AN: Hiya, me again. Thank you for all your lovely reviews already. You've really cheered me up in this crazy patch of darkness we're going through at the moment. To answer a review I got about why Hermione decided to go find her parents now, I guess she lacked a bit of direction with it all, she didn't know where to start, what to do, how to do it, and so in trying to get a handle on her own life (since the Hogwarts gig was sprung on her last minute by McGonagall), she put her parents on the backseat, knowing in her heart that they were safe, even if it hurt to delay finding them for a year or so, or couple months if she found a lead during the Christmas hols. But Draco, with his connections (or should I say, his mum's connections) and his (usual) cool reason, gave her that direction and a bit of a stepping stone into looking for them.
I really love to see people comment/message me about the psychology of this fic, about the post-war angle, because that is the most important element, I think. This world is still very broken, it's still healing, and it's still a bit haphazard. Sure, the Dramione is a bonus, it gives us something to root for, but ultimately, it's about a broken world trying to heal itself, and two people within that world trying to heal themselves in the only way they know how: loving someone who deserves to be loved in the bid to hopefully, one day, love themselves.
Chapter Thirty Four – Of Fire and Ashes
Draco read the letter and smiled, taking a bite of his toast, as his eyes followed the strict cursive of Hermione's handwriting. Though she had found her parents in Australia, she had not yet found a way to restore their memories, and had decided to take a little while longer off work to help them settle back into life in England. It was strange not seeing her around the castle, strange to have breakfast alone at the high table, and not have her visits to look forward to when he knew she had a free period. The routine of his class timetable helped keep him occupied, and though he missed her in the little details, in the lemon curd that would magically replace the jam next to his plate in a morning, and the rhythmic knock she did at his classroom door, Draco couldn't help but share in her relief, tangible as it was through her letters, of having found her parents.
He took his napkin and dabbed at his mouth when he finished eating, letter placed beside his plate. As he reached for his goblet, he caught the eye of the new Transfiguration teacher, Professor Clearwater. Although he hadn't remembered her, he did recall Hermione telling him on the train that she had been a few years older than them when they were in school, a Ravenclaw who had dated Percy Weasley for a while. Draco smiled warmly, dipping his head in a nod. She hastily looked away, lips pursed. He dropped his eyes to Hermione's letter.
Pushing himself away from the table, he rose, folding and tucking the letter into his pocket. He walked behind the table, and caught only snatches here and there of the other professors' conversations. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, burning, and when he turned back, just before leaving, Draco met the searing gaze of the Defence professor, whose head was ducked with Professor Clearwater's. The man didn't look away. Clearwater pretended to be interested in her fork handle.
Draco took a deep breath. He turned on his heel and left the Great Hall, rolling his shoulders as he walked, cracking his neck.
He couldn't think about that, for now. He had about half an hour before his first class, and he needed to check on something. Heading straight for the dungeons, Draco slipped into an empty classroom before his office, pausing to unlock the door and remove the wards.
The air was thick and heavy with magic when he entered, making his shirt stick to his back. He swallowed thickly, waving his wand to procure some light so that he could peer into the cauldron in the centre of the room.
"Well, I'll be damned, Granger," murmured Draco, stirring it six times clockwise and once counter-clockwise and watching as the potion shimmered and shed its colour like a snake shedding its skin, become translucent. "Murtlap was an inspired addition. Where did you get that one from?"
He'd made sure to pick a room with no windows, knowing that at least one of the ingredients he'd be experimenting with would explode if exposed to the moonlight. But it meant the room was stifling and hot, and he couldn't stay for more than ten minutes at a time before the nausea and migraines set in.
This was the fourth attempt in as many weeks, and no luck. Draco hadn't told Hermione what he was doing. He didn't want to get her hopes up if he couldn't find a way to get her parents' memories back.
Leaving the room, he locked and warded it again, taking a moment to lean against the stone wall and breathe. He'd made his own Potions before, from scratch, with varying levels of success. But something was evading him now. He felt like the missing ingredient or condition was right there, on the tip of his tongue, always out of reach. Though he was glad Hermione was now back in the country, with her parents, Draco couldn't help but feel like the time was running out; he didn't think he could face her and tell her he had tried and tried and failed to find a remedy. To watch the hope drain from her face, her lips smile tightly, wobbling as she held back her tears- he couldn't face it. He needed to find a cure.
Draco covered his face with his hands, holding his breath to try and regulate it, before he straightened abruptly and headed to class.
oOo
The sunlight was white and wintry, escaping through the slit in his curtains, fractured by the water of the Black Lake. Draco groaned, rolling onto his side, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes in a desperate attempt to get a few more minutes of sleep. He was glad his room was still in the dungeon, and still had the view of the lakebed. There was something therapeutic, he found, in the way the warmth and light of the morning slowly climbed its way up his body, bathing him in the salvation of the new day. Even if it cut his sleep short.
