Nearly one week later, I was just about to tear my own hair out with frustration.
I had spent practically my every waking moment in the library, even though deep down I knew my answers could not be found in books. I highly doubted that any situation like this had been documented in the first war, but busied myself searching books for first-hand accounts none the less.
Since that day in the owlery, Malfoy and I had not spoken. I still had visions every night, although they were beginning to lose their meaning.
Instead of scenes, I was receiving fragments of events. The dream I had the night before had shown all manner of strange things, from Malfoy being attacked by a Hippogriff in our third year, to a scrambled image of Lucius Malfoy scolding a two-year old Draco for breaking a vase.
I didn't understand. Before, all my of dreams seemed to have had some sort of relevance, some sort of clue. Now they just seemed to be random images from Malfoy's past. Admittedly, they were all painful memories of his, but they still didn't help me at all.
"Someday, Granger, you are going to have to accept that you cannot find the answer to everything in books."
I looked up, startled. I hadn't noticed Malfoy sit down across from me. I sighed.
"Well, it's worth looking. Besides, my dreams don't seem to be giving any clues."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed.
"You're still having those dreams?"
I nodded. "Yes. I mean, they don't really have anything to do with the situation anymore. They're just memories at random."
"Memories?" He sounded surprised, worried, even. "What kind of memories?"
I looked at him, meeting his eyes. He looked fairly uncomfortable at the prospect of a practical stranger dreaming his memories, and it was tempting to smile at the awkward look on his face. I restrained myself.
"Nothing overly important." I smiled, just a little. "Nothing embarrassing, I mean."
He gave an audible sigh of relief, leaving me to ponder for a few moments what kind of embarrassing memories he didn't want me to see.
"So? What kind of memories are they, then?"
"Painful memories. Last night I saw you being attacked by Buckbeak, and I saw your dad telling you off for breaking something when you were a little kid."
I saw him redden slightly. It hadn't really occurred to me that young childhood memories may be considered embarrassing, but supposed he must have thought they were.
"Right" he said, curtly. "Found anything that's actually helpful?"
He gestured to the pile of books on the desk, and I shook my head.
"Not really. The only thing I can think of is somehow convincing the Death-Eater's that it's you that's ruining the plan, and that it has nothing to do with your father."
"No. If I do something wrong, it's my father's fault."
"So if you killed yourself, wouldn't that be his fault, too?"
He fell silent for a moment, thinking.
"I don't have to make it look like I killed myself. I can make it look like an accident."
I closed my eyes and started to massage my temples. After a moment I felt Malfoy's eyes on me, and met his gaze.
"This is horrible" I said, simply.
Malfoy smirked, and shrugged.
"I never said you had to get involved."
"I'm involved whether I want to be or not. I must have had those dreams for a reason."
"So there's a reason you're dreaming about me as a baby being scolded by my father, is there?"
I dropped my eyes. He was right. Maybe this had all been a stupid mistake after all. Even if I was supposed to be helping, I knew I wasn't doing a very good job.
"I guess not" I said, quietly, and started packing up the books that were still spread out on the table.
As I was closing one of them, I managed to give myself a small paper cut on my thumb. I sucked in my breath sharply, and looked down at the tiny, bleeding cut.
I was about to wipe the blood away with my handkerchief when Malfoy caught my hand. He was staring, open mouthed, at the cut on my thumb. I raised my eyebrows at him.
"What? Never seen a paper cut before?"
He ignored me, and used his other hand to take hold of my injured thumb. He squeezed it lightly between his thumb and forefinger, causing more blood to ooze out of the tiny cut. I winced, and pulled my hand away from him.
"Malfoy? What..."
"Dirty blood" he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
I immediately took offense, and was about to give him a piece of my mind when he stood up and walked stiltedly out of the library.
---
"He just walked right out?"
"Yup. As soon as he saw the cut he looked like he was going to have a seizure or something."
It was lunch, and I was recounting my story to Harry and Ron. Omitting the part where I had been researching Malfoy's predicament, I had told them I had been putting a book back on the shelf when I cut myself, and Malfoy saw me.
I felt weird lying so much to my friends, but felt the need to tell them something, to stop myself feeling so disconnected from them.
Harry spoke around his mouthful of steak and kidney pie.
"Maybe he's just afraid of blood. Wouldn't put it passed him, really."
I nodded, although I seriously doubted that was the reason. Even though I was almost positive I had heard Malfoy mention dirty blood, I knew I could have just as easily imagined it. I hadn't mentioned that detail at all to Harry and Ron, though.
Ron grinned.
"Figures, doesn't it? Should have rubbed it in his face, Hermione."
I smiled at him. I was happy to feel included with them again.
---
That night, I had yet another of my dreams.
This time, I could see a very young Draco, maybe four years old, being told by his father about mudbloods.
His gray eyes were wide and innocent, as he took in his fathers' every word.
"So the muggles have dirty blood?"
"Yes, son. Their blood is dark brown, and black. That's why we call them mudbloods."
"Black?"
"Only purebloods have pure, red blood, Draco."
Baby Draco Malfoy seemed fascinated by this new revelation, and I was left with an image of his small face smiling as the scene changed.
Now I saw myself, from Malfoy's point of view, cutting my finger in the library.
Things started to slow down as his eyes fastened in horror on the blood that was oozing slowly out of the small cut.
