Chapter 20 - I do not go around poisoning people
Hermione bursts into the Slytherin boys' dormitory so hard the door slams against the wall.
"Draco Malfoy!"
The boy in question jerks up from where he's lying on his bed, dropping a book on his face in the process.
"Granger," he says cautiously, "what's going on?"
"YOU —" she starts, her voice cracking with rage. "YOU —"
"Granger," Draco says again, infuriatingly gentle and slow, "not to interrupt, but you are aware you have an audience?"
He gestures behind her at Blaise, who waves pleasantly, and Crabbe, who is wearing nothing but trousers, holding a set of robes in front of him and staring at her with his mouth agape.
"I don't care!" she cries, turning back to Draco and slamming the door closed, just to make more noise. "You poisoned Ron!"
"WHAT? I did not!"
"Yes you did!" she yells, marching forward until she's standing over him, pointing a finger in his face. He scrambles to sit up. "It was your stupid plan B! You —"
Draco yanks her forward by the shoulders and throws her sideways onto his bed.
"HEY!"
"Sorry, Granger," he says, flicking his wand to shut his curtains and casting a silencing charm. "If you're going to yell, at least do it in here."
She straightens herself out, sitting up on her knees and carries on, hardly missing a beat she is fuming so intensely.
"Ron is in the hospital wing. He could have died. If they hadn't been in Slughorn's office, if Harry hadn't thought of a bezoar in time… You. Would. Have. Murdered. My. Best. Friend."
"Slughorn's office?" Draco's face goes white.
"Yes," Hermione says coldly."A bottle of poisoned mead. It never made it to Dumbledore."
Draco fiddles with the hem of his pillowcase, twirling it around first one finger, then another, then back to the first. Hermione watches the gentle, guilty movements of his hands for what feels like ages.
"Well?" she snaps eventually. " Are you going to say anything?"
"Is Weasley going to be alright?" Draco manages.
"I think so. He's still unconscious."
Draco lapses into silence again, and Hermione finds a moment to notice where she is. Rumpled sheets. Silk Slytherin green pyjamas in a heap on one pillow. Draco's fingers, still toying with the hem of the other one.
She's never been in his bed before. Ron getting poisoned would not have been the reason she expected to end up here.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," Draco says quietly. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt."
"Yes you did," Hermione says sharply. "You wanted someone to end up dead."
"You know that's not what I meant."
"It's true, though." Hermione looks away staring at the tiny gap between the bed and the edge of the bed curtain.
"Granger, I didn't mean to poison Weasley."
"You were careless. It was a bad plan."
"It could have worked if bloody Slughorn didn't hoard his own fucking Christmas gifts," Draco mutters.
"That's not the point!" she roars, working her way to the heart of the thing. "I'm trying to trust you, I'm trying to be on your side, but I can't, I can't if you — if you go around poisoning people!"
"I do not go around poisoning people," Draco says with a sneer of ridiculously unearned outrage. "I have — apparently — accidentally poisoned one singular person. That's not the same."
"But it was Ron," Hermione says, her voice cracking a little at the image of him in a hospital bed, Harry pacing around outside. "It's his birthday today."
"Oh," Draco says. "That's unfortunate."
"Unfortunate?" she asks miserably. "Is that all?"
"Yes," he says, lifting her face by the chin and turning her to look at him. "An unfortunate accident."
His grey eyes are sincere, and she knows — she already knew, really — that he's not lying. Of course he had no way of knowing Ron would drink the mead. Or even that Slughorn would keep it for himself. But the carelessness. Just like with Katie Bell, anyone could have been hurt along the way.
"Did you even think about it?" she asks, tearing her face away from his gentle hold. "Did you care?"
"I knew," he says slowly, eyeing her carefully like she's an animal who will run away if he says the wrong thing, "that something could go wrong."
"And?"
"I figured it was worth the risk."
She closes her eyes and lets out a heavy breath. She should be used to it by now, the mess that Draco's in. The mess she's willingly become a part of. She should know what it means.
But she never thought it would mean Ron.
"I'm glad Weasley's going to be okay," Draco says softly.
"But?" she asks, sensing something more.
"But I'd do it again." He raises his eyes, meeting her gaze defiantly.
She hears the implication — he would do anything. To save his parents. To save himself.
Somehow, somewhere along the way Hermione's forgotten that they come from different worlds. That to Draco, his father's life is worth more than Ron's. That the collections of people they love are entirely different, with almost no overlap.
"I guess I knew that," she admits acerbically, chewing her lip into her mouth. "You had no choice, right? That's what you always say."
"It's the truth," he says. "I didn't have a choice. I still don't."