Draco stretched languidly, kicking the sheets off, and taking a moment just to look at the ripples of the water against his window. He climbed out of bed, changing into the set of clothes he'd laid out the night before, rolling his sleeve up his elbow and opening his drawer to retrieve the gel.
The drawer was empty.
Draco stared at it. His mind shut down.
He shook his head, closing his eyes, trying to remember where he'd last had it. He always stuck to the same morning routine. Get out of bed. Dress. Gel. Hair. Teeth. Leave. Where was it? Where had he put it?
Draco rifled about in the drawer. He slammed it shut, opening the one below it, rooting through his underwear, finding nothing, opening every other drawer in his room, patience snapping and finally flinging everything everywhere to no avail, uprooting his drawers, tipping them out and rifling through the carnage.
He clenched his eyes shut, trying to regulate his breathing, counting to ten, breathing in for five, exhaling for five, hands violently shaking by his sides, where was it?, silence pressing into his skull, his heart felt like it would burst from his wrists or neck or chest, he wanted to scream or cry, he couldn't breathe – no, inhale for fiv 5, exhal 5, inhale,
exhale.
His chest rose slowly, fell shakily, breath rushing from his pursed lips. He squeezed his hands into fists. Hermione. Think of Hermione. No, not Hermione. The potion isn't done. What would Blaise say? Probably call me a tosser for not warding my room properly-
Draco stood like that for a while, how much longer exactly he couldn't tell, breathing in and out, until he felt his heart return to its normal speed. 5.
He could just wear his sleeve down for now, and owl Blaise to ask for his supplier if it didn't turn up tomorrow. Yes. That's what he'd do.
Taking a deep breath, with trembling hands, he rolled his sleeve down, buttoning it at his wrist. The button kept missing the hole but he got it eventually. Draco continued to get ready, moving slowly, almost robotically, and when he checked his watch before leaving, he realised he'd missed breakfast. He headed straight to class.
The Seventh Years were already waiting outside, and Draco swept past them, unlocking the classroom door and leading the way. He waved his wand and the chalk leapt to action, copying out the instructions from their last lesson. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled at the cuffs of his shirt.
"I trust you all remember where we left off," he said, as the students took their seats and set up their stations. "For those of you who don't, we were discussing poisons. Today, I want you to pick a poison from the textbook and set about brewing it. You'll have two weeks. Yes, that means you will have to work on it outside of class time. No, you will not get any more homework in that time. Remember, these are highly dangerous potions; if you don't know what to do next, ask. Don't hazard a guess. One tiny mistake could cost you your sight for a week, maybe indefinitely. One big mistake could kill you. Wear gloves and goggles please."
The class got to work. He found he preferred teaching the older years; the questions they asked were more complex, more engaging with the magic of Potions. He didn't have to guide them through each lesson like he did with the younger students, instead he could leave them be, monitoring their progress, offering a suggestion if something was the wrong colour, or if they wanted maximum efficiency. He was distracted today though. He pulled at his sleeve, tugging it down.
He strolled down the rows of stations, hands behind his back, checking each potion as he passed. Suddenly, a phial fell. The glass shattered by his feet, shards flying outward. Draco frowned, flicking his wrist and vanishing the mess.
"Be more careful, please," he admonished, before moving on.
"Have you ever used any of these poisons, Malfoy?"
He stiffened, taking a moment to take a breath before he turned around and raised his eyebrows at the student who had spoken.
"That's Professor Malfoy to you, Hamlin. Get on with your work, and don't break any more phials."
Draco ignored the boy's sneer, counting in his head, and continued his rounds. He tapped on the next girl's desk and muttered, "More Valerian Root. It should be deep purple, not lilac-"
"I asked you a question, Death Eater." Draco froze. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists. Inhal 4- "Which poison did you send Dumbledore-?"
In an instant, he whirled round, grabbed Hamlin by the collar and rammed him against the closest wall, pinning him there with his forearm. Draco could only hear static, buzzing around his head, deafening him, feeling his heart pound against his ribcage, the numbers collapsed –
"That's right, Malfoy," spat Hamlin, face slowly turning pink as the oxygen was cut off from his lungs. "Show everyone else what you are."
Draco blinked. His grip faltered. His sleeve had ridden up. His Dark Mark was on full display.
