Truth in the Eyes of an Enemy: Chapter 3
Author's Note: Nice to see you all here to read the third chapter of my rather word-hefty fic. I'm so glad you like it! Please read and review as always and I will be a very happy person. Yay. To those who reviewed before:
Enter the Extinct Age- Thank you, Red! I love getting reviews like yours, it really tells me what exactly I have to be looking at as I write these chapters, please keep reviewing. I'm sorry I haven't had much time but I will most definitely read your fic. I hope you like this chapter, a few unexpected things happen in it, but you know, Draco's character is so deeply entrenched in his roots, he has to change slowly. And he will never be someone who likes pet rabbits, if you take my meaning. Woohoo! Thank you so much!
Lady Rhiyana- Thank you for your fantastic review. As to Goose, I think you will be able to see in this chapter that he is a very strong person despite his age, in contrast with Draco's intense but weak identity. Goose will be a good influence on him, I think, as long as he's around…keep on reading, and I will most definitely try to retain the same level of introspection that I have been using in my first two chapters.
Reiven- yay! I'm glad. The lake's going to be frozen soon, anyway. Then there's no way I can jump in it! Obviously. I'm such a non-sequiter, excuse me. Thank you for the lovely review!
bobby- glad you like it! Yes, I love Goose too, not to be arrogant. He will have a very interesting future, so please keep reading.
lipstickandbruises- Thank you for your review, I'm happy you like my story. Please keep reading and keep reviewing, dear friend.
Leigh- Yay! I finally have chapter three up! Inconceivable, isn't it? Well anyway, I'll see you in school, thanks for the review, buddy!
Nikki- I've updated! Thank you for your compliment! Please keep reading!
Electryone- You are the one who sees my true purpose to writing this story. I despise when characters are lost in vapid clichés…they almost implode, you know? Please keep reading and be sure to tell me if I'm doing the unthinkable. Thank you so much for your review!
mei- Your wish is my command! Please enjoy!
The Possession of Miss Weasley
Draco was hoping that the next day would drift by in a slow fashion, allowing him to think on all the things he was now expected to do and how he should behave. However, Lady Luck merely sneered on him, as she usually did, and sent the day by in a whirlwind of quidditch practice, meals, and classes. He wasn't expecting to come to half the conclusions he did that day. Every time he thought about it, Draco felt ashamed of his rash decision to show Dumbledore his mark and immediately agree to help him. He was being reckless and as his father usually told him, supremely unintelligent.
After classes, Goose hunted him down for a chat, worrying about how Draco was hanging his head "so low I fear it might brush the ground!" He said this with a chuckle, of course, but Draco couldn't find it as humorous as his friend did. He confided in Goose only that Dumbledore had asked Draco's help and he felt guilty about agreeing to it. But it wasn't just that, he felt (though he didn't tell Goose these thoughts) guilty…or he regretted something.
At this point, he couldn't truly tell them apart from one another. It couldn't be anything to do with his father. Any way Draco could possibly spite him, he would. He didn't love his father anymore. In fact, it had been years since he had felt anything more than an alliance between them. Draco laughed darkly. Even that was gone now. His father had only one purpose in Draco's life, and that was to keep his reputation up with the right people. Or were they the wrong people? He couldn't descry that either. But then again, who did know who was good or bad? He had been betrayed by his family and "friends" too much to know. No one was good or bad. They just were. He just was. In any case, the alliance with his father had been broken, and that was the only aspect of his decision that didn't make him want to become ill all over the ground his head was so nearly sweeping.
"Well, I'm sorry mate, but think of it this way: how many of the rest of us will get to help Dumbledore in his secret business?" Goose was trying to encourage him. Draco jerked his senses away from space and his plagued thoughts of past occurrences he could do nothing to change, telling himself it didn't matter, and turned to Goose.
"You're most likely right. I'll attempt to think of this situation more…optimistically. Excuse my disposition, I'm rather tired."
