He stands on the cliff overlooking the sea.
Letting the wind, the salt, scourge his thoughts.
Calmness, descending like a shroud.
Memories.
"You don't scare me Draco Malfoy," her words, remembered, echoing in his head. "I know what you are, a scared little boy with nobody to tell him what to do any more. Well I've got news for you Malfoy, maybe it's time for you to grow up, maybe it's time you start making your own decisions. Or is that too hard for you? No one to blame but yourself?"
A fisted hand attacking the wall over her head.
Leaning down so his nose almost touched hers, staring, glaring into her eyes, noticing even as fury moved through him that she didn't flinch at his proximity, that she really was not frightened of him.
His own words, echoing, echoing, "You think I am allowed to make my own decisions? You think I have that luxury? I serve a master Granger. I do what I do because I have to, not because I want to, not because I enjoy going and getting hit by curses on a daily fucking basis. You think I like the feel of the Cruciatus Curse? You think I like the feel of blood on my body, mine and others, you think I like it?"
The fist hit the wall behind her, pressing her against that same wall with his body. "I am a fucking pawn Granger, and you have no idea sitting here, with your bloody books and bloody parchments. You have no fucking idea how great it would be to make my own decisions."
She'd lifted her chin then, lifted her chin, mere inches away from his. "You are in control of a lot more than you think," she said quietly, "perhaps for starters you should try being less of a git."
Remembering the way he'd suddenly become very aware of their position then, of the way her body felt against his, of the way her eyes sparked back at him, not cowering, not fearful, but challenged, spitting fire.
And how he'd leapt back as if burned, leapt back and glowered at the witch in front of him, clear amusement on her face then, but something else that he hadn't looked to closely into.
"A naive little girl," he'd spat at her.
And she'd raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Better than being an arrogant prat."
Memories.
Draco runs a hand through his hair one more time and then turns from the sea, making his way slowly back to the manor.
Unsure of her words, of what they meant, and not wanting to.
Something inside him not wanting to.
Implication.
Boundless.
He moves out of the trees and immediately recognizes a darker presence, something floating about the manor. The thoughtful look on his face slides away into blankness.
Gathering himself.
He knows of only one person able to pass his wards without alerting him, and only one person with such presence. He is not entirely glad to know that his former Professor is waiting for him.
The thought of Severus waiting with Hermione is even less of a welcome thought.
It takes him only a matter of moments to come to the front doors, opening them and silently moving into the house, noticing the dark cloak on the settee in the foyer and the general pull of his magic, from both the witch and the wizard sitting in the library.
Out of habit born from years earlier, Draco stands just outside the library door looking in, not at all surprised to find Severus sitting with tea in front of the fire, Hermione sitting in the other talking animatedly.
Almost like nothing had happened.
She is explaining the little they had found out, a quill moving between her fingers, a slight smudge of ink high on her cheek.
A mark.
Like a kiss.
A twinge, at his conscious, at something else, tightening his gut.
"The result was different?" The tone, dry and slightly thoughtful coming from the tall dark man across from her.
"Yes."
Answer to the point, with no more added information. She has learned how to talk with the Potions Master.
For some reason this makes the man standing at the door smile.
If just slightly, if barely noticeable.
"Hmm." Severus says quietly, staring at the fire, fingers steepled in front of him.
The sound of silence except the whisper of a feather quill moving in the air.
Suddenly Draco moves from the door, announcing his presence.
Dark eyes, black and brown, look up to see him, one softening, the other not.
Draco ignores both of them and goes over to the desk, settling himself in the chair there. Easy, composed, belying the tension ricocheting through his body.
A familiar white heat at that point on his chest and the sudden overwhelming desire for one stone, hidden, in a vault at Gringotts.
Draco feels Hermione's eyes on him, her magic, the compulsion, vibrating between them but he refuses to acknowledge it. His own magic back within its tightly held wards.
For her, more than for him.
Though he would never admit to it.
"I was telling Severus about the paradox of the field," Hermione finally supplies, her tone bland, but underneath it, just barely, a touch of worry.
For some reason the worry causes laughter laced with just a bit of hysteria, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He clenches his jaw to keep it from escaping.
Worry, after all that he had done moments before?
A control.
Neither Hermione nor Severus notices his dilemma.