He reared back. Hamlin dropped to his feet. The world resumed, the noise of the classroom, a loud silence, returned. Draco stared at his arm. He turned around to face the rest of the class, but he couldn't bring himself to look at them. Somehow, in a painfully crisp haze, he straightened, pulling his sleeve back down, raggedly running a hand through his hair, regaining some semblance of his composure.
"Class dismissed," he said, and he swept from the room.
The castle looked foreign to him now, dark and unfamiliar, and Draco moved through its corridors, holding himself together long enough to make it to the out-of-order boys' toilets, where he fell apart.
He yelled, agony leaking from his soul, ripping its way from his throat. He clutched at his hair, pulling, keeling over. He kicked the cubicle door. The mirror shattered as his magic surged from him, the tap burst, exploding freezing water. He yelled until his voice gave way.
Draco sunk to the floor. His body was spent, his soul still leaking, his mind numb, throat sore and silenced. He ripped his sleeve open, and there it was still, ugly and poisonous, like a gaping wound, and he thought that he would never be free. He sat on the floor of the bathroom, and sobbed.
oOo
"I hope you appreciate the difficulty of the situation you have put me in, Mr Malfoy."
He sat in McGonagall's office in silence. At some point, Draco had hauled himself to his feet, repaired the tap and the mirror, vanished the water, repositioned his sleeve, flattened his hair, and gone to his second period class to wait for the summons. It had come in the afternoon, and now, here he was.
The Headmistress sat opposite him, eyes beady and locked on his face, lips pursed. Her hands were folded on the desk.
"In any other circumstance, I would have to seriously consider your placement here, Mr Malfoy," she said eventually. "Especially given the parameters of your probation. As you might imagine, I had to pull a lot of strings to get you your position. Not even Ottaline Warbeck can help you if the Ministry hears you're assaulting students. Do I make myself clear, Mr Malfoy?"
Draco closed his eyes. His entire world had fallen to pieces around him in the bathroom. Now, the final few shards were following suit. He was too tired to panic. He nodded.
Let them fall –
"Good." McGonagall pressed her lips into a line. "Fortunately for you, enough of your students, present in that class, have come to personally inform me of the incident, claiming Hamlin Croyne purposefully antagonised you. Whilst your actions are still unacceptable, given your history with Mr Croyne, who Madam Pomfrey tells me injured you earlier this year, badly enough to put you in her care for a few days, I am willing to overlook it this once. Mr Croyne has been warned that if he cannot behave in your class, he will forfeit N.E.W.T Potions. Make sure it never happens again, Mr Malfoy."
Draco's eyes shot open. He stared at her, heart pounding. Some limp but living hope fluttered in his chest. "I can keep my job?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "I should hope you will be keeping your job," she said. "I don't have the time to find another Potions Master this late into the year. It would be most inconvenient for me."
"But I-"
She held up a hand to silence him. "I know what you did, Mr Malfoy. And I am asking that you don't do it again."
Draco swallowed thickly. He dipped his head in a nod, but was cut off before he could assure her.
The bird landed on the windowsill first, the same colours as the setting sun behind it, feathers fire orange, blending into a deep red. Black eyes surveyed the room, before it stretched its wings, and moved further inside.
"I've never seen a phoenix before," Draco said after a moment of speechlessness, watching the magnificent bird settle on the perch.
McGonagall smiled slightly, following his gaze. "Beautiful, isn't he? He comes here to die."
Draco looked at her.
"Born from the ashes," she said. "He gave me quite the fright when he first came back here after the war. Appeared out of nowhere and burst into flames without a sound."
Fawkes crooned, burying his beak in his plumage, before he looked up suddenly, at Draco. The bird fluttered over to stand on McGonagall's desk, craning his neck when the Headmistress stroked him with her finger. He hopped closer to Draco, peering at him, bringing his head closer. Draco noticed he moved like an old man, slowly, tentatively, as if each of his bones were creaking, knowing rebirth was close, but death was even closer.
Draco didn't dare breathe. Fawkes cocked his head, then swooped and ripped at Draco's sleeve.
"No, please-"
Draco flinched away, but the bird persisted, tearing his shirt. He grappled to cover his arm, but Fawkes nudged his hand away, bringing his head close to his skin, leaning against his forearm, and Draco stopped, and watched in awe as the bird closed its eyes and cried. The tear snagged on a feather, before falling onto Draco's skin. It was followed by another tear, and another. Draco stared, dumbfounded, as the bird cried, and then he gasped, almost collapsing in the chair. He felt the tears fall down his own cheeks, and blinked them away. His Mark was slowly dissipating, breaking up and running off his arm like ink, fading away until only the smooth, clean expanse of his white skin remained.
