Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.
Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts
Chapter Seventeen
Hestia's x-ray stare turned onto Draco, and Hermione saw him lift his chin slightly out of the corner of her eye. Ready for battle.
"This going to take long?" he said, his voice a little quieter than usual.
"I don't think so," she replied. Her eyes narrowed. "Why don't you tell me about the Battle of Hogwarts?"
"Malfoy? The Battle?"
He stared back at her. His mouth was suddenly bone dry. He swallowed hard before trusting himself to speak.
"What about it? It was a Battle. You know how it ended."
"Why don't you take us through what happened, from your point of view?"
He didn't know how else to argue, so instead he fixed his gaze on the warped wood in front of him. As the silence stretched on, Hestia removed a small vial from her pocket and placed it carefully on the tabletop. It was a very thin bottle, made from dark blue glass. She tapped the cork that stoppered it lightly with one finger.
"Veritaserum. I was hoping we wouldn't have to use it, though."
Draco looked at her. He felt like he was being backed into a corner, walls closing in around him. There was nowhere left he could run. All he could think about was Hermione, sitting there next to him, her hand resting on the table right next to his own. He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear for her to hear it. He tried one last time anyway, hating how small his voice sounded.
"Why do you want to know?"
"I want to know your conduct," she replied calmly. "Call it part of our profiling. And I want to know why you don't want to talk about it."
She looked around at the others, fixing her gaze on each of them in turn. He noted that her hard eyes did not offer any friendliness as they moved.
"Mr. Malfoy and I have discussed various facets of his involvement with the Death Eaters. Miss Granger, too, has explained certain other details which have clarified the situation somewhat."
He sensed Hermione give a little start beside him. It would have been funny if it hadn't been for the subject matter, and the way the Weasel's face darkened considerably. Potter had the decency to minimise his reaction to a short glance in Draco's direction and away again. Hestia allowed them each to fizzle for a while before continuing.
"However, I can't help but feel that our narratives are slightly disjointed. Which is why I've asked you all to come for this particular talk. Since you were all at the Battle, any points in Mr. Malfoy's story which include any of the rest of you can be validated, and you can compare his timeline of events with your own. From now on, I would appreciate anyone who has additional information to speak up immediately rather waiting until they've had a few days to think about it."
Hermione ducked her head, and he resisted the urge to speak up in her defence. He doubted Hestia Jones had found herself in quite such a situation as theirs before. Hestia seemed to notice the discomfort at their end of the table, and for a moment her face did seem to soften a fraction.
"I'm not just talking about you, Hermione – it hasn't escaped my notice that these two also escaped from Malfoy Manor due to Malfoy's intervention and said nothing of it to me, no matter what reasons they suspected he had."
Potter and Weasel had the common sense to look a little sheepish. Hestia returned her calculating stare to Draco, who had made a point of remaining silent, still trying to think of some way to escape her request.
"The fact is, there appear to be certain sympathies between certain parties, shall we say. And I don't want anyone to be under any kind of misconception about you, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her tone flatly cold. "So, why don't you explain what happened during the Battle of Hogwarts. Please."
"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Weasel spoke up as Draco's silence continued. "Cat got your tongue? Maybe he should have the Veritaserum anyway."
"I'll know if he's lying," Hestia replied lightly. "Call it a special skill of mine. So."
Draco glared at her with all the venom he could pour into his gaze. His head was throbbing violently – as it had been doing since he woke up at the end of the movie. He could tell that something wasn't right. He was cold and shivery, his hands shaking, the wound in his chest aching with a deep, stabbing pain which was refusing to recede. He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and drown himself in Nightshade. God, why did bloody Hestia Jones have to bring the whole Golden Trio into the kitchen with them? If he had to tell her, fine. But he couldn't let Hermione hear it. If she did, everything would change.
"Draco."
He risked lifting his eyes from the table. Hermione was looking at him earnestly, looking at him the way she had used to look at him. The way she'd looked at him in the tent in those few snatched moments in between war and peace. It's ok. It doesn't matter what you've done. It's going to be ok. I'm here. But she didn't understand yet. He closed his eyes for a long moment. The throbbing behind his eyes was gradually building, and it wasn't helping. He heard the scrape of wooden chair legs on the ground, heard footsteps, the kitchen tap, and then a glass being placed in front of him. He opened his eyes to find Hermione sitting down again, having pushed a glass of water in his direction. He took it slowly, sipped it. It was ice cold, and it helped.
"Mr. Malfoy."
Hestia's pen was hovering above her notebook.
He took another sip of the water, and wished it was firewhiskey. Then he began to speak.
Of course, Hermione, Potter and Weasel all knew the first part too. The infiltration of Hogwarts. The disastrous encounter in the Room of Requirement, when he hadn't been able to stop Crabbe from blasting fiendfyre everywhere. He should never have followed them up in the first place – he'd thought he would be able to shake Crabbe and Goyle off, but that hadn't happened. It had gone bad, like so many other things had. Potter and Weasel agreed and added to his story of events. And so he continued. Until it came to the part he was dreading. And before he knew it, the memories were overflowing behind his eyes and he couldn't even see the kitchen anymore. He could just see grey flakes of ash on the wind. He could hear that high, shrill voice on the wind.
His personal hell on earth was unfolding again before him.
Then
The Battle
"Harry Potter is dead! And now is the time to come forth and declare yourselves."
The silence was thick and fast around them, almost suffocating. And yet, through it, a thin voice spoke breathlessly, eagerly, brimming with excitement. Draco felt his spine stiffen at the sound of it, felt almost as if he were about to be sick. It was an automatic reaction these days. God, he hated that voice. He caught sight of the snake weaving silently between the Dark Lord's bare feet, and his stomach flipped over. The old pain in his shoulder and neck burned briefly again.