He allows his jaw to relax, breathe, focus, in and out.
He turns his gaze on Severus, meeting the man's eyes for a moment, seeing nothing there, nothing along his face, nothing to indicate he knows something is going on, or something has happened.
Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything.
At all.
"Yes," Draco responds. "Last night I went over the book, as well as the notes from before. I came across information about the magic created with the binding; it should have gone away after it was no longer needed."
Severus turns his eyes away from his godson and looks back to the fire, nodding slowly. "But it hasn't," he finally says, stating the obvious though the intended meaning was more than the stated words.
Draco feels the level of panic in Hermione's magic then, the sudden intensity, the actual shakiness in it.
Some part of him wants to reach out to her, physically, mentally, to assure her.
He stays perfectly still. Waiting for her to explain what else they had found out.
Always a Gryffindor.
He sneers to himself, but with a tinge of affection he most effectively ignores.
"Not at first though," she starts. She is no longer looking at either man; instead she is looking down at her hand, the hand with the quill, fingers pulling the white feathers, back and forth.
A breath.
He sees it by the slight rise in her chest, the slow movement of her shoulders.
She looks up, glancing at Draco and then back at her old Professor.
"You know I see the shadows, the grey along the side of normal magic."
A pert nod from Severus.
Draco wonders how he knows and a strange emotion tugs at his middle.
She continues. "Along with that, a greater awareness of elemental magic, and well, blood magic."
This time Draco is pierced with Severus' look.
"You too?" The dark man says, voice deceptively calm.
Deceptive.
Draco notices.
He nods once.
The black eyes move back to Hermione. Draco focuses on those fingers, long delicate fingers, moving, back and forth, back and forth, disrupting the line of feathers, and then smoothing them back.
Only dimly aware of her explanation.
Not really wanting to hear. Not again.
Though he can almost hear her swallow in nervousness, even without the knowledge of it swirling about her person, apparent to him. All too apparent to him.
"I couldn't," she starts again, "not immediately after. After –" she pauses a moment, starts again, "After Harry defeated Voldemort there was a moment of confusion; we were, Draco and I, I mean, just let go from the spell, diminishing it, and I saw the shadows dissipate."
Draco remembers that moment, remembers the look of her specifically, the surprise in her face, hair wild around her head, eyes bright, big, so very, very lovely.
He blinks. Vanishing the thought, refusing to remember what came next.
It is silent in the room and suddenly he is aware that Severus has asked him a question.
His eyes focus on his mentor, meeting the look, seeing something, something almost pitying in their depths.
It makes him stiffen, indignation, though he remains slouched in his chair.
He recalls with ease what the question asked was.
He answers. "No, I have never been able to see the shadows as she does. But I can feel them, much like the feel of the dark arts but not quite as," he tilts his head, "as oily as the dark arts."
"And at that time you didn't feel them?"
Draco shakes his head, "I didn't say that. At the time there was so much magic, both dark and light, I couldn't tell you honestly if I felt the magic slip away or not."
The look, black eyes, still scanning the younger man's face. "When was the first time you recognized the feeling of this shadow?"
A stab.
Of magic, from the witch sitting across the room.
Draco's eyes do not waver from Severus.
"After Weasley's funeral," he tells him with complete honesty, meeting those eyes, inviting him, wanting Severus to peer into his mind, look at those events, witness that time after the funeral. Something dark and very much filled with anger, hatred, simmering, wanting his former Professor to see what had happened on that day.
Severus looks away.
"So," Hermione cuts into the moment, aware of something going on but not sure what, but nervous about it all the same. "So, something went wrong, the field was supposed to disappear and it didn't."
The dark man, fingers steepled once more, staring into the fire once more, thinking.
Both of his former students watch this with curiosity and just a small amount of trepidation.
"You were supposed to die Miss Granger," his words, silkiness, quiet, thoughtful.
Hermione winces.
Severus doesn't see, but Draco does.
A firm will, a complete control, that does not have him flinching at the look on her face.
"I think," Severus continues, still thoughtful, "why you didn't die is a very good place to start asking questions."
Hermione slowly bites on her lower lip, quill between her fingers.
"The changes," Draco says suddenly, his mind coming on the answer quickly, logically.
Severus looks over at him and raises an eyebrow.
