curse."

"No," he admitted. "I never was able to cast it. I – I tried. On more than one occasion. The Dark Lord –"

"Voldemort."

He flinched.

"It's Voldemort," she insisted. "Or Tom Riddle. Whichever. Even You-Know-Who if you want. But never – not that." She drew in a shuddering breath. "It makes me feel like... like you still belong to him."

He nodded. "V – Voldemort and the Death Eaters would jeer and dare me to do it. But it never worked. I think you can guess why." He stopped. "In a way, it was worse, doing it the Muggle way. The blood..." He fell silent.

"Did you enjoy it? Did you think they deserved it?"

Again, he hesitated, as though weighing his words carefully, but his answer was firm. "No. I was terrified and I hated every second of it. I won't deny there's a certain thrill factor about holding someone's life between your hands." He flexed his fingers as if to demonstrate. "But it was more about terror and disgust than thrill for me. I don't enjoy murder, Hermione. Do you think Potter would have testified for me if he thought that was true? I wish some things had never happened, but I can't go back and mend the past."

"Do you wish you could?"

He looked at her levelly. "Even if I could... what could I change? I didn't – I'm not trying to make excuses, but I didn't have a choice. Trust me on this, at least. My family's history went too deep for me to avoid becoming what I became. I'd have to go back dozens of years."

"When did you get the Dark Mark?"

"The summer before my sixth year."

"What was it like?"

Surprised, again. "It..." He faltered. "I..."

She waited him out expectantly.

"It was the first time I saw the Dark Lord," he said shortly, intending to leave it at that.

Her brown eyes pierced his, but she didn't press him further. She waited patiently for him to tell her. She knew he would, eventually; it scared her how well she thought she knew him.

"The ones who wear the Dark Mark belong to the Lord's inner circle. At sixteen, I shouldn't have been... honoured that way, despite my blood. But it was a – a punishment to my parents, for failing. To see their son branded and following in their disgraceful footsteps. He might have expected me to die during the mission. Or maybe he was hoping I would be more useful to him than my father, and humiliate my parents further. Who knows?

"During... it, he forces you to look into his eyes and say – things. Oaths. You pledge yourself to him." His voice had taken on a detached, dispassionate tone, as though he were talking about other people, people he had never met, people he didn't care about. "Your loyalty, your life, even your wand become his."

He looked at her, the question obvious in his eyes. Did she know? Could she, a Muggle-born, understand what it meant to swear your wand over to someone else? Was the slight shimmer in her eyes understanding or confusion?

Hermione knew. During the Middle Ages, it had been a sign of fealty from servant to master, from wife to husband, given at coming-of-age ceremonies or weddings. The wand was representative of the wizard who bore it; handing it over meant giving everything that was you to someone else.

"Then he takes your arm in his left hand. It's icy cold. He points his wand onto your flesh and screams the curse out. You can hear the other Death Eater jeering. You think your mother might be screaming. But then you realise... you're the one who's screaming." He was talking quickly now, as though the words spilt out of their own accord. "Then the pain becomes too much, and you black out. It was like – like an icy fire running through my veins, burning me from the inside out. And when I woke up, there was this."

He held his arm out. Hermione flinched.

"It's frozen now. Maybe paler, but that's probably just my imagination. It used to move, sometimes. It would writhe. And when the Dark Lord called us, it would burn. Like when it was first branded into us, but weaker. It hasn't moved since the Lord – "

"Why do you speak like that?" she asked sharply. "Us. The Dark Lord. Why?"

He looked at her, not understanding.

"It makes me feel like you still belong to him," she said for the second time.

"What makes you think I don't?"

She cut her eyes to his. "I know you don't."

"So who do I belong to now?"

She reached out and lightly drew a finger across his cheek. He shivered, but held her gaze.

"You're your own man, Draco."

"Not true," he said. "Not true. What do you know about it? How could you know? You know nothing about me."

"Then tell me."

"There's worse."

"Then tell me."

And he did.

He told her about blood and screams and pleas. About curses and threats and crying. About hatred and supremacy and betrayal. About Mudbloods and Muggles and Death Eaters. About death and torture and suffering. About guilt and fear and righteousness. She listened to it all silently, and when he was done she finally asked him a question.

"Were you proud of it?"

"The Mark? Back then, yes."

"And now?"