"Draco!"
It was his father. Of course it was. His father, standing there, at the very front of the crowd. His mother was at his side, her eyes wide and terrified, her lips pressed tightly together. Draco stared back at her, and it was as if he could feel her mind wrestling with his own, pleading with him to let it go, just come back… And then a different, very real presence pressed against his consciousness and he barely held back a shudder. He shifted his gaze to the twin snake eyes that were fixed on him. A long-fingered hand twirled a long wand lazily. And he knew.
He stepped forwards jerkily, staggering slightly as he made his way over the rubble. He couldn't bear to look back for her, knowing she was somewhere in the crowd beside Weasel, knowing she would be staring at him, that her brown eyes would be burning into his skin. He tried to force his legs to move quickly, but the Dark Lord's arms opened in a hideous welcome, and he couldn't risk disobeying. He slowed to a halt, unable to bring himself to open his hands in greeting, and let the cold, skeletal arms close around him like water over his head.
"Ah, well done, Draco."
His body remained rigid as a board until the Dark Lord stepped away. That pressure was still there, pressing heavily on his mind somewhere behind his eyes. He drove himself onwards, dark spots leaping into his vision, and then felt a desperately grasping hand close over his arm. He let the grip take him away somewhere further apart from the commotion, away from the shrill voice still crowing in celebration.
"We're going," his mother's voice breathed tremulously in his ear. "The Portkey – it's still in your desk?"
It took him a long time to understand what she was asking. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to bring up his mental walls once more – the Dark Lord's attention was diverted, anyway. With some effort, he blocked out the last of the Dark Lord's impressions in his head. He blinked and his mother came into sight before him, her white face and her pinched lips, her wild eyes. She shook his arm urgently, trying to draw words out of him. He looked back at her blankly.
"The Portkey?" he repeated dully. "It's no good, it's… he's won, mother. It's over."
She shook her head, glancing huntedly over her shoulder. He followed her gaze to the Dark Lord, who was speaking to someone who had come away from the crowd. Longbottom, of all people. Draco was almost impressed as he watched the other boy square up to Voldemort. It was more than he had ever achieved. His mother was gripping his arm uncomfortably tightly, and he turned to face her once more. Her eyes were red with unshed tears of terror.
"No," she said, her lips barely moving, her face a mask of fear. "Potter's alive."
Draco's mind went blank, as if launched into the eye of the storm with the speed of a rocket. He took in his mother's querulous gaze, her quaking shoulders. The tears were beginning to come free now, rolling down her cheeks in floods.
"The Dark Lord doesn't know," she said, the words ghosting from her lips in a shudder.
And just like that, his heart had thundered into life again. Everything he had ever wanted was suddenly thrown back towards him, suddenly so very possible. The possibility of surviving was so real, so tangible, that adrenaline seemed to generate from the very core of his being. He snatched at her hand, but he didn't need to ask her if she was sure – her terrified face confirmed it. Instead, he put his other hand on her face, wiping fiercely at her tears.
"It's still there," he muttered. "Top drawer. Go now."
"No, no!" she dragged at him, shaking her head. "We're going, Draco."
"No. I can't."
"Why?"
He opened his mouth, and realised that he would never be able to explain. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and finally caught sight of her, there, at the front of the crowd of students, her hair waving around her face, dirt smeared over her skin. Her watery eyes were fixed on Voldemort, on Potter, on Longbottom. She was there. She was breathing. As long as she was breathing, he couldn't leave. He faced his mother, still holding tightly to her hand.
"Because there's still a chance," he whispered.
Before she could speak, he let her go and turned, striding purposefully back towards Voldemort. He didn't know what he was planning to do. His heart was beating in his chest, his blood boiling like madness, and he realised dimly that he had drawn his wand. He caught sight of his Aunt, standing just beside her Dark Lord, her eyes fixed on him. Her wand was lifting, her lip curling. And yet, before he could reach either of them, a series of events happened in very quick succession.
Longbottom beheaded Nagini.
Potter's lifeless body suddenly launched itself out of Hagrid's arms and pelted across the courtyard in a very-much-alive sprint.
A hellish scream of utter fury billowed out over the mass of people.
And then all was chaos. The two sides rushed at each other, and Hermione's face disappeared into the crowd. Draco shoved his way through the mass of bodies, desperately trying to reach her – or where she had been a moment ago. But there were too many people, too many spells crackling through the air around him. Someone crashed into him and they both fell, both scrambled away from each other. As he tried to rise, still half entangled with the stranger, the people around them seemed to waver and stumble. He felt it himself a second later – an incredible pressure on his brain, a squeezing sensation so abrupt that he almost threw up. As the bodies around them bowed beneath its force he caught sight of the black-robed figure standing tall, snake-like eyes flickering across the crowd, teeth bared in a savage snarl. The hairless head turned slowly, like an angel of judgement, and for one terrible moment Draco thought it had stopped on him. A voice pierced the crackling air, even though the thin lips didn't move.
"You lied to me."
Like a striking viper, robes billowing, the Dark Lord's arm snapped upwards. Draco turned to follow its trajectory. He met his mother's gaze, saw the fear in her watery eyes. She hadn't gone. She was still there, standing where he had left her. Even as he rose to his feet the spell hit its target and her face disappeared behind sudden, blazing fire, fire which swallowed her up like a hungry red mouth. His throat hurt, and yet he didn't know he was screaming, he didn't know he was running. He could hear her shrieking, her voice distorting horribly as the fire leapt high into the air, as her body crumpled within it. By the time he reached her, her bones had already crumbled to ash, leaving nothing behind but a dark scorch mark on the stone floor of the courtyard.