Draco lays his hand face up on the bed and she takes it without thinking, entwining her fingers through his. She stares at their connected hands and wonders —
When did she become a person who holds hands with the poisoner, instead of the person who's been poisoned?
"You do," Draco says, voice pained, and Hermione's gaze snaps back up to him.
"I do what?"
"You have a choice. I never did, but you still do. You still have a choice," he says, almost imploringly. "You don't have to be on my side."
She stares at him. He's giving her an out.
For a second she imagines what it would be like if she took it. If she walked out of this dorm and up to the hospital wing, held Ron's hand while he recovered, and never looked back.
It could be just like before. She'd be there for Harry, help him through whatever comes next and leave all of Slytherin and its moral ineptitude behind. Leave Draco behind her.
She'd have to go to Dumbledore of course. Or the ministry, or whoever. Turn Draco in, get the cabinet destroyed.
Even imagining it breaks her heart.
She looks up at his face, his grey eyes pleading with her to stay, despite his words offering for her to go.
Somewhere along the way, Draco became someone she doesn't want to live without.
And, she realises, somewhere along the way, Draco became someone who'd let her go, just like that. There was a time when he'd try to bend the world to his will, to plead with her, manipulate her, force her if he had to, if her staying was what he wanted. She distinctly remembers several times he pinned her to a wall.
Now there's nothing but a hand touch - a question, really. Her choice.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says.
He sags in relief.
"Well," she amends, "right now I'm going back to the hospital wing. But, in general —"
He cuts her off by frantically pushing his mouth against hers. She leans into it ardently for just a second, before pulling back. She runs a finger over the sharp line of his jaw.
"I shouldn't forgive you," she whispers. "It doesn't make any sense."
"Some things don't," he says gently.
She moves her hand up the side of his face and cards it through his soft hair. He leans his head against her touch.
"No," she agrees. "Some things just are."
Hermione sits up onto her knees, preparing to leave, but Draco mirrors her position and wraps her up in his arms.
"You know," he murmurs, "this isn't how I imagined I'd get you into bed."
He presses a soft kiss against the corner of her neck.
"Draco…"
"I know you have to go," he says. "I'm just saying, you can come back anytime." She can feel his mouth twist up into a smirk against the side of her throat.
"Soon," she says, her voice coming from somewhere low in her throat, caught against the impossible swell of desire building somewhere low in her stomach.
She manages to tear herself away, leaving Draco looking far too satisfied considering her reason for coming here had been to yell at him, and bustles past his bewildered roommates, up and out of the dungeon.
When she arrives back at the hospital wing, it's full of Weasleys. She gets swallowed up by a hug from Molly and accosted by greetings from Fred and George and it takes her ages to get all the way back to where Harry sits glumly in a corner.
"You're back," he says flatly.
"Yeah," she says, pulling a chair over and sitting cautiously next to him. "I'm sorry, Harry. I — I'm sorry I left and I'm sorry I wasn't there this morning for his birthday and I — I've been an awful friend. There's just no excuse."
"No excuse," he repeats. "So I guess that means you're not going to tell me where you've been."
She sighs.
"I thought so," he says.
"Harry —"
"It's okay, Hermione," he says. "You don't have to stay."
"I want to," she says, pleading. "There's nowhere I'd rather be, I promise."
"Whatever," Harry mutters. He stands and goes to join the crowd around Ron's bed.
When he does, the group shifts a little and Hermione catches her first proper glimpse of Ron's pale face, his shallow breaths. Poisoned. Nearly killed. She could have lost him today.
And before she knows it, she's sobbing, her whole body shaking wildly in the flimsy hospital chair.
Despite the frequency with which it's been discussed, "going to Dumbledore" turns out to be a rather complicated task. Theo isn't sure of the protocol — send a letter? Approach him at the staff table? Ask the gargoyle outside his office for an appointment?
He does actually do the third thing, but the gargoyle doesn't reply.
Eventually he asks McGonagall if she can set something up for him, which she agrees to do, all the while eyeing him suspiciously over the rims of her sensible glasses.
It's three weeks before the Headmaster can see him.
When the time comes, Theo's given barely an hour's warning. A note with the time and password arrives for him at breakfast. At least he's not given time to get nervous, just enough time to go up to the dorm, grab the letter, straighten his tie and say "chocolate frogs" to the gargoyle at 10:00am sharp.
"Ah, Mr. Nott," Dumbledore says, continuing to scribble on a piece of parchment. "Please sit."
He doesn't look up from his writing, and Theo gets the impression he's expected to just wait. He resists the urge to huff impatiently.