"How could I be?" he shot back. "It's ruined my life. Everywhere I go, even with the Concealment Charm, people will see it. They won't see me, or what I've become. They'll only see this mark and what I used to be."

"What have you become?" she asked in a quieter voice.

There was a long pause.

"Human," he said finally.

"You were never inhuman," she said, reaching out to take his hand.

Then she turned his wrist around quickly so that the inside of his arm was facing upward and bared his left arm. He had forgotten – deliberately? – the Concealment Charm, and he flinched at her touch. But he didn't draw back.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

She stayed like that. Tracing the Mark with her fingers. Running her hand up and down over the black tattoo that Marked Draco as his, as though her touch might give him something back.

"You shouldn't hide it," she said at some point.

He looked at her incredulously.

"You don't need to hide it," she said, "from me. You didn't need to; you shouldn't have. I would have understood. Don't hide it from me anymore."

He tried to withdraw his arm, but she held it down, her hand still covering his Mark.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"You don't have to apologise," Draco replied. "I'm the one who has to be forgiven."

"I've forgiven you," she said softly. "I think I forgave you a long time ago."

"Do you have your cloak with you?"

The change of subject was so abrupt it brought her up short. "What?"

"Your cloak," he repeated, and when she just stared at him he shrugged it off and said impatiently, "Never mind, take mine."

He stood up, gathered his cloak from where he had draped it over the back of his chair, and placed it securely around her shoulders. His hands lingered as he fastened it at her throat, a strange expression crossing his face, and she thought that for a second one of his fingers grazed her cheek, but she couldn't be sure. Then he straightened up, the odd expression replaced by a smile, and held his hand out. She noticed it was the arm that carried the Mark.

"Come with me."

"Where?" she asked.

"Trust me," he said, and she did.

She placed his hand in hers and followed him out of the library.

"Draco, it's cold out."

"I know."

"And it's past nine."

"I know that, too."

"So why are we here, exactly?"

Here was the Quidditch pitch. She had known where they were going as soon as they set foot outside, in the evening winter chill. Call it instinct, call it friendship; she had guessed where Draco was headed. She couldn't fathom why, though. Curiosity had made her follow him, her hand still in his.

Draco turned to her and smiled, a grin that seemed to affect his entire body: he looked relaxed, open, friendly. Even though he was only wearing a sweater, he wasn't shivering the way Hermione was beneath the cloak, and his hand was warm and steady around hers. He seemed completely collected.

"Lie down," he said, and immediately plopped down on the grass. "Go on."

She sat down slowly, then lay down completely, flat on her back, very close to Draco because their hands were still joined. She closed her eyes.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You know I do," she breathed back.

He didn't reply, and for a moment she thought the wind might have snatched the words away from her lips, but then Draco squeezed her hand and she knew he had heard.

"You're kind of stupid," he said, a smile in his voice, "but I like you that way. And by the way, you can keep your eyes open. In fact it's better that way."

She opened her eyes, still puzzled as to why he had brought her out here. She started to turn her head to the side to look at him, but his voice stopped her.

"No. Just look straight up – look at the sky."

She looked. It was pitch-black.

"Remember you told me you hated the way it got dark early in winter?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I love night-time," he said. "Look closely and tell me the stars aren't beautiful."

She looked. "All right, the stars are beautiful," she conceded.

"See that?" His arm rose to point at the sky. "Right there. That's the Big Dipper."

She had seen it only twice before. She was terrible at spotting constellations.

"And right here –" his arm shifted – "is the Little Dipper."

"You're good at this," she noted.

"What do you expect from someone who comes from a family where nearly everyone is named after a star or constellation?" he replied. "I was interested." He traced a sort of swirl in the sky of which one end curled around the Little Dipper. "See those stars I just pointed out? That's Draco. My namesake."

This time, she really did look closely. The stars of this constellation weren't very bright, especially compared to the other two constellations he had just pointed out. But as she focused, she connected the stars in her head, drawing imaginary lines, until the dragon leapt out at her, poised and coiled and majestic.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

There was a smile in Draco's voice when he said, "Told you I'd teach you to like the dark."

My God did I have fun writing this chapter. It felt so... romantic. I especially loved the description of Draco in the library. Did you enjoy this?

Next chapter is dated 14th February and is called, guess what... it's Valentine's Day. And, if I can say this without coming off as conceited, I like it. A lot. I'm not sure when I'll put it up, maybe right after my last exam (French oral) as a way to celebrate?