Chapter 45

The Smile of a Ghost

11th April, 1998

If anyone had asked him, he couldn't have explained it. He couldn't explain anything about her, and above all he couldn't explain what drew him to her like a moth to a light. He couldn't have explained why, that day, he took the long way back to the Slytherin Common room and found himself pushing the door to the second-floor girls' lavatory.

"About time," said the familiar voice, laced with both hurt and exasperation. "I was starting to wonder whether you'd died. Mind you, you'll always be welcome to share the toilets with me if you do."

And Moaning Myrtle zipped down from the ceiling until she was floating about a foot above his head, so he had to crane his neck to look at her.

"It's been very boring without you," she said accusingly. "You haven't come here once since the beginning of the year."

"I'm sorry," he said, and was sincere.

Then he doubled over the toilet and retched again. She cocked her head and looked at him strangely, her eyes running up and down his form. Her cool, glassy gaze had once unnerved him, but now it felt pleasant and familiar. Still, her expression was clearly resentful.

"You look better than you did last year," she said finally. "And the year before. I suppose I can forgive you; you must have been having too much of a good time to bother with poor, dead Myrtle."

"I wasn't," he said, feeling he owed her at least the truth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I liked talking with you."

"Well, yes," she said, floating down until she was sitting beside him, legs crossed. "It's always about talking with you. At least when it's not crying. You look like you haven't cried in a while."

He retched again.

"Oh, no. Must you soil up my toilets like this? What is it about this time? Do you have some more people to kill? Or maybe you're worried about your girlfriend again."

She was callous, almost without meaning to. He knew she cared. He had figured that out quickly enough. But something about being a ghost for fifty years made her sometimes insensitive and cold, asking brutal questions and delivering brutal truths.

"Pansy dumped me, actually," he said, "but I wasn't –"

"She did? I didn't think she would."

"Neither did I," he admitted. "I never would have imagined it; but she did, and she was right. Myrtle –"

"I heard about the Battle," she cut in. "Well, I managed to extract some information from a few girls who came in here. But you have to tell me all about it, Draco, everything. What was it like? What happened? What did you do? How did – " her nostrils flared – "he die?"

She seemed very interested in knowing the answer to that last question. Her translucent teeth glittered like diamonds when she smiled, a terrible, bloodthirsty smile, and she leaned forward, searching his gaze avidly.

She had never let him forget who had killed her. She had dropped it like a bomb, one day during his first year of coming here regularly, and had drawn it out again and again like a weapon. And yet she had never accused him of being weak, had never seemed to begrudge him the fact that he was serving her murderer.

He had been crying again that day, yes, but it was more like choking (maybe drowning in tears) than actual crying, and he had just sat down on the tiled floor and gone:

"He knows. Potter knows. I can tell. He knows I'm the one."

"The one?" Myrtle had asked, because he hadn't told her yet.

"The one who tried to kill them," Draco had croaked out, and jerked his head up to meet Myrtle's eyes.

He found no accusation in them.

Then he held out his left arm and pushed the sleeve up, revealing the Dark Mark. "I'm the one, Myrtle."

Myrtle had said, "I knew." And then: "I died when I was fourteen. Do you know who killed me?"

He eyed her, wondering where she was going. "No."

"I didn't, either," she said. "Someone – " she would never tell him who – "told me, not so long ago... though of course everything seems long when you're dead... So someone told me," she began again, "that it was the monster of the Chamber of Secrets that killed me. That Slytherin's heir killed me. That your Dark Lord killed me."

He had been silent.

"And now he's using you to kill other people."

"One person," he corrected her. "The others were accidents. And they didn't die."

"Innocents."

"He'll kill my parents," he had said simply, and it had been the sentence he took out every time Myrtle brandished her weapon.

"Draco," Myrtle said presently, "How did he die?"

"Potter killed him," he answered, swallowing hard to keep himself from retching again. He spoke haltingly, because it was such an effort, but she didn't seem to mind. "The Dark Lord cast the Killing Curse and it bounced right back at him. He's dead, Myrtle, I promise. He'll never be back again."

"He came back once," she said, sounding unsatisfied. "He found a new body. He could do it again."

"He won't."

Hermione had been convinced of it.

