I wanted to thank those who voted for me in the Enchanted Awards 2019 - it has been such an amazing honor to have made it to the finals, especially amongst all of the other incredible authors who were nominated. I've been nominated in two categories: The Up to No Good Award (Best Work in Progress) for A Contract Most Inconvenient, and the Novel Novice Award (Favorite New Author)! I made a post on my tumblr with links to all of the finalists and how to vote here:*blankfishxx.**tumblr.**com**/post/184299713781/i-feel-so-incredibly-honored-to-have-made-it-to (please copy paste into your browser and remove all *'s). Please do vote for whomever you feel deserves an award and not just me - all voters are welcome! Kudos to the admins of the Granger Enchanted Survivors group on Facebook for organizing this - you guys are incredible.
As always, thank you to my beta, RESimon - you're wonderful!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He did not move until she approached closely enough to touch his shoulder.
He flinched away at the contact, leveling her with his signature glare. "Piss off, Granger," he snapped.
Hermione sighed, electing to sit down on the sofa beside him instead. "I don't want to fight with you anymore," she said softly.
"Then leave."
"Draco, I…" she trailed off, biting her lip. "I want to understand you."
He said nothing but continued to glare at her, his rigid stance emitting just how unwelcome she was in his presence.
"Draco," she whispered. "You know we can't go on like this forever."
He scoffed. "Yes, Granger, do continue to remind me that I've been damned to spend an eternity bound to you."
Hermione closed her eyes as she let out another sigh. "I know you want to argue so we can avoid this conversation, but I won't do it anymore. If we are to survive this war together, then we need—"
"—we need to survive, and that alone. You do not need to know me, or understand me," he spat. "We are bound by duty and nothing more."
The long silence that followed was tense.
"The Order…they want us to do things for them," she said softly. "Awful things."
"Brilliant observation, Granger."
Hermione sighed, then fished out the pouch of portkeys to St. Mungo's out of her pocket and dropped it on the table. "These were left in one of the desk drawers," she said.
Malfoy glared at the pouch, the words To St. Mungo's on the label clearly visible from where they sat.
"They...someone left these for us," she said, thinking of who it could have been. She shivered at the memory of the calculating look Moody had given her the morning she'd stumbled upon their meeting, wondering if he had been the one who'd decided to take advantage of the position Dumbledore had played them into. He was cold and calculating, steadily focused on progress and outcomes and willfully blind of the casualties that the road to victory was littered with. No, definitely not Moody, she thought. Perhaps it had been Kingsley — she recalled him nursing his glass of dark liquor in the sitting room at Grimmauld, looking as though the weight of the war rested upon his shoulders. Or perhaps…
Perhaps it had been all of those who were aware of Hermione and Draco's position. She recalled the viciously angry look that had been in McGonagall's eyes after she'd left the room following the confrontation in which Narcissa had slapped her, and wondered if McGonagall had been the only one truly in her corner while they'd argued over the decision. Maybe they hadn't argued at all, and they'd agreed that the advantage Dumbledore had given them was something they could not ignore. Had it been McGonagall who had stashed these portkeys here for them while she'd prepared the safe house, giving Hermione a silent signal that there was a way to complete whichever missions came their way without murder?
Hermione was bright, and they were all aware of it. They had known that she would have figured out the reason for the maps, the coordinates, and the need for them to complete the missions that would be designated to them. And someone — not likely all, no, but at least one — had given her the option of complete obliviation instead of murder, somehow knowing that she would know how to do it in such a precise manner that their victims would be sent straight to the Janus Thickey ward, and that even Voldemort's best efforts would not recover their memories. She tried to recall how many times McGonagall had seen her carrying piles of books on Obliviation back to Gryffindor tower, wondering if the woman had figured out then about her plans for her parents during the war. She swallowed at the reminder of them, knowing that even though she had been as precise as possible, there was still a chance that they would not recover completely when the time came. Complete obliviation was not truly an out, no — in a way, it was a fate worse than death.
"I don't want to kill for them if I don't have to," she said softly.
His head snapped to her. "And that is your problem, Granger," his voice was dark. "You don't get to let your petty morality take precedence–"
"But I killed someone today, anyway," she interrupted him. "I erased everything, Draco. Everything. He won't know his name, or even that he's a wizard. I've reduced him to a shell of a human being that will be sent straight to the Janus Thickey ward for the rest of his life, and that — that might just be worse than death," she rushed, heaving. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying as she recalled the glazed over look that had been in Yaxley's eyes before she'd sent him away.
"It's kill or be killed, Granger, this is war," Malfoy said roughly.
"And you think that I don't know that?!" she snapped. "I am well aware that this is war, and of what the costs of war are. I know that you take me for some ignorant fool who cannot discern necessity from feeling, but I can."
Malfoy scoffed.