He knelt there beside it, staring blankly, one hand still outstretched as if to grasp for her. He wasn't sure what he'd had in mind – was he planning to pull her out of the flames? Or drag himself in to join her? He didn't know. He realised dimly that the fight had resumed around them – perhaps it had never even stopped, not really, not for anyone else. Someone staggered into him and he dropped bonelessly down to sit on the floor as they regained their footing, leapt away. His hands trailed in the dust and ash. Perhaps he should try and salvage it. He felt his pockets. No bottle, no vial, not even a pouch. Nothing to hold the remains. Someone – a body – flew through the air just inches away, slammed into a pillar, dropped to the floor. He felt his body suck in a juddering breath.
After some time, he became aware of a shrill voice screaming. By the time he recognised the voice and turned mutely towards it, it was already descending into a grotesque, gurgling stutter. Among the wild fray, he made out a huge, hunched figure crouched over a feebly struggling body. Long brown hair. Not her, though – no, he recognised the purple hair band. Lavender Brown, was it? Yes. Lavender Brown, covered in blood. His eyes travelled upwards to the familiar, hulking man who was currently devouring her throat with yellow teeth, eyes stretched wide in bloodlust. Fenrir Greyback. Rivers of blood cascaded over his clawed hands and onto the floor. He watched, hands curled in the ash, feeling its grainy particles against his palms.
A flash of red light, and Greyback's head lifted. The spell did nothing to stop him, merely distracted him momentarily. Draco turned his head slowly and took in the girl standing a few paces away, her long dark hair in a plait down her back. She held her wand rigidly, pointing it still at the werewolf, her face tight with forced bravery. Her knees trembled as Fenrir rose to his full height, his attention shifting to this new prey, and a familiar, hideous grin twisted his face. Half wolf and half human, he moved forwards with the air of a predator preparing for a game of cat and mouse, and the girl began to shake violently. Her name flashed into his head. Pavarti Patil. She had a twin sister, who must be around somewhere. She had been in a couple of his Transfiguration classes – she was average with a wand. She would stand no chance. She must realise as much, but still she faced up to the werewolf as he readied himself to pounce.
And, for some reason, the sneer on Fenrir's face awoke some shred of emotion in Draco's hollow body. That fanged grin, that sadistic joy – he had been holding back from wiping it off that monster's face for over two years. And now he had no reason at all to carry on pretending.
He unfolded his crumpled body, made it unsteadily to his feet. He was moving too slowly; Fenrir had already made his attack. Patil tried to dodge him but, as Draco had predicted, his clawed hand snagged in her cloak and tossed her to the ground. Her scream split the air and Draco forced his legs to move. His lips barely moved as he lifted his wand, but the power that blasted out of it raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
"Crucio."
Fenrir flinched violently and whirled around, Patil still held under one huge hand. His eyes searched the duelling crowd before resting on Draco, and surprise entered his gaze. Draco allowed himself a moment to enjoy it. Fenrir reared up to his full height and took a step forwards. Without hesitating, Draco hit him with three hexes in quick succession. None of them had their full effect – Fenrir was too high on bloodlust to feel them – but they slowed him down. Fenrir's fanged mouth gaped wide.
"About time," he snarled throatily. "No more hiding, Malfoy? I've been looking forwards to that blue blood of yours."
Draco didn't waste his breath. He cast Sectumsempra and watched with livid triumph as blood sprayed from Fenrir's stomach. The werewolf shrieked in pain and rage and barrelled towards him. It's huge mass slammed into him and they both went down in a frenzy of snapping teeth and swiping claws. Draco rolled with the blow, ducking away from the lethal claws, and cast another hex. It tore a deep gash in Fenrir's face, but still he wouldn't stop. Draco drove his heel into the werewolf's gut as they landed and managed to slip out from beneath the writhing giant, scrambling to his feet. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Patil was crouched beside Lavender Brown, who was quite obviously dead, her face pale with terror.
"Get out of here," Draco said, and his own voice sounded quiet and alien.
She shook her head, stood up shakily, pointed her wand. Her spell rushed past his head and he heard the grunt as it found its mark – Fenrir hit him a second later, barely registering the blow, and again demolished him. Draco managed to roll onto his back beneath the monster, struggling, teeth gritted, felt a clawed hand close over his neck. Fenrir's yellow teeth bared and hot, coppery breath rushed over his face. He could dimly hear Patil launching spell after spell at him, but Fenrir didn't even look up. He leaned closer, almost nose to nose. His other massive hand pinned Draco's wand-arm to the ground at his side. The pressure on his throat would have been unbearable at any other time, but now it hardly registered. Draco opened his other hand, which lay ready on his stomach, and silently Accio'd his wand.
"I'm gonna devour you, Malfoy," Fenrir was roaring, his voice wild with rage and drunk with blood. "I'm gonna feast on you for fucking hours!"
Draco pointed his wand upwards, the tip hovering inches from Fenrir's throat. The werewolf didn't even notice. Globs of saliva rained down on his face as it growled.
"Hey, Greyback," he rasped. "Go for it."
Fenrir's jaws opened in a growling bark of laughter – and Draco silently cast Bombarda.
The effect was instantaneous – the force of the spell travelled upwards through Fenrir's throat and into the back of his skull, which promptly exploded. His roar of victory was drowned in blood and his huge body jerked and spasmed as blood and brains burst from the back of his head. Draco drove his knee up into his side and his body tumbled over sideways. The clouded grey sky came into view once again and Draco sucked in a deep breath as the clawed hand let go, wiped at his face dazedly. Blood and saliva was spattered over his skin. He pushed off from the ground and climbed to his feet beside the shuddering frame of the werewolf. Fenrir's eyes were rolling, blood rushing from his slack jaws – the back of his skull had been blown clean off. Draco gazed at him for a few long moments before pointing his wand at the creature once more.
"Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green light, and it was over. Fenrir's wolfish body became still, and Draco let out a long sigh. He brushed the back of his hand slowly across his cheek, turned away from the sickening sight. Patil was still there, staring at him, her mouth open wide. She flinched backwards as he looked at her, and he let out a short laugh.
"Maybe you should go and hide," he said dully. "There's more where he came from."
And he walked away on trembling legs, buffeted on all sides by warring crowds, his eyes unseeing. He didn't know how much time passed, but he had almost given up hope when he finally caught sight of his Aunt. She was tossing people aside left and right as they rushed at her, cackling wildly, killing curses flung haphazardly about with no particular target in mind. He hadn't realised he had been looking for her until he saw her, but as soon as he did his wandering pace became quick and determined. Fate had a funny way of fucking with him – as he approached, she seemed to fixate on something and raised her wand. He followed the line of her arm and, with a lurch of panic, saw three figures in her line of fire. Potter, Granger and Weasley – somehow still alive – were racing across the courtyard. They were heading for the Great Hall. He knew instantly who Bellatrix would aim for, and without hesitating sent a curse at her back.
She felt it coming, of course – she always did. She span about and blocked him, and her face darkened at the sight of him.
"Well, then, Draco," she smirked. "Finally showing your true colours? I always knew you were a scheming little toe-rag–"
"Avada Kedavra!"
His killing curse veered off course before she could feel it, but he was able to enjoy a flash of shock on her face. She let out a high-pitched laugh.
"Acting like a man at last," she hissed breathlessly. "Shame it's for the wrong reasons."
Her Cruciatus curse hit him square on as he strode towards her, and for a moment his vision blacked out. When the agony lifted he was on his knees, doubled over, and she had turned away. She was pointing her wand, muttering rapidly, energy building at the tip of her wand. She was aiming at the girl with a mane of bushy brown hair who was running up the steps towards the Great Hall, the girl who was the only good thing he had left in the world. Draco forced himself forwards, sent a volley of spells at her, but her outstretched hand stopped them without even turning around. She tensed, and he could almost feel her readying to cast – whatever she was doing, it was going to be bad. He drove himself forwards with everything he had left and, desperate, flung himself in front of her. He gripped her wand arm, tried to force it up into the air, jabbed his own wand into her gut. In his heart, he knew he didn't have the strength left to deliver a killing curse strong enough to stop her –he could not even move her arm. It was as unyielding as stone, resolute. All he could do was stand before it, trying helplessly to pool everything he had into his next spell – but her eyes snapped onto his face. She was angry – angry he was in her way – but then her lips curved savagely and she released it anyway.
"Very well, Draco," she whispered. "Enjoy it."
It was as if a switch and flipped. A sudden, intolerable heat burst into being in his chest, generated from the tip of her wand, and he was jerked into the air. For a moment, everything was weightless and silent. Then he collided with something hard and unforgiving, and darkness crashed over him.
~O~
When he woke, he saw the swirling ceiling of the Great Hall above him. He watched the shifting, smoky clouds, listened to the dull hubbub of chatter. Someone – no, a group of someone's – were singing. A celebration, then. And because there was relative peace around him, he could only assume that Potter had led his followers to victory. It was over.
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he blinked hard until the face of his father came into focus somewhere to his left. His father. Alive, smeared with dirt, his hair frizzy and wild, his white, skeletal face pinched with concern. He gripped Draco with both hands, his lips trembling.
"Draco? Draco, you're awake – are you alright?"
He shrugged the hands away, levered himself unsteadily upright. The back of his head throbbed – he must have hit it. But someone had already tended to it – the pain would have been much worse if it had been left alone. His chest was filled with a persistent, painful ache, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He took in the Great Hall. He was in one corner of it, placed aside almost as if on purpose. Before him there were people, some wounded, some not – many wandering about giddily, clutching one another and torn between laughing and crying. All Hogwarts students and Aurors. He dazedly picked out Patil, Longbottom, McGonagall, Shacklebolt – all survivors.
It's over, he told himself. It's actually over.
A tongue of fire leapt into his head, and any relief was instantly eaten up by it. He felt hot tears suddenly prick at his eyes and fought to pull a breath into his lungs. It was difficult – his chest was searing now, pain flickering through him incessantly. Arms suddenly wrapped around him, and to his disbelief he found his father's head buried in his shoulder. His father, who was on his knees on the floor of the Great Hall, hugging him hopelessly, and actually sobbing.
"Thank god you're alive," he was mumbling thickly. "I thought I was going to lose you too. I couldn't lose you too, not… not now…"
Draco's brain swarmed with images of fire, and suddenly he couldn't draw breath. His lungs were frozen. Nausea rolled over him in a sickening wave. With violent urgency, he shoved his father away. Without waiting to watch him tumble backwards, Draco dragged his knees beneath him and heaved upright, stumbled, careered into the wall. He clung there, dark spots swirling before his vision. His throat had completely closed now – fuck, he couldn't breathe. He needed air. He could hear his father calling for him, and his quavering voice just spurred him on as he stumbled out of the Great Hall, across the Entrance Hall. He passed a few figures, didn't register their faces. He knew he was weaving from side to side like a drunken lunatic, but he didn't care. He just had to get out.
He made it out into the courtyard and into the air, and somehow his throat seemed to loosen. He was able to suck in a few deep, shuddering gulps of the cool dawn, able to finally blink the world into sight. He was still groggy, but he could see somewhat clearly. The bodies had been removed from the courtyard, but still great, rusty red bloodstains remained. He wondered if they would ever come out. His feet carried him down the steps and through the rubble. He wasn't sure where he was going – it didn't matter. He just needed to get away. He made it out onto the great bridge before his father's hand caught in his jacket and dragged him to a halt. He twisted free, but the motion messed with his head and he had to stop, leaning against the cracked wall. His father stood there, panting, looking at him as if he were a wild beast.
