"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." F Nietzsche
A curse. A past. Real.
Walking in the Burrow, leaning on his mentor, feeling the blood slowly fall down his arm, down his leg, down his neck.
Somewhere in the room full of people, a gasp, a rustle of movement.
Somewhere, a small voice crying out as Severus deposits Draco in a chair, the usual silky tones of the older man harsh as he calls out for what he needs.
Rustle of movement.
A potion, smelling vile, causing his stomach to revolt, causing the shakes to start, causing the bile to rise up in his throat.
Turning his head.
Sickness.
Such sickness.
Mind. Body.
Such sickness.
He knows it. Intimately now. A lover's embrace. A kiss on his lips.
Lips covered now in blood where he'd bit down on his lip. Bit, hard, the taste of blood, swallowing, dripping down his throat.
More voices.
And then a cool hand, a hand that does not belong to Severus, or to anyone else but one person.
The touch. A catalyst. The sickness a disease. And he throws off the hand, not looking up, scrambling out of the chair, pushing the chair back with a clatter, backing away, away from the hand without a face.
"Draco." A murmur. A question.
So much, too much. Shaking, animal, clinging to what? No longer sanity.
Sickness. Disease.
"Don't touch me, Mudblood."
Words. Out of his mouth.
A gasp.
A rise of anger. Twirling, madly, madly and he starts to laugh, because how very appropriate. How very, very appropriate.
Mudblood.
Looking through the hair falling across his face, falling into his eyes, looking at the witch in front of him, still fucking in front of him.
Dying. This is what it feels like.
He thinks.
As he shakes.
As the blood drips down his throat as the urge to defile, to strike out, to hurt, to kill, to murder. Real. Very real.
"The road paved to hell is littered with Mudbloods," he says, laughing, laughing.
Madness.
Anger. He feels it, loves it, feels the room about him reacting to his words, swirling, twirling, madly, lovely, ah, the madness, to dive into it, to let it cradle him, to live it. Madness. Madness.
"Out."
One word, spoken in the tone of his former Potions Professor.
One word.
He doesn't know. Doesn't know if they listen because the pain is growing, circling, the urge to vomit, the urge to defecate.
The urge to throw it all away. All far, far away.
Bloody fucking brilliant.
And the hand, that beautiful wonderful hand, connected to the beautiful wonderful witch, it touches him, his cheek, lightly.
A sharp retort. A sharp "Miss Granger".
But he is tired then, suddenly, and he looks up at her, at the witch in front of him. Looks up and meets her eyes and he does not see hatred. He does not see pity. He sees something else, something that causes the madness to take a step back, back.
What?
He doesn't know. Doesn't know. But could easily lose himself there. There.
And all would be right in the world.
To lose himself in her. He aches. Gods how he aches for it.
Not taking his eyes away from her as she moves her hand, her wand held steady, over the cut at his temple, over the slash along his arm, the cut at his shoulder, the warmth of her healing moving over him. In him.
And all he can do is stare.
Because this…what is this? And nothing makes sense. Not in so very long has anything made sense, and what he feels at that moment doesn't make sense and he no longer knows anything.
Anything at all.
And never once does she flinch, never once does she back away, so close he can smell her scent, mingling with his own.
Blood. Lavender.
Autumn. Murder.
Rape.
Memory. Madness creeping back in. Darkness swirling. A cackle. A taste of blood.
A hand. On his cheek. Delicate fingers, coolness against what is taking place in his mind.
"I'm going to take him up stairs so he can get cleaned up," she says over her shoulder at the tall dark man who is watching them with an expressionless face.
Not a word spoken.
And he is standing suddenly, just suddenly, and nothing makes sense, and they leave the kitchen, and no one notices. He hears voices in the library, away from them, but no one notices when the slight witch helps the taller wizard up the stairs, no one notices that her hand is supporting him, that her shoulder is supporting him, and that he leans into her.
No one notices.
And she opens the door to his room with a foot, gently, ever so gently, takes him to where his bed is and gently, ever so gently, lowers him to it.
He stares at her. Watching, watching as she goes over to where his clothes are, watching as she pulls out a clean pair of trousers and a clean shirt, watches as she comes back and stands in front of him, pausing, for just a moment, before reaching forward and pulling the Death Eater cloak away from him, pulling it off his shoulders, and then pausing, once more, before starting to unbutton his shirt with sure fingers.
Not even shaking.
He watches her.
The coolness of the room hitting his skin, the barely felt touch of her fingertips, making their down the row of buttons.
Watching her.
And when she is done she pulls the shirt away, pulls it off and throws it away from her. Blood thick, crusted on its fabric.
