Shaelune

Part 13

Missing Old Men and Secrets

Ireland was wet and verdant in the springtime, the smell of fresh earth rising from the foggy hillsides as rain poured down on them. The glass-and-brick inn nestled in those hills, its colored windows battered by the storms, was quiet and unassuming; it was early morning, but the clouds were so thick that they hid the faint sun. No students roamed the gardens so early in the day, so they were silent, their tiles flooded with rainwater and the roses turned thirstily up towards the sky.

Twined together in a bed of dewy grass below a gnarled oak in the corner of the gardens, two travelers lay in exhausted sleep. The boy's shirt hung open on either side of his chest, exposing his English-pale but well-defined muscles; his stark black hair was disheveled, a combination of its normal disarray and limp sleep. His usual glasses were nowhere to be found. The girl, cradled in possessive arms, pressed her hot cheek against his shoulder and let her bright hair fall across his marble-Adonis stomach; her dress was crumpled in a pile of molten gold at the base of the tree. Like lovers in some Renaissance play, they would awake in a daze as fogged as the morning that swathed them in chilled steam. Though their memories would be clouded and dreamlike, they would understand the inexplicable sense of belonging and love that would bind them together for the next two years.

That same rain pounded, muffled, against the thin walls as Hermione and Draco ventured down the hallway toward the teachers' quarters. An uncomfortable silence had fallen between them, making Hermione uneasy and forcing her to occupy herself with a slim leather copy of The Prince. Sophisticated Muggle literature always felt to her like a subtle mockery of Malfoy, since it represented the very opposite of the bumbling idiots he considered non-wizards to be. He glanced over every now and then, eyeing the gilt lettering stamped on its front with a mixture of apprehension and interest. Hermione smiled inwardly and turned the page.

They rounded a corner, and suddenly were faced with a wall. Malfoy looked down again at the scroll on which a map of the inn was printed.

"It says Professor Dumbledore's quarters' right here," he insisted, then gestured wildly at the dark, wooden barrier before them. "All I see is a wall."

Hermione folded her book back into the pocket of her skirt and stepped back, surveying the wall.

Malfoy's glare deepened. "What, do Mudbloods have super-vision now?"

"I'm just checking for secret doors! God, you're insufferable!"

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow and sent a disdainful look over her, then turned back to his map. Hermione leaned carefully over his shoulder and held her wand, tip glittering warmly, close to the paper. "You're right," she admitted with a sigh. "I guess we're just not supposed to be here. Dumbledore must want us to do the projects entirely on our own."

"Stupid old arsehole," Malfoy muttered as he jammed the map into the inside of his robe.

Hermione whipped around. "He is the most goodhearted and kind and wise wizard in the world, Malfoy," she hissed dangerously. "Don't insult him unless you want a good, firm kick to the balls."

Malfoy raised both eyebrows. "Ooh, threats from the five-foot witch in heels and a skirt. Really, Granger, I'm about to piss my trousers I'm so frightened."

Hermione scowled and fixed Malfoy with a heated glare, then kicked him squarely between the legs and stalked off. "Try impregnating me now, you inbred piece of shit!"

He waited until she was out of sight before crumpling to his knees in shock and pain.

Hermione walked in an angry furor through the entire mansion, taking the scenic route through hall after hall of sleeping portraits and flight after flight of spiraling stairs, until she found herself in the quaint café, heavily populated with students eating breakfasts of flaky pastries and fresh coffee. The sky was pale but gray; bright glare from the sun streamed through the picture windows, causing Hermione to shield her eyes as she scanned the crowd for two familiar heads of red hair. Spotting Ron, Harry and Ginny in a round booth by the entrance to the bar, she pushed past the onrush of teenagers and set out for them.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she met Ron's gaze. He gave her an icy glare, then averted his eyes, finding something extremely interesting in the gardens outside. Ginny was looking up at her, eyes beaming a message obviously of great import, but Hermione could not read it, and the youngest Weasley simply shook her head. Harry's head was buried in his hands; he was trembling slightly, and his hair was damp from the rain.

Hermione slid into the booth beside Ron, who quickly inched away from her, and leaned forward. "Are you three all right?"

Harry didn't answer, and Ron didn't even acknowledge her presence. Ginny winced. "We're fine- are- are you okay, Hermione?"

"What are you talking about?" She laughed uneasily and stared into the coffee that had materialized in front of her moments earlier. "I'm great!"