"Draco, stop!" he said, clearly trying to pull some authority back into his voice. "Where are you going?"
Draco wiped a hand across his face. He was shaking, he could feel sweat on his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, the stone wall of the bridge a welcome support. His swirling brain didn't give him time to figure out an answer. He hurt all over, and he had no explanations. He just couldn't stay there to face the victorious students, the Ministry, the Order. He needed to crawl into somewhere dark and stay there for as long as it took to remember how to think. His father was still speaking, words tumbling over one another.
"… should sit down, they don't know what curse you were hit with. We're lucky not to be in Azkaban – apparently someone said you deserved a fair trial, we're supposed to wait inside…"
"Wait?" Draco laughed breathlessly. His own voice was hoarse and thin, and he swallowed hard in an effort to resurrect it. "Wait for what?"
His father reached for him again – he brushed the hand off.
"Draco, just…" his father's hands dropped to his sides and he shook his head helplessly. His voice cracked. "Please. Your mother would have wanted-"
"Oh, fuck, don't," Draco gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. He pressed the heel of one hand against his chest, to the spot where the pain seemed to originate from. It hurt, but not enough to eclipse the grief swallowing him whole. "Don't you dare talk about her. She wanted to go, she was going to run…" he forced his eyes open, focussed on his father. "You should have been there. You should have died instead of her."
His father stared at him, his mouth hovering open, his body shaking. He clawed a hand through his hair, shook his head wordlessly. His gaze travelled over the horizon, over the mountains in the dawn. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with tears.
"You shouldn't have gone back to fight."
Draco felt the words slip through him and disappear. He could imagine it so clearly – seizing his mother's hand and Disapparating to the Manor, taking the Portkey, going into hiding for weeks or months. Surviving. What did it matter now? She was dead. He lifted his gaze to meet his father's and felt a mirthless smile twist his face. He turned, took a few heavy steps away. He made it a good few paces before the hand landed on his shoulder once more.
"Draco! Come back here, you're not going anywhere-"
"Get off me."
He felt in his jacket for his wand – it was gone. He gripped his father's wrist instead, squeezing until the hand let him go, threw it away like a poisonous snake. He span around, putting a few paces between them before stopping. His father sagged, his whole frame crumpled with grief. He looked like a broken puppet, or a ghoul, hunched there on the bridge.
"Please, son," he mumbled. "We only have each other now."
Draco stared at him. He shook his head slowly, his hands closing into fists, gathering whatever energy he had.
"No. We have nothing now."
Disapparating without a wand almost killed him. He could barely do it in good health. But the shields had fallen in the battle, and with a rush of air and darkness he was suddenly back in his room at the Manor. The pain was significantly greater now, and he moved about the room in a haze of confusion, throwing whatever he could lay hands on into the first suitcase he found. He gathered whatever possessions he could, but froze before reaching for the top drawer of his desk. His quivering legs carried him across the hall. His parents' bedroom was silent and desolate, the bed untouched. He crossed to the dressing table and clawed open the drawers, rifled through the scarves and earrings and loose gloves until his hand gripped the ornate wooden box at the very back. Only when he had stowed it carefully within the inside pocket of his jacket did he stagger back to his own room, open his desk drawer, and snatch up the small silver hawk. The Portkey launched him into the air, and by the time it deposited him in the tiny shed in the depths of the Scottish mountains, he was unconscious.
Now
When Draco had finished, there was nothing but a thick, relentless silence in the air among them. Hermione sat there, unable to look at him, unable to breathe, her eyes riveted on their entwined fingers. She wasn't sure when she had taken his hand again - at some point during his story, maybe. Her mind was racing, and yet she couldn't process what he was saying. She wanted to believe he was lying, but of course he wasn't. Everything made perfect sense now.
Bellatrix would never have used the curse on Purebloods. It was for Mudbloods. Like her.
The enormity of what he had done brought home a sickening surge of guilt which threatened to overwhelm her, and she felt tears prickling at her eyes. His fingers squeezed hers slightly, which only served to widen the lump in her throat. She had linked their fingers to try to help him during the re-telling, but he had now ended up trying to comfort her. The constant role reversal was becoming routine. She couldn't even look at him. Hestia was speaking, still with that infuriatingly calm voice.
"And what happened after that?"
Draco took a deep breath. "I stayed in the mountains for as long as I could, but there was nothing there really. I didn't have a wand, I didn't have any food stored. I had some money and clothes packed there, in case of an emergency, but nothing substantive. After a couple of days, I Apparated to Ollivanders. It was still closed up. Luckily, a wand there chose me. And then I just… carried on."
"Did you know the Death Eaters were after you?"
"I gathered," he said bitterly. "Killing Fenrir was enough to sign my death warrant with them."
"That's why Pavarti isn't as scared of you, right?" Harry said. "Because you saved her from him?"
"I didn't really do it for her. I wanted him dead-"
She heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him and looked up sharply to find him hunching over himself, his eyes screwed shut. She glanced quickly at Hestia, who was looking at her with an eyebrow arched in a wordless question. She shook her head slightly in response, finally managing to drag herself back into the conversation after the shock of the revelation. Before she could ask him how he was, he was suddenly shifting forwards as if to get up. Her hands hovered over his arm worriedly.
"Draco?"
"Goin' for a smoke," he ground out through clenched teeth, levering himself out of the chair. He shot Hestia a half-hearted sneer. "If you're finished?"