Watching her. A blush moving over her features as she looks down, away from him. "Can you do your trousers?"
A voice. Sweet, quiet, gentle.
Draco watches her. Does not answer her. Something breaking in him. Something so long in residence breaking in him.
He gets to his feet without answering her, his numb fingers stumbling over the clasp of his trousers, watching her turn away, even as he succeeds and the fabric slides off his hips, pooling on the floor.
Naked. In the frigid air.
Hermione turning around, looking straight into his eye, not looking down, not looking anywhere but at his face, waving her wand with a Scourgify, and then handing him his clothes.
Never looking down.
He dresses slowly, energy giving away, tiredness so very heavy on his shoulders. Aching. Pain.
And the madness, tickling, on the edge of his mind, on the edge of his magic. Tickling.
Sitting back down on the bed.
Hermione watching him.
"The battle will be tomorrow," he says finally. Not recognizing his voice.
She does not immediately answer. Not immediately, instead she sits next to him on the bed. Close. But without touching.
Her smell.
It causes him to ache. And he doesn't understand. None of it he understands.
Continuing because he does not know what else to do. "He will attack tomorrow, it was confirmed tonight. Attack with everything he has."
Madness. Eating at him, nipping at him, licking its way up his mind.
Laughing, cackling.
In the silence of the room.
Though no sound is actually heard.
"What happened?" Such a quiet question.
The implications of what will be tomorrow so very large. So very huge.
Madness. Cackling, cackling.
"Draco?" The one name, a word, a question.
Echoing, echoing.
Breaking. Tearing.
Looking away from her. Looking away.
Remembering. Voicing the memory because he is teetering, a knife's edge, teetering, bloodying his feet as he tries to keep his balance.
Teetering.
Madness. The abyss.
What he has seen tonight. What he has seen in the past.
What he has done.
Teetering.
"Four nights before Severus brought me here I witnessed a mass murder." His voice.
Devoid of emotion.
Devoid.
A shiver at his side, from her, from the recognition of his words at her own memory of the night he came to the Burrow, at what she learned later was the reason for his state that night.
Heavy between them. The knowledge, heavy between them.
Draco. Continuing. "Because I had failed to kill Dumbledore I was forced to do things, to prove my allegiance, to prove I was a worthy Death Eater. Severus tried to shield me from things, tried to reason with the Dark Lord, but honestly, who can reason with a man of insanity."
A pause.
A hand, moving to him, taking his, intertwining her fingers with his and it amazes him, amazes him that she would even touch him, even be in the same room with him. Amazes.
Breaks.
Nothing making sense.
He looks down at their hands. Looks down at the long fingers of his and the smaller ones of hers.
Who would have thought it?
Who would have even imagined?
He keeps on because talking keeps the madness from eating him. Keeps him anchored.
Her cold hand in his. Six months now. Six months.
Continuing.
"The Dark Lord had me stay in one of the dungeons on the Malfoy Estate; my father put me there the day after I didn't kill Dumbledore. I was tortured, of course, for defiling orders, for not doing what I was supposed to do. Forced to kill my mother. Forced to watch as the Dark Lord cursed her. Kept in the dark. The dark. The cold. I can still feel the stones against my hands."
The other hand. Delicate, so very delicate, taking his other hand, a movement of body so she sits, cross-legged, on the bed, facing him.
"Brought out every night to take part in the Dark Lord's festivities, none of which were as crude or debase as what he did to my Mother, but different, subtle. Cruelty. It is what he loves more than pain. To be cruel. And so easy to fall into it, so easy to fall into the red eyes, to have the abyss around you and all you can think, all you can wonder is what would it feel like to jump into the abyss. All you wonder is if there really is a bottom to the abyss and wanting there to be because then perhaps your body will break on impact."
A pause.
"You don't have to do this, talk about this." Her voice, quiet, close.
He has been staring at their hands, linked, and he looks up, looks up and meets eyes full of compassion, warmth, horror, yes horror, but not at him, at the scene he is painting for her.
At his words.
And the feeling, of wanting to fall into her, of wanting to have her arms around him, stabling, comforting him, is almost too much, almost too much. The knowledge of what is happening between them a knowledge that cannot be named, titled.
Just is.
Knowledge.
He keeps his eyes steady on hers. "You must understand this, you must understand what I am."
A line, appearing between her eyes. "Why?"
His hands tightening around hers.
A tearing at his gut. The madness. Loud. In his ears.
"Because tomorrow Potter will defeat the Dark Lord."
Understanding dawning on her face. Understanding, followed by fear.