"Mr Malfoy," said McGonagall, looking at him closely over the rim of her glasses. Draco couldn't look away from his arm. He swallowed thickly, reaching out with shaking fingers to touch his skin. Fawkes blinked up at him, leaning to rest his head against Draco's cheek, before he took off to land on his perch again. The flames consumed him in a blaze of life and death, and then he was ash.
"Sometimes one rebirth just won't do," the Headmistress continued. "Like the phoenix, we must rise continually out of the ashes and dust of our trials, and our lives consist of reincarnation after reincarnation. We must be reborn until we are happy with ourselves to die. There is no shame in that, Mr Malfoy."
oOo
She found him in the Room of Requirement.
It was their room again, with the fire cushioning the settees clumped around its mouth, casting them in a warm, orange light. Hermione slipped through the door, seeing the back of his head. He no doubt heard her feet padding towards him, but he didn't move, or turn to see who it was.
"Hello stranger," she said when she came into view, wrapping her arms around her and sitting on the opposite settee.
Draco tore his eyes away from the fire to smile at her. Hermione inhaled sharply, swallowing the gasp.
His skin was ashen and waxy, nearly translucent, standing in stark contrast to the grey circles under his eyes and the blue veins she could see in his neck and forehead. His hair looked as though he'd compulsively run his fingers through it, and there were patches where it looked like some hair had fallen out or gotten clumped together.
"Have you slept?" she asked.
He grimaced. "Occasionally."
She pursed her lips. "Draco-"
"What's that?" he asked instead, nodding his head at the letter in her hand.
Hermione pulled a face, tucking it away in her cardigan pocket. "Something stupid."
Draco raised an eyebrow, and she grimaced and elaborated, in a single breath, "The Ministry wants to award us, Harry, Ron and me, the Order of Merlin."
Draco blinked.
"I know," she continued, trepidation and upset still etched across her face. "They want to recognise our 'outstanding bravery and services to the Wizarding World'. It's so contrived."
"You should go."
Her eyes shot to him. "I couldn't think of anything worse," she admitted.
"Why?" Draco sat up a little straighter and leaned forward. "Granger, this is the highest esteem in Wizarding Britain."
"I didn't do any of it for an award, though" she said quitely. "I did it because it was the right thing to do. Because I could."
"When you give the world so much, eventually it will start giving back," he said, leaning back again. "Take what it gives you."
Hermione stared at him. The firelight danced across his face, casting it into even darker shadow. "Will you go with me? You look like you could use some free wine."
Draco didn't laugh. For the first time since she'd gotten back, his face gave way to some emotion. "Granger, I can't-"
"Please?"
He hesitated. "I'll think about it."
Knowing that was the best she would get from him, she said, "Thank you."
"I've just spoken to McGonagall," Hermione continued after a moment.
Draco nodded, sigh dropping from his lips, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. "How are your parents?" he asked instead.
"Draco, we should really talk about-"
"I don't want to just yet, Granger," he said tiredly. "How are your parents?"
Hermione pursed her lips, eyes scanning his face, before she settled into the cushions, bringing her legs up to get comfier. She shrugged. "They're well. They don't remember me. I knew they wouldn't, but it was still strange; we turned up on their doorstep and they just- didn't know who I was. Luckily, Hopkins already had a cover story in place. He helped me get them back to England. They're at home now."
Before he could reply, she levelled her gaze on him. "Okay. Your turn."
Draco swallowed, glancing at the fire. "Somebody broke into my room and stole my gel," he said.
"What?"
"That's why I flipped at Hamlin – I – I wasn't in the right state of mind, and he called me a Death Eater in class and all the other professors stare and whisper and I just-"
He screwed his eyes shut.
"Are you okay, Draco?"
"I've spoken to McGonagall," he said. "Everything is fine."
Hermione's eyes never left him. "I know. I came through her Floo just now. But that's not what I asked. Are you okay, Draco?"
He looked at her, drinking her in. The intensity of his gaze made her shift. His voice was almost dreamlike, soft and quiet.
"I'd never seen a phoenix before…"
Hermione blinked. "You met Fawkes?" she asked softly.
Slowly, Draco rolled up his sleeve. Hermione's lips parted, her eyes flicked between his pale forearm and his face. "You found the gel…?" He shook his head. "Then…" Her realisation escaped her as a whisper. "Fawkes?"
"Phoenixes have extraordinary healing powers," continued Draco. His eyes clung to her face, watching as the tears caught on her eyelashes. "Apparently the Dark Mark wasn't a tattoo. It was a wound, a scar…" Hermione's hand shot to her mouth but it was too late to catch a small sob. "Granger, I'm finally clean."