Draco explains, "The spell, it's been altered; I found that out last night also."
A narrowing of focus, a slight narrowing of eyes, the sudden tenseness of the older man.
"What do you mean?" voice purred, dangerous.
Draco ignores it, a testament to the years between them. "The spell, it's been altered," Draco repeats, half to himself, half to Severus, thinking about what it could mean, questions circling, circling.
Hermione did not die, she was supposed to, they had figured on it, her calculations had told them without a doubt the truth of it. He can remember how her face had looked, white in the morning light, the formula laid out before them. He also remembers his reaction, the tearing at something primitive, a howl of rage in his head.
Pushing thoughts away.
Because.
She had not died, and it meant that something was missing, or, they were missing something.
Hermione takes up the narrative. "We think it's been altered by one of Draco's ancestors, thinking that perhaps the spell is a Malfoy spell. But we were unable to figure out who, or why, or, for that matter, what."
"You do not know what changes were made?" The same voice, this time directed towards Hermione.
"No sir," a quick response, conditioned through the years to the tone of her former Professor.
Grey and brown eyes looking on the dark-haired wizard.
Both holding their breaths for an answer, any answer.
But instead of one, Severus suddenly stands, the room growing smaller as the tall man straightens.
"I must go," he says, even as he places his tea back on the table next to his formerly occupied chair.
Without further explanation or further word, Severus walks silently from the library, the only indication of his departure the sound of the front door closing, echoing in the entry way.
Silence, as both look at the library door with surprise.
Draco is the first to recover, putting his hand up and slowly rubbing at the point between his eyes, a roaring headache coming on. He can feel it behind his eyes and knows it comes from too many nights without proper sleep.
"You're tired," the voice, lilting, across the room.
The tugging at his chest, the flare of it, white heat and beauty.
He opens his eyes, keeping them carefully blank, meeting Hermione's.
She looks away almost immediately, back at the fire, but not before he sees the expression there, an expression he cannot understand her having. Not after what he had…
Well, not after.
"I think he's right," she says abruptly, her own hand coming up to swipe a curl from her face, that damn curl that tugs at Draco's compulsion and pulls, and pulls, and pulls.
He looks away from her, out of the window realizing with a start that afternoon has slowly bled away to a gathering evening.
Wondering how long he'd stood looking over the sea.
He glances back at Hermione just to find her watching him again. This time her face is just as blank as his.
"I think he is right," she says quietly, repeats. "I think we need to figure out why I didn't die. Every formula I ran, every indication, pointed towards my death, so why am I still here?"
Ron.
This time he can hear the thought almost as if she shouted it inches from his face. But instead of anger, instead of the roiling fury that usually comes with it, he only feels tiredness, a tiredness breaking into his bones, whirling about his person.
And sadness.
Not of the death of Weasley, but of the death of so many, of the darkness of what happened then.
Because of the witch with brown eyes the colour of amber in darkness, sitting in front of him ten years later.
Flickering flame, torches, fireplace.
Magic.
Flickering, flickering.
She stands up, gathering her parchments and her quills. "I have to go. I have classes in the morning and I still have to write up the report for the Board meeting tomorrow."
"I will go with you," the words out before he stops them.
She looks up, startled. "To Hogwarts?"
He shakes his head, "No, tomorrow, I will attend the Board meeting with you tomorrow."
Relief, or he thinks its relief, passes over her features before it tones down to acceptance. "That would be brilliant. It's at four, but my last class is at two if you want to come by my office to go over the write up, then we can Apparate directly there from Hogwarts."
Draco nods once.
Another pause.
Both thinking on the events of the day, neither of them knowing where to step, where the path is. Because for so long they've both been given their paths by others, told to go down it, sometimes with a none too gentle shove in the direction chosen.
No one is giving them the knowledge now.
And neither of them knows how to make the decision.
"Okay then," Hermione finally says, parchments in hand, head slightly tilted. "Tomorrow?"
Draco slowly nods, feeling, even at the same time, the almost hesitant touch of her magic, barely there, a whisper along his wards.
And then disappointment, clearly defined on her features when his wards hold.
She leaves the library in a twirl of movement, the door closing behind her softly with a click, not another word spoken.
He sits there until he can no longer smell lavender and autumn.