"We must do the spell tonight." Her words. Nails in the coffin. Nails between them.
Sharp. Pointed. Brutal.
Bloody.
Mortality rising up between them. Death. Life.
Connectors.
The abyss before him. Tantalizing. Seductive.
Cackling. In the silence.
"You must understand." He keeps on, keeps on though she has lost focus on the implications of his words.
Refocusing on her part. "Does it really matter?" Her voice somewhat lost, somewhat scared. A small child.
He remembers her. Bushy haired Gryffindor. The know it all.
And he wants to cry.
And he feels the bile rising in his throat. The unfairness. The complete unfairness between them, around them.
Knowing there is no other way. Knowing because they have tried to find a different way. Have tried to find some other way. And not finding it.
His hands tightening about hers. "It matters," he says.
And she leans into him then. Hermione, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around her, letting go of her hands so he can pull the witch into his chest, because what else is there for him to do.
What else.
And her weight falls into Draco and for a moment, just a moment; he closes his eyes and breathes her in.
Arms tightening around what is not his, but what he knows he wants.
If only. If only.
And the tears, he feels them soaking his shirt, though she does not make a sound, though she does not move. The tears warm.
The witch in his arms warm.
Until she pulls slightly away from him, laughing, just a small gasp of a laugh as she wipes her hands across her face.
"I'm sorry," she says, moving away from him.
But he tightens his hold on her, his arms tensing, not knowing what he will do if she moves away, not knowing what to do, or what is going on. Just not knowing.
She relaxes back into him.
"I will die tomorrow." Hermione says and her voice is sad but not terrified.
It strikes terror in Draco and his arms once again tense around her.
Then relax. Because what she says is true and they have had several weeks to deal with the implications of it.
Only him, Severus and Hermione knowing the truth of what they are doing.
Only the three of them knowing there is no other way.
And Draco knowing that it is the truth for him too. Not because it is the way of the spell but because it is the way of his path.
A path he was pushed onto before he was even born. A foetus in his mother's womb.
And their knowledge, it is part of the greater knowledge, and it allows them to sit there.
Allows the mania, the madness, to whimper in disgust and frustration and slowly creep away in defeat.
"What happened tonight?" The question, swirling about them.
Draco holding on. Holding on.
Knowledge.
"The Dark Lord attacked a school, in upper London."
A hiss of breath, at his words.
Draco continuing. "We couldn't stop it, or do anything. We didn't know."
A pause. Then.
"How many?"
"A hundred teenage girls."
Madness. Circling. Circling. Vulture.
A face, turning into his shoulder, hot breath through the fabric. "Rape?"
One word. Echoing.
Echoing.
Her arms slipping around his waist, tightening.
"Yes."
The breath at his shoulder coming out in a sigh of horror. Of disbelief.
A moment.
And then.
Another question.
"You?"
Madness.
The irony of it all.
It sparks at the madness. Strings it about. Swirls it.
"No."
Because he hadn't, not even when his loyalty was being questioned, not even when the curses came his way, he hadn't, couldn't, lying, trying to lie by saying he would not defile himself on the horror that is a Muggle, even as other Death Eaters did. Even as he was still forced to watch.
Horror.
But none of that matters, not his reasons, not the fact that his loyalty is in question, none of it really matters because tomorrow it will end. The horror. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
Because tomorrow finally. An end.
And he will be able to rest. Finally.
In the darkness.
Arms, feminine arms about his waist, holding on with an intensity, curls of hair under his chin, the feel of her pressed up against his body, relaxing in relief at his one word. Those are the things that matter.
Just then.
"What the bloody hell?" A voice, in anger, in horror, from the doorway.
Hermione jumping back from Draco as if scalded.
Irritation spiking and then dying away.
Because none of it matters.
Looking on the Weasel. Lifting an eyebrow at the fury in his face, red hair standing straight up, hands clenched at his side.
But none of it matters, and the retort on his tongue dies away.
"It's nothing, Weasley," he says, slowly getting up from the bed, pain, ricocheting through his body.
"Didn't bloody well look like nothing."
Voices rising.
"Ron," Hermione saying as she walks towards him.
Ron backing away from her in disgust.
Anger, moving through Draco, moving, cold, caustic.
"It doesn't matter, Weasley," his voice cold, demanding, edged.
A tone he rarely uses. A tone developed through the things he's done, seen, been through, catching the red head off guard.
Continuing.
"The war ends tomorrow. Tomorrow we are going into battle with the great Dark Wizard. This, this doesn't matter; you, her, your love with each other, that matters."