"Happy for you," Harry mumbled from behind his hands.

Reaching out instinctively, Hermione grasped his wrist and his head lifted. He looked fine, if a little tired and red-eyed. She dropped his arm and turned, gaze swiveling from Weasley to Weasley. "What is wrong? You're all acting so strange!"

"You should know," Ron spat, still not looking at her. "I'm sure you're fine."

"What are you TALKING about?" Hermione stood half up, supporting herself on the table and causing the coffee cups to rattle. The only things that would trouble them about her were things they would never know about. What she did with Malfoy was her business- Hermione scolded herself mentally. She hadn't done ANYTHING with him voluntarily! NOTHING!

Ginny and Harry were holding their breath as Ron slowly turned back to the angry brunette next to him. Everything else seemed to have gone silent as he spoke. "You slept with him, Hermione," he whispered, sounding shocked and sad at his own words. "You. Had. Sex. With Malfoy.

"I saw you two in the library last night," Ron said scathingly, eyes boring into hers.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but words wouldn't come. She slowly sat down, trying to figure out- how- why- how could things have gone this far? It was just supposed to be a school project

"It's not what you think, Ron," she said helplessly, though she knew he wouldn't believe her.

She was right. "It's exactly what I think! Damn it, Hermione, he was on top of you. You were naked- both of you! What the fuck would make you do that?" He was looking for a closing expletive, and settled for a vehement "Hell!"

"Please, Ron- it's not- Hermione would never do that," Ginny said softly, tears coming to her own eyes.

Ron hadn't stopped looking at Hermione. "I thought so, too."

Harry was silent.

Hermione inhaled deeply and pressed her lips together, then looked upward to will the stubborn tears back into the recesses of her eyes. "I don't know what else to tell you."

Ron started impatiently. "You don't-"

Harry looked up, finally, face gray, and glared Ron into silence. "Tell us it's not true, that it was someone else. Anything."

Hermione felt the floodgates open and the hot sting of tears blur her vision. They wouldn't understand- there was no one- it was only Malfoy, but oh, it was so complicated and he was the only one who knew, he who she had never been able to talk to or be friends with. She was trapped in a cage with a venomous dragon and her friends were on the outside watching, clutching and pounding at the bars- pounding like the blood rushing to her head, echoing her heartbeat and the silent drums of Harry and Ron and Ginny's expectation.

"I can't- I can't tell you," she gasped finally, choking back the sobs and hating herself and everyone else all at once. Then, trying to compose herself and failing, she stood shaking and managed to collapse inside the bar before the tears came rushing out in a frantic painful flood of teenage emotion and angst.

Walking with a limp, Draco made his way down to the lobby for breakfast. Granger's angry heel-marks were stamped into the brown carpet like footprints in snow, and he followed them at leisure, stopping every now and then to refresh the Chilling Charm he'd cast on his- er- area. He expected her to be laughing it up as usual, pretending he didn't exist, with the Weasels and Potter, but she wasn't there; they all glared hotly at him as he walked by, so he raised a returning eyebrow in curiosity. Weasley gave him the finger; Draco twirled his wand and made an even ruder gesture with it. The Weasel Princess blushed, even giggling a little. He smirked flirtatiously at her before he vanished into the dark space of the empty bar, following the new trail of Granger-prints.

He found her slumped in a shadowy corner, a pitiful pile of brown hair and arms thrown askew as she sobbed quietly. A barely-touched goblet of familiar violet liquid rested on the glossy black table beside her. Sliding into the seat across from her, he sat silently, not sure what to do- every cry ripped from her throat tore uneasily at his heartstrings, but he never comforted anyone.

"He knows," she finally whispered, and slowly looked up, brown curls falling out of her face and eyes that were a pool of dark quicksand drawing him in.

Ripping himself away from her invasive, deathly eyes, he responded. "Who- who knows?"

"Ron," she hissed. "He saw us in the library last night!"

Sarcasm escaped him before he could choke it back. "At last, a witness."

"Ugh!" Granger let a half-smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "You're such a pervert, Malfoy."

"I'm good at what I do," he shot back, feeling a rush of triumph at having cheered her up without patting her back and whispering "It's okay, it's okay"

Although he would- sort of- like to do that.

Her shoulders were still shaking with hiccups of mixed tears and sighs, her head was still bent. And- indirectly, but still- he had done this to her. Maybe if he hadn't been so cruel, so blatantly uncaring, maybe the perfect enigma of a witch sitting across from him wouldn't be crying so hard.