Now he caught a glimpse of a clump of Slytherin boys about the same age as him on the other end of the courtyard, blatantly looking straight at him and muttering loudly to one another. Some were pointing and laughing. Others glowered in a menacing way. Draco's frown deepened in anger. He stood up, away from the wall he'd been leaning against and stared back coolly at the group that was moving toward him, malicious glints in their eyes, whether they be serious or mocking.
"Watch it, Goose. You might want to go somewhere else."
Goose looked up at him and at the boys and tore off, not desiring to be the only "ickle firstie" in a conversation held by a storm cloud of seventh years. Instead he stood inside the open air hallway and chatted with a few of his Ravenclaw friends about the Charms homework, sneaking glances at Draco every so often.
"What are you doin', hangin' out with him?" the (apparent) leader or the snarling pack asked Draco rather testily.
"He is a Slytherin. And a purebood. Am I not permitted to socialize with him?"
"He is not a Slytherin. Not a true one at any rate…jus' look at him! He's talkin' to people outside the house."
"And?" Draco insisted, patience hastily ebbing away. He closed his fists beside him, trying to control himself. The bell for dinner rang in the distance, leaving him and the Slytherin gang alone in the chilly courtyard. Draco swallowed down his apprehensiveness.
"And we happened to hear you were making a deal with Dumbledore," said another burly looking guy, rather slowly. Draco couldn't help thinking it must have taken him five minutes to think of saying it. They stared into him expectantly. It reminded Draco of his father. He gave them a wilting, disbelieving look and acted casual.
"Do you really think I would do such a thing? Of course I wouldn't," he put in quickly, the unconvinced looks on their faces frightening him. "I'm loyal to the Dark Lord for life!"
"We don' believe you," said the leader, shoving a deriding finger into Draco's chest. He stood his ground. "We saw you talkin' with that Weasley freak." He said this with the utmost contempt.
"She isn't a freak," Draco said softly. But as soon as the words had left his lips, he knew it had been a fatal mistake. The air was suddenly filled with atrocious names they were swearing at him. With a wham! all the breath had been knocked out of him; an absence that shocked more than harmed his fragile state. He staggered and fell back against the wall; a particular one of the stones grinding its jagged edge into his spine. Someone gave him a blow to the face. Draco could feel the thick flow of blood coming from his nose in an abundant stream; he could taste the warmth and iron of it in his mouth. They just wouldn't stop, though. With a dim thought, Draco wondered why he was being punished so brutally for so small a mistake! He could feel the soles of their shoes in his side and he knew he was no longer leaning against the wall. The scent of sweet grass filled his nostrils with the slight bitterness of the chlorophyll. It tickled his neck, cushioning some of the blows as if Hogwarts was taking his side, protecting him from the pain that coursed through his body, but more, from the anger that was taking over. They had no right to do this! But they did, no matter, couldn't hear him pleading through his clenched teeth. And then everything fell into darkness, and Draco knew that in the thick blackness it wouldn't hurt so badly anymore.
Someone was shaking him vigorously. There was an empty knot in his stomach that tightened as Draco opened his eyes to reveal Goose standing over him in a background of cobalt. The stars were double now, slowly returning to their natural place and natural number; they shined on him lucidly. He gasped in panic.
"What time is it?" He grabbed Goose by the collar, who appeared quite nonplussed at his sudden action, but pretending to be calm he said quickly,
"Mmm, around seven. I figured when you didn't come to dinner that something must have happened. Sorry, I-"
"I have to go," Draco said curtly and tried to get up. His ribs felt bruised, causing an excruciating sensitivity to his whole torso as he bent. "However, I, er," he tried to say without being too desperate.
"Yeah, I figured. Here," Goose remarked, holding out an abnormally large hand to help him up. With a reluctant struggle, he managed to find his feet and Goose genially let Draco lean on him to lead the way across the grounds to the majestic, dangerous Whomping Willow, which was looking a menacing greenish-gray in the early darkness. There had always been something rather strange about that tree, other than the obvious fact that it would violently attack anyone who came near its trunk. Draco couldn't quite put his finger on it. About halfway there, though, he realized the lack of respectability at being led by a first year through the grounds, as if Draco couldn't take care of himself. So he broke away, thanking Goose tersely for his aid and sending him back up to the warm castle.