My blood was clean.
I had spent practically my every waking moment in the library, even though deep down I knew my answers could not be found in books. I highly doubted that any situation like this had been documented in the first war, but busied myself searching books for first-hand accounts none the less.
Since that day in the owlery, Malfoy and I had not spoken. I still had visions every night, although they were beginning to lose their meaning.
Instead of scenes, I was receiving fragments of events. The dream I had the night before had shown all manner of strange things, from Malfoy being attacked by a Hippogriff in our third year, to a scrambled image of Lucius Malfoy scolding a two-year old Draco for breaking a vase.
I didn't understand. Before, all my of dreams seemed to have had some sort of relevance, some sort of clue. Now they just seemed to be random images from Malfoy's past. Admittedly, they were all painful memories of his, but they still didn't help me at all.
"Someday, Granger, you are going to have to accept that you cannot find the answer to everything in books."
I looked up, startled. I hadn't noticed Malfoy sit down across from me. I sighed.
"Well, it's worth looking. Besides, my dreams don't seem to be giving any clues."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed.
"You're still having those dreams?"
I nodded. "Yes. I mean, they don't really have anything to do with the situation anymore. They're just memories at random."
"Memories?" He sounded surprised, worried, even. "What kind of memories?"
I looked at him, meeting his eyes. He looked fairly uncomfortable at the prospect of a practical stranger dreaming his memories, and it was tempting to smile at the awkward look on his face. I restrained myself.
"Nothing overly important." I smiled, just a little. "Nothing embarrassing, I mean."
He gave an audible sigh of relief, leaving me to ponder for a few moments what kind of embarrassing memories he didn't want me to see.
"So? What kind of memories are they, then?"
"Painful memories. Last night I saw you being attacked by Buckbeak, and I saw your dad telling you off for breaking something when you were a little kid."
I saw him redden slightly. It hadn't really occurred to me that young childhood memories may be considered embarrassing, but supposed he must have thought they were.
"Right" he said, curtly. "Found anything that's actually helpful?"
He gestured to the pile of books on the desk, and I shook my head.
"Not really. The only thing I can think of is somehow convincing the Death-Eater's that it's you that's ruining the plan, and that it has nothing to do with your father."
"No. If I do something wrong, it's my father's fault."
"So if you killed yourself, wouldn't that be his fault, too?"
He fell silent for a moment, thinking.
"I don't have to make it look like I killed myself. I can make it look like an accident."
I closed my eyes and started to massage my temples. After a moment I felt Malfoy's eyes on me, and met his gaze.
"This is horrible" I said, simply.
Malfoy smirked, and shrugged.
"I never said you had to get involved."
"I'm involved whether I want to be or not. I must have had those dreams for a reason."
"So there's a reason you're dreaming about me as a baby being scolded by my father, is there?"
I dropped my eyes. He was right. Maybe this had all been a stupid mistake after all. Even if I was supposed to be helping, I knew I wasn't doing a very good job.
"I guess not" I said, quietly, and started packing up the books that were still spread out on the table.
As I was closing one of them, I managed to give myself a small paper cut on my thumb. I sucked in my breath sharply, and looked down at the tiny, bleeding cut.
I was about to wipe the blood away with my handkerchief when Malfoy caught my hand. He was staring, open mouthed, at the cut on my thumb. I raised my eyebrows at him.
"What? Never seen a paper cut before?"
He ignored me, and used his other hand to take hold of my injured thumb. He squeezed it lightly between his thumb and forefinger, causing more blood to ooze out of the tiny cut. I winced, and pulled my hand away from him.
"Malfoy? What..."
"Dirty blood" he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
I immediately took offense, and was about to give him a piece of my mind when he stood up and walked stiltedly out of the library.
---
"He just walked right out?"
"Yup. As soon as he saw the cut he looked like he was going to have a seizure or something."
It was lunch, and I was recounting my story to Harry and Ron. Omitting the part where I had been researching Malfoy's predicament, I had told them I had been putting a book back on the shelf when I cut myself, and Malfoy saw me.
I felt weird lying so much to my friends, but felt the need to tell them something, to stop myself feeling so disconnected from them.
Harry spoke around his mouthful of steak and kidney pie.
"Maybe he's just afraid of blood. Wouldn't put it passed him, really."
I nodded, although I seriously doubted that was the reason. Even though I was almost positive I had heard Malfoy mention dirty blood, I knew I could have just as easily imagined it. I hadn't mentioned that detail at all to Harry and Ron, though.
Ron grinned.
"Figures, doesn't it? Should have rubbed it in his face, Hermione."
I smiled at him. I was happy to feel included with them again.
---
That night, I had yet another of my dreams.
This time, I could see a very young Draco, maybe four years old, being told by his father about mudbloods.
His gray eyes were wide and innocent, as he took in his fathers' every word.
"So the muggles have dirty blood?"
"Yes, son. Their blood is dark brown, and black. That's why we call them mudbloods."
"Black?"
"Only purebloods have pure, red blood, Draco."
Baby Draco Malfoy seemed fascinated by this new revelation, and I was left with an image of his small face smiling as the scene changed.
Now I saw myself, from Malfoy's point of view, cutting my finger in the library.
Things started to slow down as his eyes fastened in horror on the blood that was oozing slowly out of the small cut.
My blood was clean.