"I am a muggleborn!" she exclaimed. "I am a muggleborn, and if we do not win, they will hunt me down and kill me. Kill us," she clarified. "And I will be damned if I let that happen. There is so much more at stake here than just our lives, Draco — the lives and freedom of all muggleborns are at stake here, and I will fight for them with all that I have. But using dark magic—"
"—is what we must do, Granger, no matter the cost—"
"That will bleed us dry before we've even begun!" she cut him off. "If we lose ourselves while trying to fight this, what is the point of any of it?"
"You say that you understand the costs, yet you refuse to see what is in front of us. What if Yaxley had not been bound? What if he had had his wand at the ready, and Adava flying at you before you even have the time to get a pathetic little stunner out?"
"I see it!" she snapped. "I see it, and it terrifies me. But that does not mean that I won't hold out until it is absolutely necessary, because retaining what's left of my humanity requires it."
Malfoy scoffed again. "You are pathetic and blind."
"Have you ever killed anyone, Draco?"
"It doesn't matter what I have or haven't done, only that I do what needs to be done when required," he snapped.
"I'm scared, and I can't just turn it off," she snapped back. "I know what dark magic does to you, it infects your soul—"
"It doesn't matter if my soul is infected if I'm dead, now, does it?" His voice was derisive.
"You're scared too," she said suddenly. "I…I can feel it," she breathed, shocked by the truth of it. It pulsed through her alongside her own fear, exacerbating it and building together until it felt like it was consuming her. Oh. Oh.
It hit her then, why she'd been feeling nearly consumed by her fear until it had seeped into every aspect of her daily life since their marriage. He was stoic on the outside, yes, but when she focused, truly focused within — she could feel it there, as inextricable from herself as her own emotions. He had been there — he had always been there, his lifeforce so deeply connected with her own that she'd barely noticed the strength of his emotions. She recalled from her research on their bonding about how she would be able to feel only his most intense emotions. She hadn't realized how much he had buried under his stoic exterior and his pervasive occlumency shields. No, nothing could hide his most intense feelings from her, although he had certainly tried.
She looked at him, taking in his rigid stance, his hard grey eyes that betrayed nothing of what brewed within him. He had kept his emotions buried, hidden expertly from all but her. But now that she was paying attention — truly paying attention — she could sense them pulsing through him as surely as they did her. His lesser emotions were only just barely hinted at, swirls of indiscernible things that dissipated like puffs of smoke when she tried to reach out and feel them. But his fear — and his anger — were rooted so deeply within him that now that she was looking, they pulsed like a beacon to her. They brewed within her, had been brewing within her since they'd been married, clouding her rationality with their intensity as she'd stumbled through her life as it had been slowly falling apart. She thought back on her actions in the months since they'd married, how the fear and desperation that had been building within her had poisoned her every action—
And with that, she felt him slam his emotions down deeper still, attempting to suffocate them. She could still feel them, but they simmered less vibrantly, their intensity reduced although not to the caliber of the wisps of his less significant emotions.
"Draco," she whispered.
"What do you want, Granger?" he asked. His voice was resigned this time, devoid of emotion.
"I want to understand you," she repeated. She shifted minutely closer to him and was rewarded by his instant stiffening.
He said nothing still, and she sighed.
"I felt it," she whispered. "I felt it all. I thought I was scared when you said we had to leave, that I could actually taste an impending change in the air — but it was you. It was always you. When I felt terrified and guilty during and after Dumbledore's funeral, that was partially you, too. During the weeks we were at Grimmauld, the sadness, frustration, desperation — that wasn't all me, either," she added. "I felt it all, Draco. I still feel it."
She wondered what he had felt from her, if her desperate loneliness had seeped into him while he'd been alone in the hotel suite he'd apparated them to, then at Grimmauld—
Oh. There was so much she hadn't seen before that was now so painfully clear that her heart went out to the man in front of her. There were so many questions she wanted to ask that she did not know not where to start.
"Who trained you?" she asked after a long silence.
"My aunt," he answered softly.
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, knowing that there was only one aunt that it could have been. "Draco—" she reached out a hand toward him, but he slapped it away.
"Do not touch me, mudblood." His words carried no bite.
"Did she teach you Occlumency, as well?" she asked when it was clear that he would volunteer no more.
He turned to glare at her, his grey eyes swirling with anger and resentment.
"Did he threaten to kill your mother if you didn't kill Dumbledore?" her voice was a whisper, but the words hung heavy in the air between them.
He did not answer, but his silence spoke volumes. We win or she dies, he had said earlier.
The truth had been slowly falling together before her in fragments, and it was now laid bare before her with blinding clarity. Voldemort had threatened to kill Narcissa if Draco did not kill Dumbledore on his behalf. She'd known that the Malfoy family had fallen from Voldemort's good graces after Lucius Malfoy had been imprisoned, and she imagined what it must have been like for Draco to have returned home that summer, facing Voldemort's uninhibited wrath. He had been tasked with the one thing that could absolve his family of Voldemort's ire, yet his mother had decided to turn to the Order for aid instead of letting her son go through with it. But he had been scared, terrified, and he had tried — and reneged — on his plan on more than one occasion before they'd fled. She thought of the way her fear and desperation had felt unnaturally high over the summer, while she had been ignorant of her stoic husband's feelings all the while, equating his increased desperation and fear with her own emotions.