The office looks the same as it did at the start of term, all gilded objects, odd whirring noises and snoozing portraits.
Except — Theo does a double-take. That sword.
This is where he recognised it from. Ruby-encrusted handle, shockingly shiny silver, heavy and imposing. Theo shivers. It looks just like it does in his dreams.
"My apologies," Dumbledore says at last, pushing his writing away, capping his ink pot, and sitting straight in his chair, studying Theo. "I take it there is something you wished to discuss?"
"Er — right," Theo says, tearing his eyes away from the sword. "It's, um, not school-related."
Dumbledore nods evenly, his expression politely neutral.
Theo doesn't know what else to do, other than just say it. "My father wrote a letter to Lucius Malfoy before he died."
He tosses the letter on the table and lowers his eyes to the polished wood-grain of the desk.
"May I?" the professor asks, reaching daintily for the letter. Theo nods, his teeth gritted with anticipation.
There is a long moment of silence. Theo chances a glance up and finds that Dumbledore's brow is furrowed — but his eyes sparkling — as he reads. When he's finished, he sets the letter facedown on the table.
"I appreciate you bringing that to my attention," he says. "That was an exceptionally brave thing to do."
"Oh," Theo says. "I just, er, hope it helps."
"It does, Mr. Nott. A great deal."
"Good," Theo says, clearing his throat.
"I confess," Dumbledore continues, "that I had been unsure whether you would want to help, as it were. If you'll pardon my impertinence, may I ask if you suppose your coming to me has anything to do with your change in house?"
"I don't know, sir," Theo says, mildly put off by the question. What business is it of Dumbledore's where his allegiances may lie, and why? He's here, isn't he?
"I believe you spend quite a bit of time with Mr. Longbottom, is that right?"
Theo's eyes jump quickly to the older man's face. He's not sure what he's getting at, but he suspects it's not a sudden interest in Theo's social activities.
"Yes," he says carefully, "I do."
"Hm, but perhaps less time with other members of your house — Mr. Potter, for instance?"
"Er, yes, that's right."
"Interesting. Quite interesting."
There is another moment of silence in which Professor Dumbledore looks at Theo expectantly.
"Was there anything else, Professor?" he asks eventually.
"No, no, not unless there is something more you would like to tell me?" There's something knowing in his gaze as it lands on Theo, something in his blue eyes that look like they could see into his soul.
He couldn't possibly know about Draco…? There's no way. He has to be just covering his bases, being polite. But those eyes, that stare…
It's creepy is what it is.
"No there's nothing else," Theo says awkwardly. "Although — I was wondering — if you understood the letter? Not the bit about my being a disappointment," he adds wryly. "But the part about the cup, and Madam Lestrange?"
"Ah," Dumbledore says, continuing to stare at Theo intently over his half-moon glasses. "Yes, I believe I understand it perfectly. I trust you do not?"
"No, sir, I don't understand."
"Excellent," Dumbledore replies crisply. "There are some things better left unknown."
"But —"
Is he really just not going to tell him? Does he think that this doesn't make Theo want to know more than ever?
He honestly hadn't even been that curious before.
"I am sure you have a busy day ahead of you," Dumbledore interrupts. "Thank you, again, Mr. Nott. This was truly exceptionally helpful."
Theo recognises his dismissal for what it is, and stands from his chair, reaching to grab the letter from the desk. Dumbledore's hand comes down quickly on the edge of the parchment.
"I think it best that I hold onto this," he says lightly, as if it's a suggestion, though it's not.
Theo, unsure what to do, looks forlornly at the letter for a moment before withdrawing his hand. It's not that he wants the letter, per se. But it's basically his father's last words. And anyway, it's his. Not Dumbledore's.
Who does he think he is, just taking things? Although, Theo supposes, the letter is apparently quite important. Necessary, even, for the cause.
It still feels like he's being used and lied to.
He's on Dumbledore's side here. After everything, of course he is. He wants to stop the Dark Lord as much as anyone.
Does that mean he should simply give up his personal letters? His time? His safety, and that of the people he loves? If you lose all that, what's the point of fighting for anything?
Although, that is the thing, isn't it? Helping no matter what the cost. Putting other people, the world, society at large ahead of himself.
It's rather new to him. Maybe that's what's giving him pause. The novelty of it.
The extensive, innumerable ways it runs contrary to how he was raised.
It feels almost like a betrayal. Of his father, of his family, of the system of values he grew up with and which were solidified during his years in Slytherin.
He leaves the letter on the table, and — information given, father betrayed, cause fought for — he walks out of the office, taking a final look at the sword glistening in the sunlight.