"We'll see," Myrtle said. "You can tell me about the Battle later, if you don't want to talk about it now," she added graciously. "How has this year been for you? I wasn't even sure you had come back. I wasn't even sure you were still alive."

"It's been all right," he replied. "Better than the last two."

"Which is why I haven't seen you lately."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"It's all right." She smiled at him, but this time, it wasn't bloodthirsty. It was almost friendly. "I've forgiven you."

He smiled back weakly. It had taken him some time to get used to almost-friendly exchanges with a ghost, to her cutting remarks and fluctuating moods, but now that he was familiar with them, he wouldn't trade them for anything. There was something gratifying about being on almost-friendly terms with someone so difficult to make out.

He knew he would never be able to explain to anyone what they had, but it didn't matter. No one needed to know, anyway. She hadn't betrayed him or his secrets, even though she had every reason to. She had been there for him when no one else had, had been his confidante for details even Theo couldn't be privy to – Theo who had known all along who was behind the attacks –, had watched him cry and had told him stories about her past, her life. Dying, she said, was not the worst fate imaginable. And those words had eradicated his fear of death, and had made things easier to bear, if only a little. Little sentences, little bits of wisdom like that peppered across their conversations had made life liveable for him during his sixth year. So he had come back during his first seventh year, when things were easier but only by a little, had told her about Pansy and Theo and Blaise's knowing eyes and the Carrows, and Longbottom who looked at him like he was dirt on the soles of his shoes, and when and how had Looney Lovegood become such a ferocious duellist? He had spilled out everything that was bothering him, and she had listened patiently, revelled in some details and sympathised with him over others, and he liked that in her, liked how she was true to herself and blunt and honest.

Draco thought about all this as he vomited into the toilet.

Draco had disappeared.

She hadn't been sure of it at first. She hadn't seen him in the Great Hall at lunch, and it had struck her as odd, but like her, he didn't always show up at meals. It was only after she had spent the entire two hours of Potions class waiting for him to make an appearance that she started worrying. She went to the infirmary first.

"Hermione," Madam Pomfrey said, smiling warmly at her; she hadn't forgotten that Hermione had helped her in the immediate aftermath of the Battle. "Is there something wrong, dear?"

"I'm fine," she replied, scanning the room with her eyes. "Have you seen Draco, by any chance?"

"Draco Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "No, of course not."

Hermione didn't stop to think over the words, but she felt a cold fear run through her as she turned and walked away. If something happened to Draco, no one would care. If something happened... She didn't want to think of it. It was foolish, unreasonable. He could have just chosen to skip class... except Draco didn't skip classes. He wanted his school record to be blemish-free, since his past was already more than shadowy enough. If something happened...

I care, she thought. I care.

She went to the Slytherin common room next. She already knew where it was, but she had – obviously – never set foot inside. She had asked Draco about it only the previous week.

"What's it like?"

"Cold," he had said. "And beautiful."

"Do you need a password to get into it?"

"Yes," he said. "Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor were like-minded people, at least at first." He had looked into her eyes and smiled. "Do you want to know the current password?"

"You would tell me?" she had asked incredulously.

"Why not? It's not like I haven't already betrayed my house ten times over just by being here with you. Besides, I know you would never use it."

"Parselmouth," she said to the wall in front of her.

It slowly faded before her eyes, and she walked through it and into the passage. The common room was exactly as Draco had described it, however brief he had been. It was grand, with expensive, sober furniture in blacks and dark greens mostly, a touch of silver here and there. And it was cold in every sense of the word; she shivered.

Hermione had never been one to encourage prejudice, but even she had to admit there was a strange, somewhat threatening air to every Slytherin in the room. None of them seemed happy about her presence – understandably, she supposed. There weren't many, and they had almost all frozen when she entered the room. She half-expected one of them to point their wand at her any second now. Pansy Parkinson was scowling at her from a corner of her room. Zabini, who was leaning against a wall, reading, hadn't even bothered to look up when she entered. Theo was watching her, but his expression was unreadable and offered no comfort. A couple of second years stared, then abruptly stood up and left the room. The silence lingered for a few more moments.

"What are you doing here?" Pansy finally asked, the hostility plain in her voice.