"Draco," she whispered, reaching out to touch cup his cheek. This time, surprisingly, he did not pull away. Instead, she only felt his jaw stiffen under her touch.
He did not move, did not speak.
"Draco," she tried again. "Whatever Vol-" He clamped his hand over her mouth suddenly, and she fixed her wide-eyed gaze on his, frightened by his sudden action.
"Do not say his name," he said, clamping his hand down harder at her answering scowl. "I can't be certain, but there was talk of a Taboo—"
She managed to tear his hand away from her mouth in order to gasp. "A Taboo?"
He nodded sharply.
Hermione's mouth fell closed, and she felt her lip tremble as she thought of Harry and his defiant, unabashed way of saying Voldemort's name aloud.
"I've already informed them. Granger," Malfoy said. "Your friends are safe."
She nodded mutely, still feeling terror curl in her heart at the prospect of what could happen should anyone slip up.
Eventually, she stood, feeling an uncharacteristic weariness settling deep in her bones. Everything that had been revealed throughout the conversation was simultaneously exactly what she needed to know, and entirely too much to comprehend all at once. When she turned to say good night, she found him gone, the sound of the front door clicking shut behind him the only evidence of his swift exit.
X
Over the next few days they fell into a routine, sparring in the mornings and in the evenings she researched while he read or disappeared for a few hours, off doing something she could only guess at. The undercurrent of tension between them had abated somewhat, their habitual arguments having turned into long silences instead.
This particular evening was no different, and she was sitting at the large desk, perusing through the series of tomes she'd brought with them for the umpteenth time when Malfoy came through the door. She'd barely registered his presence until she felt his shadow looming over her, and she looked up, surprised at his closeness.
"What is it?" she asked, perplexed.
He held up a book between his fingers. "You dropped this," he said.
"Oh," she looked around at the pile of open books strewn around her. "Do you mind just putting it in the bookshelf?"
He grunted, and she was surprised by his near-instant acquiescence. He crossed around her and shoved it into the bookshelf quickly, causing a couple of other books to tumble to the floor beside it.
"Honestly—" she started to chastise him, turning to pick up the books he'd made scatter so carelessly when she froze as he picked up one of the fallen books. Its cover shimmered for a moment, changing from a relatively demure title on Herbology to a large black volume with gleaming silver letters. Secrets of the Darkest Art, it read.
Malfoy's eyebrows were raised as he straightened with the book in his hands, giving her a curious look. "What are you researching, Granger?"
She stood, plucking the book from his fingers. She spotted a sheet of paper sticking out from the middle of the book, and she let it fall open to the page it designated.
Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy — I believe you may find this of use, it read in Dumbledore's familiar script.
Hermione's eyes widened as Malfoy picked up the sheet of paper, revealing the words on the page beneath it. Horcruxes, it read, are the darkest of all arts, reserved only to the foulest of beings who reserve no affection for what tethers us to humanity.
"Horcruxes," Malfoy breathed, and Hermione looked up at the tinge of familiarity she heard in his voice.
"You've heard of them?" she asked, eyes sharpening. "What do you know?"
"Why are you researching them?" Malfoy asked, his voice sharp.
She swallowed, feeling an instinctive lie rising in her throat only to shove it back down, feeling ridiculous. There was no longer anything that needed to be hidden between them, after all. "Harry told us that V—that he has been making them. We need to find and destroy them all if we want to kill him."
Malfoy nodded, his features hard.
"What do you know?" she asked.
He did not meet her eyes, but she saw a deep sadness that lingered in his faraway look, and she yearned to know what was going through his thoughts. She felt his fear spike for a moment before he shoved it down deep as he spoke. "I overheard my father mention the word to him once, and I knew that it had to do with murder—" he cut off. "I wasn't supposed to overhear, and it appeared that my father was not supposed to mention the word in his presence, either." His voice was hard, and Hermione wondered what memories he lingered on as he spoke.
"It's how he survived," she whispered. "He would murder people, and each murder allowed him to fragment his soul and store it within an object."
"And so you intend to destroy them," he asked.
She nodded. "It's the only way to truly kill him — of this I am certain."
He nodded, then summoned a chair that screeched to a halt beside the desk chair. He sat down wordlessly and plucked the book from her hands, enlarging it before summoning a quill and parchment as he began to jot down notes on the short passage. She watched him curiously for a moment before joining him, and they soon lapsed into silence.
I did include some canon easter eggs here, but do keep in mind that this fic is canon divergent and won't be following all of the events of Deathly Hallows. This will be much clearer in the next chapter though, I think.
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