He was limping slightly on his left ankle; it must have gotten twisted when he fell, or when they were kicking him. No big deal. He could just stop by the hospital wing and briefly see Madam Pomfrey about it after the meeting, which he was praying wouldn't be too long. The pain in his ribs seemed to be worsening.
Weasley was sitting just far enough from the tree that it couldn't touch her. She threw stones at it playfully and it reacted as if enraged, but she simply laughed lightly and carried on, quite amused with her new sport. Draco immediately straightened up, though it cost him some pain, and made sure that there was no blood on his face. He appeared decent and acceptable enough; his hair was a bit mussed and his robes stained by the grass, but that could be gotten from any activity pursued at Hogwarts. Other than that, he plastered the Malfoy smirk on his face, assumed an air of noble superiority, and continued walking. A haunting whisper echoed in his mind: "Let no one see your weaknesses."
She appeared to be angry as he approached her. Then he remembered what he had said to her the night before. His eyes fell to the ground and searched the grass for disguise from her guilt-bestowing expression. Or was it guilt? For the tenth time that day, it seemed, he was receiving that feeling he could not recognize. It was guilt, and it was regret, but still yet it was neither of those two. He could not find anything to say to her among the sharp green blades either. He couldn't…except a greeting, perhaps.
"Weasley," he said coldly.
She didn't say anything, but got up and raised her hand. Draco leveled his face to hers when he suddenly realized she was going to slap him. He probably deserved it, that he knew, though he couldn't help feeling a stab of hatred for her. She stopped. Gasping in shock, she stared at him open-mouthed. Apparently they had both divulged secrets, though. He could see she had been crying. Her face was a lovely, rosy hue and her cheeks were damp with the remains of a few tears. The dangerous brown eyes she beheld him with were slightly bloodshot.
"Malfoy!" she exhaled, lowering her hand, still looking him full in the face.
"What?" he shot back at her, being slightly pricklier than he should have been.
"Your face," she replied, ignoring his tone. Of course, he scolded himself; the punch would have left a nasty bruise around his jaw and cheek. He was always getting bruises there. She lifted her hand again and touched his face gingerly. The cold fingers tingled against his skin, warning him he was appearing vulnerable, taunting him. With a sudden intense fear of the consequences, Draco seized her wrist and stepped away from her.
"Don't touch me!" he bellowed…he had to say something to separate her from him more, though, or she would question him later. "Your poverty might rub off on me. We wouldn't want that." His voice reminded him so completely of Lucius that it wounded him. That statement left no sense of remorse untouched, especially as Weasley jerked her wrist away and gave him a bitter, disbelieving look.
Then something caught the attention of the pair. There was an unusual rustling noise coming from the entrance to the Forbidden Forest. For once, Draco was hoping to see Hagrid. But out from the thick growth of trees over a rugged path emerged a man with a gaunt, aged face, though he was much too young to come across with that appearance. His hair seemed to have grayed a lot more since the last time Draco had seen Professor Lupin. Lupin was smiling pleasantly, completely at ease, and walked directly towards them. Draco slipped his hand inside his robe pocket and tried to stand taller, but the exertion of energy he'd spent on keeping his ankle stable was starting to take its toll on him. His brow was sweating slightly, but he just gripped the wand in his pocket more firmly. Weasley wasn't at all afraid of the werewolf. In fact, she looked positively thrilled.
"Lupin!" She cried in a warm, welcoming voice as soon as he was near. Their former teacher grinned widely and accepted a joyful hug from the red-haired girl. Something flared up inside Draco when he saw her do that. She was hugging him? Why? He was merely an old professor, found out as nothing but a dangerous creature! That was nothing special. Frightening, possibly, but not positive in any way, shape, or form. Lupin pulled back from Weasley and looked over to Draco, holding out his hand in order to shake. It was a tentative move; a hope that some kind of change had taken place. Should he trust this man? He was capable of turning into a fearsome beast and inflicting his own fate if not death on other innocent victims. Then again, what did it matter? He was already risking his life to help his arch enemy, why not go against the rest of the instincts he was raised to possess? Draco took Lupin's hand and shook it firmly, looking boldly into the man's slightly sunken yet bright amberoid eyes.