She nodded, her face as unreadable as ever. Hermione wanted to tell him to sit down, tell him to forget the bloody cigarettes for a minute, but her mouth was dry and stiff after hearing the story. She couldn't. Instead, she watched him head over the stairs, her eyes trained on his stiff shoulders. He was moving awkwardly, his brow furrowed tightly, one arm wrapped around his injury. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was pushing himself too far, that something bad was going to happen, but she bit her tongue. She doubted he would appreciate her badgering him about his fragility in front of Hestia, Harry and Ron. She could understand his wish to get a couple of minutes away from Hestia's questions. He disappeared through the door, and she heard his slow footsteps on the stairs. They paused a couple of times before diminishing into silence. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding and dropped her head into her hands, the lump in her throat forcing itself closer to a sob.
"So," Hestia said conversationally. "I suppose now we have all the pieces of the puzzle."
"Hermione?"
She had to force back the tears burning behind her eyes before she looked up. Harry had moved forwards to sit on the edge of his seat, leaning towards her, his green eyes earnest. She felt again the sob rising in her chest and looked away quickly before it could give her away.
"Hermione, it isn't your fault-"
"Of course it is," she said harshly, keeping her voice as low as she could. "He's in this state because of me. It should've been me – Bellatrix was aiming for me-"
"She was aiming for everyone," Harry protested. "Bellatrix was a lunatic – Malfoy was her own nephew, and even that didn't stop her. Hermione – it isn't your fault."
His words beat against her skull numbly. She closed her eyes against them, still struggling to keep control. She felt like screaming. Finding out what had happened during the Battle had only made the months of silence afterwards more painful. Why, why hadn't she contacted him? Why hadn't he told her? She brushed at her eyes as hot moisture began to escape, tried to force in a deep breath.
"You didn't ask Mr. Malfoy to put himself in your place, Hermione," Hestia added quietly. She was sitting back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her face almost contemplative. "There's no point in blaming yourself. Although, I suppose this explains why the Death Eaters are quite so angry with Malfoy, considering there were so many others who broke ranks during the final Battle."
"You don't actually believe him?" Ron demanded incredulously, finally releasing the tide of words which Hermione had watched build behind his teeth for the last few minutes. "He's making it all up so that you'll let him off!"
"I do believe him, actually," Hestia replied levelly. "His story explains the curse, which was the main hole in my appraisal. There was no reason for the Death Eaters to cast that particular curse on Malfoy - they tend to be rather traditional, the powerful members especially. Bellatrix, mad as she was, never did anything without having a purpose. And, despite collecting accounts from everyone present at the Battle, we have not yet discovered how Greyback was killed. I assume Miss. Patil will be able to confirm or deny the story."
"But - But it's obviously bullshit!" Ron cried. "He's just playing you to-"
"You think you wouldn't react if Voldemort killed your mother?" Hermione snapped back, her voice wobbling fiercely. "You think you wouldn't want to fight?"
"I don't think Mr. Malfoy is 'playing me', as you so eloquently put it, Ron," Hestia said, interrupting before Ron could respond. "Although, of course, any new information from today does not negate that given in previous sessions."
"He killed Greyback," Hermione said, trying to make her voice as firm as possible through the wobbling. "He saved Pavarti - he saved me. I'd be in his shoes now if he hadn't been there."
Hestia stood up slowly from the table, placing her hand on the back of the chair she had been in. "I understand that, Hermione, but his actions during the Battle don't necessarily go beyond revenge over the death of his mother. Of course, they will be considered."
She turned her gaze on Harry, who had remained silent throughout the discussion. He looked rather pale, his mouth a firm line, his lip caught between his teeth. He blinked out of his daze and looked up at her as she spoke, wringing his hands uncertainly on the tabletop.
"I'm assuming, since you didn't speak up, that Malfoy's version of events fits with your timeline during the Battle?"
Harry nodded slowly. "I saw him duelling with Bellatrix, I think. Like I said before. I think it fits, chronologically at least."
"Right." Hestia tugged her coat straight. "I will report back to a the board of Aurors to iron out any final inconsistencies. If anything arises in the meantime, owl me."
Harry nodded again. Hermione bit back a scream of frustration as Hestia turned and headed out of the kitchen and into the stairwell beyond. As the door slammed behind her, a stony, violent silence descended on them. Ron's eyes were fixed rigidly on the table, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed coldly. Harry cleared his throat, looked at both of them uncertainly.
"Well. That... That makes this whole thing make sense, at least."
"It was my fault," Hermione repeated bleakly. "I can't believe he didn't say anything..."
"Hermione..." Harry shook his head. "It's ok. You didn't ask him to-"
"But it happened," she replied tearfully, shooting him a sharp look. "And nothing can change that."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the door swung open before he could speak. Hermione looked up, expecting Hestia, but instead saw George making his way into the room, Draco close behind him. She half-rose from the table, stopped, hesitated - but he was coming over to her already, George remaining close beside him.
"Hestia gone already?" George said, glancing around at them all.
"Yeah," Harry said, sitting up a little straighter, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "She had to... to get going."
Dean, Ginny and Luna appeared in the doorway as Draco sat down - Hermione barely noticed them arrive. She inched forward on her seat, resisting the urge to reach for his hand, trying to catch his eye. He looked tired still, his eyes slightly glazed, his face tight, but he smiled at her all the same. His fingers reached for hers, and she shifted instantly to let their hands entwine again. She wished they were alone - they needed to talk. Everything he had just said was too much to simply let pass by. She tried to indicate with her eyes that they should head upstairs, but George was speaking, leaning for the fridge.
"Butterbeer, anyone?"
"If you're buying," Draco replied, glancing over his shoulder.
The others agreed too, and before she knew it, Hermione had been overruled.
~O~
Outside on the front step, he hadn't been able to make his wand work.