Theo's eyes almost imperceptibly flicked to her. Zabini closed his book and listened. They were, Hermione realised with some surprise, they were deferring to her. Aside from being a prefect, Hermione could not imagine what sort of authority the small, narrow-minded Pansy might have over her much taller and more clever house-mates. Whatever it was, it was strong. It wasn't that they feared her, liked her or came to heel at a word from her, the way Crabbe and Goyle had once done with Draco. It was more like they seemed to think she deserved their attention, in a way Hermione did not.

She had made a mistake in coming here. That much was obvious from the disdain in Pansy's eyes and the slight flush that darkened Theo's cheeks. No one wanted her here. Even the one who had more or less invited her in by giving her the password would have a fit if he knew she'd come.

She managed to gather enough saliva from her suddenly dry throat to say, "Theo –"

He moved his eyes to her so suddenly at the sound of his name that it cut her off. The look in his eyes said it all, but she forced herself to continue.

"I'm looking for Draco."

"He isn't here," Zabini said shortly.

"I can see that," she said. "Where is he? Is he in his dormitory?"

"It's none of your business."

"He isn't," Pansy said, looking straight at her. "I haven't seen him at all today. I don't know where he is."

Hermione saw the worry in her eyes and wondered whether they might have more in common than she'd originally thought.

"Thank you," she said. Then, voicing what they were all thinking: "I should go now."

Pansy nodded somewhat curtly, and Zabini retreated back into his book. She caught a glimpse of the title before he folded the paperback cover too far back: Birds of Patience. A novel?

She tried the Room of Requirement next, with no success. It was empty. The room filled itself with portraits of Draco when it understood her desire to find him, and she smiled despite herself as she closed the door. Then she tried the library, and after that she ran outside to the Quidditch pitch and back. It was only when she let herself slide down a wall to the floor, exhausted, that she remembered the Marauder's Map. She wasn't yet used to resorting to it frequently; that had been Harry's habit. But she rummaged through her bag, sending a few inkwells to the floor in the process, and drew out the Map.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," she whispered, tapping the Map with her wand.

It was difficult, with the dozens of dots spread across each floor, to find the right one. She skimmed over Gryffindor Tower and most of the classrooms, knowing he had free period now, just like her. Still there were too many names, and it took her a while of squinting at the overlapping dots to finally find one, isolated, that read: Draco Malfoy.

She found him in Myrtle's toilet, retching his guts out. Tears were streaming down his face. His pupils were so dilated she could only just make out the ring of grey around terrible, depthless black.

"Oh, Draco," she said, sinking to her knees beside him. "What happened?"

"Fourth-year," Draco said, in between gags. "Little bastard caught me in the back."

Hermione took out her wand. "Finite Incantatem."

To her surprise, Draco gave a sick-sounding laugh and shook his head. "Doesn't work. I've already tried – what did you think?"

"Why didn't you go to the Hospital Wing?"

"Madam Pomfrey... can't stand me," he gasped, his shoulders heaving. "Wouldn't want... to impose. It'll... wear off, anyway."

She remembered the nurse's words, now. "No, of course not."

"Oh, Draco," she said again. Then: "I care, you know. I care about what happens to you."

He shook his head again and looked as though he were about to say something, but then he doubled over and gave in to another spasm. She held his too-long hair back from his face as he retched into the sinks, and she held him in her arms afterwards, and at one point she wondered whether Pansy had ever had to do this.

"Sometimes I wonder if you're an angel," he murmured as she stroked his hair back. "Come down to Earth to save my soul."

She laughed slightly. "I wonder what that spell was. You sound delirious to me."

"Yeah," Draco said. "I should probably shut up now." But he didn't. "Why do you even bother to speak to me? What gives you the right to say things like – like that you forgive me? Why, Hermione? Why do –" he gestured vaguely at himself – "this? If it's –"

"I swear if you start on pity again, I'll literally tie your tongue into a knot," she warned him. "I've already told you dozens of times it has nothing to do with that. Maybe I'm just human, Draco."

"This is your sanctuary," Hermione had said when she had found his Room of Requirement, and he hadn't denied it. He hadn't expected for Hermione to ever break into his true sanctuary, but now she had. Just as she had broken into every other part of his life.