"You're the one we're supposed to meet, then?" He asked, trying to feel completely calm about the whole situation.
"Yes, at least, I'm not aware of anyone else meeting you!"
Ginny laughed at his joke.
"All we need now is a little help from Crookshanks…who is right on time, as usual," he declared, checking his watch and staring past the two of them.
"Who?" Draco asked, confused.
"Hermione's cat," Weasley mumbled coldly at him. An orange, bottle-brush tailed cat, giant at that, strutted up to the former teacher and meowed loudly. It had a very ugly, squashed face. Draco noted to himself the striking intelligence of this creature as it proceeded to trot defiantly over towards the tree and had no trouble whatsoever avoiding its branches. Crookshanks stepped nimbly onto one of the twisted old roots, stood on its hind legs as though swatting an elusive butterfly, and its paw landed on a large knot in the trunk. Immediately the tree froze as stiffly as a statue. Draco gaped. Even Granger's cat had to be the best and smartest, Draco deliberated in frustration.
"Follow me," said Lupin simply, as though he regularly ventured through limbs of killer trees with a genius cougar-like creature to guide him. There was before them a hole in the ground that marked a gateway from the grounds of Hogwarts to its strange and fantastical underbelly, lying deep beneath the soil, where its soul lived, hibernating. Perhaps it was waiting for the right time to arise and assert its rights against the wizards that occupied its ancient chambers. Draco had never noticed this tunnel among the roots before. He allowed Weasley to go ahead of him and then followed hesitantly…descending into its darkness. They walked along the tunnel for fifteen minutes at least without being able to see a thing. Draco could hear Weasley in front of him; she was walking slower and slower, breathing heavily and trying too hard to keep her balance. He assumed she must be a bit claustrophobic. He could understand her fear, though. There was a disturbing nature to small, dark places, with no room to escape or hide, no room to maneuver or breathe. Not only that, he imagined, but the spirit of Hogwarts was present in the tunnel, stretching out its long arm to gain as much territory as it could. It was angry that they were down there, he pictured. It was so easy to envisage, though. The castle and its many enchantments, traditions, and functions had never been challenged, as if someone was too afraid to deny its power. He could see the bitter temper of the castle at hearing in its extra sensitive sense of ear that three strangers weaved along, careless, below its surface. With a slight sweep of dirt they would be dead, punished for going against the wishes of a watchful being. They continued for perhaps ten more minutes when Draco abruptly heard Weasley whimper and drop to the dirt floor.
"Lumos!" Draco chanted hastily, taking his wand out. Lupin turned round and lit his wand too. He kneeled down to examine Weasley, but Draco could see her from where he was standing. She appeared to have merely passed out, so he "nox!"ed the light and then pointed his wand at her chest. "Ennervate," he muttered quietly. She awoke with a brief start to see herself reflected in Draco's wintry eyes. He was plunged once again into the waters of the past he had no desire to face.
He was dressed in black, sitting in the huge, grand parlor of Malfoy Manor. It wasn't necessarily unusual for him to wear all black, but today was different. Today his colors represented something. He sat solitary, occupying a tall, burgundy velvet-upholstered chair with noble, wooden cobra arms. Draco looked up and across the room to see a simple black coffin. It was lying open for all to see its contents. No one in the room but he was crying. They all leered down at his dead mother with disapproving frowns. Lucius had an affected, tragic expression adorning his handsome face. Draco got to his feet and trudged slowly across the room until the corpse of his mother Narcissa came into view. She looked as snobby as she had ever been, but he missed her anyway.
A tear left his eye and he wiped it away, pretending he had dust in his eye. He missed her because she had a soft spot for him, a nice facet that hardly anyone saw but himself, her only son, and he would never see that again. He felt a terrible void; a strange, burning pressure in his chest that grew exponentially as he stared at her unnaturally pallid complexion. It was all he could do not to throw his arms around her and sob in fervor until she came back to comfort him. She was the only person who ever truly loved him for him. He restrained himself, though. It would not be appropriate to throw one's arms around a dead person's neck. When he turned around to return to his seat he saw his father flashing him a proud smirk, which quickly turned into a solemn glare. What could his father be proud of that he wouldn't want Draco to know about?