He had tried several times, but the place where the magic came from had turned dark. So he had eventually abandoned the cigarette, fuming silently, and made his way back inside. To his relief, it had been George he had seen. George was beginning to represent normality, and it was good to feel normal again. Especially after a conversation like that.
He settled into the chair in the kitchen, one hand idly tracing the rim of his butterbeer, the other wrapped in Hermione's grip on the tabletop. He would never admit it to her, but holding her hand in front of Weasel filled him with childish glee. Ron's ears were bright red and his gaze was fixed rigidly on Luna, even though he surely couldn't be interested in her commentary on Helga Hufflepuff's Horde of Harpies, The Quibbler's most recent article. He smiled widely, glanced at Hermione, and realised with a thrill that she was looking at him. She blushed slightly, averted her gaze, and then slid it back over to his face, raising and lowering one shoulder in a shy shrug. He traced the bow of her lips with his eyes, felt a pleasant shiver run through him. Maybe he could suggest that she stayed with him that night. In a non-nursemaid fashion. His smile grew wider and he lifted his beer, tearing his eyes away.
"I don't take kindly to people who fuck Mudbloods, Draco."
The voice ripped into him like a dagger. His reaction was instantaneous – the bottle tumbled from his hand, sending butterbeer spattering across the table, his wand was out and pointed in the direction of the voice, his chair shoved backwards. His gaze snapped up to the opposite end of the table, where a tall, impossibly pale figure was sitting regally. Red eyes narrowed and a lipless smile spread over the familiar, skeletal face.
"I expected more. Whatever can we do?"
Draco lurched to his feet, every nerve on edge. His body was trembling violently, his ears filled with a dull roaring. He blinked fiercely, but the figure didn't disappear. It was real. He lifted his wand, his chest growing increasingly tight, cold sweat prickling on his back. Small, pointed teeth bared in a grin.
"Oh, come now, Draco. Don't be silly."
He couldn't breathe. His lungs were frozen, only able to admit tiny sips of air. The whole world seemed to have blacked out but for that figure at the table, the figure who was lifting a long-nailed hand.
"Nagini…"
A shiny, blunt head appeared over the edge of the table, and Draco lost all control. He jerked backwards, the chair flying out from under him, and sent a wild curse at the snake. It made no difference, and the horrible, sleek body wove its way across the table towards him undeterred. He stumbled backwards, wand still drawn, until the kitchen cabinet came up against the small of his back. He tried to think of another spell but his mind was blank, his tongue leaden. Shit, he couldn't breathe. Fuck, fuck. The snake was coming closer.
"Get the fuck away from me," he managed to force out.
"Don't worry, Draco, Nagini's very friendly." The pale figure rose to its feet, and a wand emerged from the folds of its robes. "So friendly, in fact, that she'll see to it that you're reunited with your dear mother in no time."
Draco tried to aim his wand but his arm wouldn't work. He couldn't breathe. He was beginning to feel dizzy and sick and cold all at once, and the more he struggled to pull himself together, the worse it all got. The red eyes zeroed in on him from across the room and his chest abruptly seared with agony. His throat closed and he felt his knees give out from under him, felt the pain coming at him in waves…
"Draco! Draco!"
A faceless silhouette came out of nowhere and seized his wand, trying to wrestle it off him. He couldn't look away from the snake as it reached the end of the table and began its descent towards him. His arms were being held down – it must have reached him, even though it looked to still be advancing. Hands came down on his face, ice cold against his blazing skin, and he flinched automatically.
"Draco!"
He flinched, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the snake was gone, replaced by huge brown eyes and a mass of bushy hair. He was sitting on the floor, crammed into the corner between the kitchen cabinets, and Hermione was practically on top of him. And two other people were there – George Weasley, Potter – both holding onto his arms. He suddenly realised that his wand was out and pointed towards the table – George Weasley was pinning it and his wrist to the cabinet with all his strength, his teeth gritted with the effort. Sparks lurched from the tip, and Draco let go with jerky fingers – the wand tumbled to the ground. Hermione caught at him and he looked at her, filled with confusion, his heart still thundering in his chest.
"Draco," she said fiercely. "You have to calm down, right now. Start breathing. Now!"
He recognised the rapid, hyperventilating gasps currently rushing in and out of his mouth and made a conscious effort to slow them. It took some time – that crushing feeling had returned to his windpipe, like a hand gripping his neck – but at last he managed to gulp down more air, felt his racing heart begin to slow. His head fell back against the cabinet, and George and Potter gingerly released him. Hermione let out a huge sigh of relief and sat back on her heels, still holding onto him gently with trembling hands.
"Alright?" she murmured.
It was only then that he remembered what had caused all the trouble in the first place. Fear lanced into him once more, and he scrabbled desperately up to his feet. To his surprise, George and Potter were there on either side of him to keep him upright when he found that his legs had turned to jelly. He clutched at the kitchen cabinet for support as he scanned the kitchen, searching for any trace of the snake, or of the robed figure. Nothing. Only Luna Lovegood, Weasel, Ginny Weasley, and Dean Thomas backed up against the opposite wall, wands drawn.
"Malfoy?"
He blinked at the mention of his name. It was Potter. Potter, who for some reason still had hold of his arm and was holding out his abandoned wand. He met the green-eyed gaze currently boring into him, blinked again.
"Malfoy, maybe you should sit down?"
Green eyes, filled with unconcealed, friendly concern. And a jagged lightning scar.
"I almost had him! He was in my grasp!"