But then the sensitive regret tentatively rising in his mind was overpowered and killed by the angry Malfoy heritage that forced his entire life into a predetermined path, never asking, never stopping; he wanted to cry out, too, to stop the onrush of slurs and hate and violence that pounded like stormwater through his veins, cold and pale and turning them to stone- cry out and reach for her like a golden rock holding steadfast through the thunder. Hermione Granger could pull him from the silent surrender he fell into again and again and again, pushed and diving and tossed by frozen rain and chilling winds. He hated it, feared it, and yet let it take him again and again, like a loved rapist. No- not a person, an entity, a horrible, awful drug, mind-blowing opium lit with ice and giving rise to perfect endless fumes. Addictive. Dangerous.

Fatal.

Hermione watched as Malfoy's eyes, eyes that moments ago had been silver fires sparked with wit and victory, slowly froze over and his light smirk hardened into the oh-so-Malfoy sneer she knew so well. He turned the eyes on her, glaring at her, quiet and alarmingly knowing.

"So what if Weasley saw? Probably got a kick out of it, he doesn't get any by himself, does he?"

Hermione felt a defiant blush rising in her cheeks. "Malfoy, I-"

"Does it look like I care?" He reached into his pocket and long fingers found a rough gold coin, which he shoved onto the table in front of her. "You're so fucking honorable that you'll never take the simple way out, will you? Just make it easy on yourself for once."

"What easy way out?" she asked quietly, not meeting his eyes.

"Tell them I raped you."

Hermione watched him fade into the silver sunlight. It was nice of him to pay, she thought absently as she fingered the coin, her delayed-shocked mind refusing to process what he'd just said.

Tell them he'd raped her.

Now that she thought about it, it made perfectly good sense. They all knew Malfoy was a sodding wanker. It was completely in character for him to do something stupid and dangerous and brazen, like raping a muggleborn. If Harry or Ron or someone went to Dumbledore well, they wouldn't be able to go to Dumbledore, would they? He was absent-without-leave for the time being, and by the time he returned, she and Malfoy could tell Dumbledore the truth. And it wasn't like she cared much about Malfoy's feelings.

That Raisin Tempest was looking pretty appealing right about now; Hermione reached for the glass and curled two fingers around it, admiring the glasswork that carved a sparkling emerald vine around the stem and rimmed the glass with jewel-sugared grapes. She could smell the headily aromatic rum already. Why not? she argued, tilting the bowl to see the thickness of the liquid. After all, Malfoy had already paid for it. Couldn't hurt.

She downed it in the first swallow.

Draco stalked outside to find some shade from that headache-inducing glare; he spotted a leafy trellis over a stone wall a few dozen yards away, and had already sat down on one of the cold benches before he realized where he was.

The courtyard looked no different than it had three days ago, when he had last been here. The pool's waters rested dark and dormant; the strange white flowers along the wall still bloomed fragrantly. The stone was damp from last night's rain.

And then, without warning, the ache in his head switched to a sharp, urgent pain on the left side of his chest, which shocked his muscles enough to collapse him to the flagged ground. He found that the closer he got to the courtyard exit, the less pain there was; by the time he had crawled his way back to the café patio, the pain was just a dull ache in the left side of his ribcage. He stopped moving and leaned back against the cool wall of the mansion.

Just when he thought the pain had receded, it stabbed back, so hard and fast and sharp that he almost expected blood to pour from his chest. Where now?

Going inside seemed to work; it lessened as he passed the now-empty table that the Weasels had shared with Potter earlier, and spread faintly when he entered the bar. The booths and barstools were completely empty, as though a teacher had scoured the room. But of course, that wasn't right. Dumbledore and McGonagall had vanished.

And the room wasn't completely empty

Draco's eyes found the unconscious Granger across the empty room, and realized exactly how stupid he had been.

~~~Author's Note~~~

God, guys, I am so sorry this took this long! I have been really busy with school, but that's not really an excuse. Anyway, this is kind of a bridge chapter to hold you over until I can really put some work into it. I hope you liked it; I got some ammunition from watching Moulin Rouge like three times last week (don't ask me why that helps, it just does). I should probably work on One Lesson Left and Anyone Perfect Must Be Lying and I will. When I can. But thank you so much for reviewing! It makes my day! And more than anything keep reading! I promise it will get better!

LF,

~goldenberry~