The others, too, were giving him strange looks: spiteful, confused, and some, especially his cousin Bellatrix, gave him ecstatic grins, a secret happiness in their faces. What role of importance did he possibly serve in all of this?
There was Weasley again, a welcome sight. With an enraged growl Draco turned away from her face which was etched with pity and mournfulness at the memory she'd just witnessed.
"Dumbledore warned me this might happen," said Lupin, shaking his head in perplexity. "Do you want to talk about it?" He sounded genuinely concerned.
"No!" They both answered rather loudly, voices echoing together, complementing each other through the long tunnel. Weasley realized how she must have sounded and quickly covered for herself.
"I mean, maybe now wouldn't be the best time for this. I'm sorry, I just lose my confidence…and, consciousness, obviously, when I'm in small places; just a strange idiosyncrasy of mine. I can go on now, really. Is it much farther?"
"No, not at all. Five more minutes and we'll be there." Lupin paused as he surveyed her face. She was biting her lip, something she usually resorted to when nervous or secretive, Draco had noticed. Lupin must have noticed something to this extent, because he seemed to be about to say something when he thought better of it. "Up you get," he said, helping her to her feet. He continued on with the slightest shake of his head, and Weasley followed, giving the slightest glance over her shoulder. Draco went after her, thinking over the much greater effect this strange vision of his past had on him than the ones before it. It was a strange sensation that remained in his stomach after the fact that kept him as if he was wading along in some unresolved, muddy issue. It was a confusing, entangling feeling that he severely disliked.
The tunnel ended abruptly and they came up, through the floor of an old house, boards were nailed on every window and door, furniture was strewn in ripped pieces across the rooms. A thick smell of dust and soil invaded Draco's nostrils and the floor he stood on creaked constantly, screaming at him for daring to set foot in a residence to which he wasn't invited. The place was all-around creepy.
"Oh!" Weasley breathed in excitement. "Is this the Shrieking Shack?" Realization grasped her flushed face. Lupin nodded simply.
"Ron and Hermione both told me all about this, when they were in their third year and they found out about Scabbers and that he was really Peter Pettigrew and that he was the one who betrayed Harry's mum and dad, it wasn't rea…it wasn't…S-Sirius," she finished reluctantly.
"It's alright; I think Sirius would want us to talk about him. It would just disappoint him to think we were pretending he didn't exist. Staying silent would not be honorable." Although a small smile appeared on Lupin's gaunt face, it wasn't difficult to discern his sadness, the look of a brother long abandoned. He went on and on, telling more about his departed friend's wishes as he led them down a staircase into the basement and lit the torches in a stone room which looked more like one of Snape's larger closets than like the lower level of a house.
Draco could recall the mad glee in his father's usually drawling voice when he described exactly how Black was hit by Bella's curse and fell behind the mysterious black veil. He almost felt sorry for the man's unfortunate life. He was blamed for a crime he didn't commit, spent how many years with the Dementors, just to get out, start helping Dumbledore, and immediately get killed. But with a violent push, he banned that mercy from his mind: it was treasonous to think that way. Not allowing itself to go so easily, the stab of pity returned, and Draco unwittingly allowed himself to be entertained. He didn't say anything of it, though. Words spoken were like a powerful weapon, easy to use for his own devices, and just as easy to turn back against him again. Better off with no weapon at all, he thought, biting his tongue.
With the chamber lit up, there was one odd thing about it; perhaps not odd, but highly noticeable besides the neat bookcases and table. There was a pile of random objects in the corner, stacked carefully so as not to break them. Clay pots, swords, musical instruments, and quills that appeared to serve no purpose sat as if waiting for them to arrive. Lupin walked over to the pile and picked out a decorative urn.
"These do have inscriptions on them, though their forms make the writing invisible. Ginny, your job is to transfigure these into a readable…erm, format? Your job, Draco, is to translate our findings and bring the information to my office. It's on the second floor, second door on the right. You can just slip them under the door, since I'm not here most of the time." He smiled, gave Weasley the urn and walked three steps away when Draco interfered.