He's been walking across the room while talking and he stops just in front of Ron, looking at him, eye to eye. "Life, love, friendship. Those things matter. Love her, Ron, because it might be the last night for you to do so."
And he leaves the stunned and sickeningly white face of his long time nemesis, walking away from his room, away from the witch there with the soft brown eyes and the understanding, controlling himself once more as he walks down the stairs to join everyone in the library.
Madness, circling as all eyes turn to him and in their faces horror, pity, and he knows Severus has told them what has taken place, and what it means.
Sitting down in his customary chair just outside of the circle of people, taking the tea Molly Weasley comes over and hands him, almost spilling it on himself when she leans down and hugs him very quickly with one arm. Quick, but a rush of warmth, mother, wrapping around him.
A moment.
Before she goes and joins her husband on the couch.
Draco sips tea, looking at those around him, those who will be instrumental to the destruction of destruction itself.
So very, very important that they win.
Hope.
In the young wizard with brilliant green eyes staring into the fire as Severus talks to him.
And in the young witch who walks into the library, hand in hand with her boyfriend, glancing at him, just a mere moment, but long enough for Draco to see something there.
A knowledge.
Without a name.
His attention, inward, thinking, analyzing, so very confused, so very tired.
Echoes. Thoughts.
Acknowledgements. That he loves that witch.
That Mudblood.
And doesn't know how he knows or why.
But knows nevertheless.
Shattering. Sanity.
But quietly because he is so very tired.
Realising dimly that Severus is telling everyone of what tonight meant, of what is the plan, of what they can expect tomorrow. The battle. After so many battles. The catalyst. When the Dark Lord will have everything, put out everything because he believes Potter will be weak.
The anniversary of his parent's death.
The point at which the magic is fractured.
The moment pushed by the Order itself because the only horcruxes that are left is the scar on Harry's forehead and the snake about the Dark Lord's feet.
Tomorrow.
And dimly Draco notices that Remus is holding Tonks close, that Arthur and Molly are hugging, that everyone is touching, supporting, recognizing what it means, though none of them really knowing.
And Minerva going over the final plan with Severus, in clear tones, going over what everyone's roles are, outlining them.
"So Hermione and Draco will perform the spell tonight," Minerva is saying, and everyone looks paler, as her words carry, and he sees Remus shooting him a glance of pity, of thankfulness that he doesn't have to do what they have to.
And it irritates Draco. But at the same times pleases him. And he cannot understand the reaction.
His reaction.
Losing himself in thoughts as the rest of the plan is laid out, as everyone slowly starts to bleed out of the room, only regaining focus when there is only Ron, Harry, Severus, Hermione, and him in the room.
Moments.
And Draco wonders if Ron is going to be ok with what is about to take place.
Watching though as Severus talks quietly with the two boys, watching as Ron pulls Hermione into a hug, kissing her.
A flare. Hot. Putrid.
Quickly snuffed. Because what ifs are not the reality. Because insanity is peaceful, because madness leads to darkness.
And he would love to fall into darkness.
Never to rise to the light again.
Dimly seeing the two of them break apart, seeing them leave the room, seeing Severus going to the door, seeing the older man turning around, seeing him place wards up, not understanding, understanding.
They have discussed this. The spell, volatile, must be precise, the utmost concentration.
Only them. Watching Severus look over at him, meeting the dark gaze of his mentor, his Godfather, seeing compassion, yes, but steel, and he knows that he will not fail because there is no reason to fail.
The older man bowing then, low, deep, looking at Draco and then at Hermione.
"Good luck."
Is what he says.
And then he too turns and leaves, the door shutting behind him.
Silence.
Between the two of them.
Like so many times before.
But different because tonight they know what they have to do and they know what it will mean tomorrow.
Draco, looking on her, seeing a curl fall from her hastily applied knot of hair at the back of her head, watching in slow motion as her hand moves up and tucks it behind his ear. The act so simple, so Hermione and his gut clenches because this witch, this woman, she is so much.
Ifs. They are the suicidal syrup of a madman.
He looks away.
And then back up when he can feel her in front of him. Not even realising she'd moved until she stops in front of him and he can smell her.
An abyss. He has looked into the mind of madmen and he has looked in the depths of the darkness, and when he looks up and sees her, all he sees is more darkness because in the end, it doesn't matter. Not really.
Not until she leans down. Not until he feels her lips feather light across his own.
Feather light.
Backing away. And in her eyes acknowledgement.
And in his sadness.
Tired. So very tired.
And without words he gets up and follows her to the rug in front of the fireplace, falling into a cross-legged position, across from one another, familiarity after hours of being in such a position, arguing, debating, talking. Hours.