Fangs embedding in his shoulder, blood cascading down his neck – he clamped a hand over the old scars reflexively, pulled away from Potter, almost lost his balance. He could feel his breathing growing tight and fast again, and another violent jolt of pain shuddered through him. He clenched a hand over his chest, swore thickly – hands suddenly came down on him and pushed him down into a chair. He doubled over at once, screwing his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes. Jesus, he had no idea if he was dreaming or not. What had happened that day? Was it possible he was still asleep in his room, and not in the kitchen? He pounded a fist against his forehead.
Wake up, wake up…
"Draco?"
The voice was softer now, less urgent. He opened his eyes to find Hermione crouching just in front of him, her hand resting on his knee. He reached for her and almost groaned with relief when his hand was able to feel hers, solid and real. She watched him with concerned, wide brown eyes.
"Are you back with us?" she murmured.
He jerked his head. "Fuck, I don't know," he muttered, horrified to hear how much his voice was shaking. He wet his lips. "Did… Did you see it?"
She glanced up furtively, and he suddenly realised that Potter was standing right beside them, arms folded, brow furrowed.
"See what?"
A sharp twinge in his neck had him flinching again. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something shimmering and scaly move. Fear jittered through him like an electric shock. He shook his head, forced himself to breathe deeply, all too aware of the dampness on his forehead and the way his hands were shaking. His body refused to stop panicking. But she was still there, still rubbing his leg encouragingly, and when he looked up her brown eyes anchored him in reality. He breathed.
"What happened?" he asked eventually.
"Not sure. You just got scared," she said. "You pointed your wand at Harry."
He looked up quickly at Potter, who was simply frowning. The other boy smiled half-heartedly and shrugged, holding Malfoy's wand out once again. He took it slowly.
"Lucky you've got such crap aim, right Malfoy?"
"This isn't a joke!" Ron suddenly spoke up from across the room. "Harry, he could've killed you!"
"What happened?" Hermione pressed on, ignoring him. "What did you see? You looked like you… went somewhere else."
He didn't want to tell her. The shame of admitting it coupled with the embarrassment of being seen cringing at nothing on the kitchen floor was crushing. But he knew he had to explain himself – Weasel's voice had set an air of tension in the room, and Potter was still looking at him with wary concern. He spread his fingers over his temples, trying to sooth the thumping pain residing there.
"Nothing," he muttered. "Just… see things sometimes. Things that aren't there."
"What did you see?" George Weasley asked.
"The Dar… Voldemort," he said lamely. "Sitting over there."
He indicated the chair at the head of the table, which Harry had recently vacated. The others turned to look at it, as if expecting Voldemort to leap out of one of the cupboards and start a rampage. Ginny managed a hesitant laugh.
"What, having a cup of tea with us?"
"He was just angry, as usual. And then…"
A jab of pain hit him and he broke off with a gasp. Wide red mouth, white pearly fangs flashed across his mind and he flinched again before he could stop himself. Hermione snatched for his hand and held on tightly, and he tried to remind himself to breathe. His head was beginning to throb in hard, violent lurches, and he finally cottoned on to what was about to happen. He forced his eyes open, managed to find her face swimming a few inches away from his own.
"What the fuck is going on?" Weasel's voice was demanding from across the room. "You do realise you just threatened someone, right?"
"Ron, don't," came Harry's voice, a little quieter. "This isn't the time-"
"When the fuck is the time? Are we supposed to just pretend this didn't happen?"
The stabbing pain came again, and Draco noticed with a jolt that he was shaking violently. He reached desperately for Hermione's hand, felt a rush of fear as the pain in his chest began to climb.
"Shit... shit."
"Draco?"
She was still there, right beside him. He clutched at her, unable to stop the frantic terror which was beginning to take him over. His breathing was becoming tight and fast, and no matter what he did he couldn't make it even out. A groan escaped him before he could stop it. He was sure the others were still talking, but their voices were melting into a dull roar somewhere above his head. All he could do was try to form words through his clenched teeth, try to communicate to Hermione what was happening. He couldn't bear to let it happen in front of all of them again.
"We have... have to go..."
"We can't leave anyone alone with him!" someone was shouting, their voice crackling with anger. "He's fucking dangerous, and a Death Eater, and you're still letting him live here-"
"Back off, Ron, for fuck's sake!" That person sounded like George, but an angrier, more impatient George than the one Draco had shared a bottle of whiskey with the other night. "You're acting like a child."
"Me? Whose side are you on? He's not Fred."
A dangerous, stiff pause. "You better stop talking, Ron. Now."
"Draco? Draco?"
Small hands on his face, lips close to his ear. She was holding onto him, trying to reach him, but he felt like his mind kept dropping out. Darkness swarmed in on him and he fought it back desperately, tried to focus on her, on her brown eyes, her lips, her hands on the side of his neck. He forced his mouth to move, made himself speak.
"Upstairs... please..."
"Hermione? Is he-"
The world suddenly turned on its head, and for a horrible moment he thought it was starting. But then he was impacting with the floor of his attic bedroom - he recognised it at once from the metal leg of the IV stand. He was on the ground, lying on his side, his whole body still twitching violently, but she was there too. Her long bushy hair was swinging around him and her hands were flying over him. He could hear her voice, shrill and panicked.
"Hold on, I'm getting the nightshade, hold on-"
He wanted to tell her that it was too late, that the curse was already starting, but the words didn't make it to his mouth. Before he could even draw breath, agony pierced his chest like a literal knife and he was screaming, curling in on himself, screaming with air he didn't know he had. Again the blackness drove in on him, and when he came back to himself she was there beside him, trying to get him to drink something. But it was impossible - the pain was everywhere, in his head, in his chest, in his very blood. He couldn't breathe, could not even speak to her to tell her it was going to be all right. He knew it was starting, and he realised that he had forgotten how much it fucking hurt. The last thing he was aware of before the air was ripped from his lungs was her palm against his cheek.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.