"What exactly are these documents supposed to be?"
"Well, I suppose they could be a number of things, data mostly: lists, names, letters, records, plans."
"But how will we know when-" Weasley started, but Lupin already had an answer for her.
"Oh, you'll know it when you see it." With this said; Lupin turned on his heel and hurried from the room with a terse but pleasant good-bye, his eyes on the one window in the chamber. His steps echoed on the stone staircase as he departed. Draco swallowed, attempting to even out the stubborn lump in his throat at this strange situation and at realizing his pain once again. It seemed to have dulled by now, but there was still a rough strain he felt when he used the muscles in his stomach. He ignored it. As Weasley began to examine one of the ceramic vessels, Draco cast his eyes across the room, upon a tall, handsome bookcase which was placed up against one wall. It was completely full, overflowing with books of varied types of ancient and more modern runes in use or of possibility. Now, would the death eaters be basic, sophisticated, or difficult to handle? Obviously the last choice, thought Draco, drawing three books, of the most complex characters known, from their places on the dark ebony shelves.
Weasley analyzed the colorful urn in slight bewilderment and whipped out a long, thin, reddish-wooded wand. She tested several spells on the apparently ancient vessel. When she tried a scroll, the thick paper was blank; the same happened with notepads and stone tablets. She was beginning to get frustrated and Draco to get bored, watching her unsuccessful attempts and checking his watch seemingly every two seconds. He sighed impatiently, staring bluntly at her.
"What do you suggest, then, Malfoy?" Weasley asked rather vindictively.
"Another source of reading material. Maybe…a book?" Draco responded with an equally malicious tone, clenching his teeth slightly and holding up one of the books in his pale hand. No one ever spoke back to him.
"Yes, let's try that," she said as if cursing under her breath, smiling at him poisonously.
"Enlivro!" she cast angrily at the pot. In a full burst of thick green smoke the urn was replaced by a heavy old book, at least four inches thick and a foot long. She opened it reluctantly to see rows upon rows of tiny printed symbols filling every page. They stared up at her with a crude, threatening cryptic expression. Weasley seemed to have become entranced by them. She stared at the book with an absent longing in her eyes. They seemed hollow, empty. That disturbed Draco more than the lines of signs he was going to have to decipher. She grinned lifelessly and placed a hand on the first page with a noble and ruling gesture, a domineering glint in her movements. Draco was truly terrified now by her behavior. He'd never seen Weasley act like this.
"W-Weasley?" he stammered, unsuccessfully trying to sound derisive. He looked at her cautiously. She didn't reply, either, but an evil feeling was emanating from her smile, her eyes, her hand, and was starting to infect him. He backed away, but it struck swiftly. He felt the Power first in his arm and it spread quickly, suddenly, arbitrarily, he felt like a worthless piece of filth with nothing in the favor of his life. Why was he even here? If his father had been there he couldn't have made Draco any more completely hopeless than this strange creation of Weasley's. The torches in the room flickered as if the Power had tried to snuff them out with its putrid breath. Draco's eyes were pulling at him, trying to roll back inside his head, but he realized he wouldn't, he couldn't allow them that. He reached over and put his hand on top of hers.
"Weasley, please! Stop it!" He whispered it desperately, praying the Power wouldn't hear. It wasn't part of her, was it? She smiled with a horrible, frigid curve to her lips and raised her usually warm eyes from the text to his slate ones. Those weren't her eyes. The Power wasn't part of her. The orbs in her skull gleamed in an oily red, warning him they were watching him disobey. He clasped her fingers in his palm and wrenched her hand from the book with an effort created by the somehow magnetic pull of her hand to the pages. He had a hunch the book had something to do with this Power. Immediately she gasped as if she'd been drowning. The intake of air sounded like a resurrection to Draco, true life and passion flowing in her blood and bones once again. Her eyes turned their familiar brown hue and he realized that this vision-sharing would have to be controlled if they were going to be working together so closely.