It amazes him.
Even as everything becomes so very clear.
Love. Irony.
Abyss.
Madness.
And finally tenderness. And it pulls at him because when in his life has Draco known tenderness?
But it breathes in front of him, searching his face.
And he can't help but feel guilt because of what he is about to do, can't help but feel worried, horrified, knowing that he is about to commit this woman to a death.
Something must have shown on his face because his hands are in hers again, holding them and she is looking at him, holding his eyes.
"Draco, it's okay." She says the words quietly.
Tearing.
Continuing. "This is the only way. You know this, I know this, and I'm okay because my life is inconsequential in comparison to the defeat."
His hands squeezing hers, squeezing, squeezing. "You will never ever be inconsequential." Said through gritted teeth.
Suddenly there is too much for him to say, too much, and no words to say it, and the knowledge, it's on his tongue, and he wants to say it, wants to tell her, wants to let her know, but he can't because it's too much, and he doesn't have the words, has never had the words.
But something has changed between them, something in the long hours they have worked together, and when he looks up at her, and when he tightens his hands, he sees the knowledge there, glimmering in her eyes and no words are said because no words have to be said.
An understanding of who they are, what they are, between them, and what it is they are about to do.
Letting their hands fall.
"Accio wand," both said, at the same time.
Their wands in their hands.
All non-verbal.
The spell.
Brown eyes. Silver eyes.
Curly hair, straight hair.
Opposites.
Opening the top buttons of his black shirt so his chest is showing.
Hermione doing the same with her white shirt.
Exposing creamy skin.
A hand. A finger. He can't control it and when he touches the skin of her chest with the tip of his finger he sees her shiver, the pulse between them, not there, not yet, but still tangible.
"Draco." Her voice wavering, strangled.
And he looks away from his finger against her skin, up to where her eyes are burning into him, pleading.
And he drops his finger.
Because they have a spell to cast.
Because they are not who they want to be, at least, not at that moment.
Irony.
He drops his finger, looking down at his hand, one empty, one with his wand.
"Ready then?" He asks.
"Yes." Voice stronger. Brave.
He looks up.
The words.
Love.
On the tip of his tongue.
Thanks. But so much more.
She sees it. She sees it and this time it is her who reaches over with a finger, to place it across his lips.
"Shh." She says, and her voice is gentle, her finger caressing. "I know."
A pause, and a slight quickening along the side of her mouth, the warmth of her eyes burning.
Then.
"Me too."
All the world, rushing through him.
All the euphoria.
She drops her finger.
They lift their wands, placing the tips at a point, under each other's chins, and they close their eyes.
They've memorized the words and now they circle around and around in Draco's mind, he says them, non-verbal, words, circling, circling.
Something. Rising up, moving through him, the twinkling of magic, the smoothness.
Abyss.
Darkness.
And behind his eyes he sees colours, brilliant colours, twining, twining, and suddenly he can feel her, the words, circling, circling, and he can feel this witch, who has become so much to him, her magic, intertwining.
And opening his eyes.
Looking at her.
She has also opened her eyes, and they stare, wands pointed at each other, tips pushing, pushing, the pain, yes, searing, but pleasure, completeness, searing.
Words. Circling, circling.
Creating, and in her he can see himself, the history of them, spread out behind them, the worlds they've lived, swirling about them, and with it something more, hot, heated, and then.
Cold.
Frigid. So cold they both gasp.
His chest reacting to the sudden onslaught of cold, ice, her wand piercing him, seeing, not seeing, her eyes go wide, at the coldness, revolving about them, revolving, revolving, heated, yes, but with cold fire, with ice fire.
The words.
And something else.
A tugging at his spine.
A gasp from her lips that he can feel wavering about all his nerves. Tugging.
Pulling. Back and forth.
Coldness. So cold.
And their wands. Steady on each other. Words circling about, and in her he sees what he could have been, what he could have become, in her he sees so much more than what he realises.
Redemption.
Hope.
Staring in the abyss.
Suddenly the magic that is swirling about them, starts to rise, a pressure, pressing, upwards, upwards, so hard to breath, but so alive, circling, circling, rising, higher and higher until it bursts, and he feels warmth then, at the point under his chin, warmth that slowly slides down his chest, slides, with the magic swirling about them.
Blood.
Slides.
Quiet.
Suddenly.
Staring at Hermione Granger.
Who stares back at Draco Malfoy.
Hope. Darkness. Feeling one another.
Love.
A whisper along their skins.
Without words.
A bond.
And between them two blood stones, flickering red before slowly falling away to black.
Neither of them realising what the stones mean.