"And we happened to hear you were making a deal with Dumbledore," said another burly looking guy, rather slowly. Draco couldn't help thinking it must have taken him five minutes to think of saying it. They stared into him expectantly. It reminded Draco of his father. He gave them a wilting, disbelieving look and acted casual.
"Do you really think I would do such a thing? Of course I wouldn't," he put in quickly, the unconvinced looks on their faces frightening him. "I'm loyal to the Dark Lord for life!"
"We don' believe you," said the leader, shoving a deriding finger into Draco's chest. He stood his ground. "We saw you talkin' with that Weasley freak." He said this with the utmost contempt.
"She isn't a freak," Draco said softly. But as soon as the words had left his lips, he knew it had been a fatal mistake. The air was suddenly filled with atrocious names they were swearing at him. With a wham! all the breath had been knocked out of him; an absence that shocked more than harmed his fragile state. He staggered and fell back against the wall; a particular one of the stones grinding its jagged edge into his spine. Someone gave him a blow to the face. Draco could feel the thick flow of blood coming from his nose in an abundant stream; he could taste the warmth and iron of it in his mouth. They just wouldn't stop, though. With a dim thought, Draco wondered why he was being punished so brutally for so small a mistake! He could feel the soles of their shoes in his side and he knew he was no longer leaning against the wall. The scent of sweet grass filled his nostrils with the slight bitterness of the chlorophyll. It tickled his neck, cushioning some of the blows as if Hogwarts was taking his side, protecting him from the pain that coursed through his body, but more, from the anger that was taking over. They had no right to do this! But they did, no matter, couldn't hear him pleading through his clenched teeth. And then everything fell into darkness, and Draco knew that in the thick blackness it wouldn't hurt so badly anymore.
They were looking at one another again. Weasley couldn't restrain the tears streaming down her face and with a softly uttered cry, took her hand away from his, ran across the room, and hurled herself down in a corner. She cradled her head on her knees in a nervous fit of sobbing. He couldn't help it. Whatever was left of Draco's conscience was forcing him to also cross the room and sit down next to her with an awkwardness he didn't usually display. He cleared his throat, anxiety having already placed his heart there.
"Did you- did you do that to me?" she asked almost incomprehensibly.
"Did I do what to you?" he defended himself, somewhat angered that she didn't care a whit for placing that still smoldering memory in front of him again.
"That hasn't happened since my first year here, when-w-when I wrote to him in my diary. He hasn't taken me like that for five years," she struggled to tell him.
"I don't understand. I didn't do anything, but I saw you change. Your eyes, they turned red…"
Weasley turned to him with a determined look and began telling him what happened the first year she attended Hogwarts. Draco's heart was filled with an ill sort of pity for her. With as much as he'd been through, he had to admit, being possessed by the Dark Lord was the worst experience he'd ever heard of before. When she'd finished telling him, she wiped her face on her sleeve and looked back to Draco again.
"So you didn't do that? Any of it?" she asked him once again, almost hopefully.
"No," he responded, shaking his head. Weasley caught sight of his bruise in the light of a torch and bit her lip.
"You were defending me," she said, a lack of tone in her normally overflowing voice. "Why?"
"Why?" he repeated to himself. Yes, that was a challenging question. What would he tell her while he was searching for the real answer?
"The truth," he told her.
"What do you mean?"
"I was just telling them the truth. If that meant I was defending you, so be it."
She was about to touch his face again, but retracted her hand, remembering his stern warning. This time, however, he took her wrist not to push it away, but to place it against his face, over the painful blue bruise on his pale cheek. Draco knew that if he was going to give up his old life, it would have to be gotten rid of completely. The motives he'd held for her at the beginning of the year had vanished completely in the wake of these strange, entwining coincidences, memories he'd been forced to see and feel again, the offer Dumbledore had made to him, and the effect Weasley had on his ambitions. He had let go of the rich-poor house boundary with that voluntary contact. Another shackle clanking to the floor and oh so many more to be gotten rid of. She put her head down against his neck in grief and exhaustion and though it taxed his self-control, he allowed her to do so and even put a comforting arm around her back.
"You're changing me," he whispered.
~Evyfleur