Chapter Four
Chaos
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Seventh Year
A clock ticked somewhere. It was most distracting. Malfoy slowly and rather reluctantly opened his eyes and stared at the decorative ceiling above him. This was not his ceiling. The smell in this place was funny – disgustingly medicinal and sterile. It didn't take too long to figure out that he was in the hospital wing. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows casting creepy shadows along the walls.
He made to sit up and almost immediately a woman bustled over to him and pushed him back down. The forcefulness of her action surprised him.
"You have to conserve your strength Mr Malfoy," she said crisply. She placed a hand on his forehead. "Still clammy." The medi-witch rummaged around in a cart next to his bed, and produced a small bottle filled with blue liquid.
"Never in my life have I seen a student so malnourished and exhausted," she tsked. "Here, I want you to drink all of this. It will make you feel better." Wary of disobeying the imposing woman, he obediently drank the potion that was supposed to make him feel better, but didn't.
She roughly pulled the covers over him. "I will inform the Headmaster that you've awoken. Stay still," she said sternly. He liked this woman – her speech and movements were brisk and uncaring.
Malfoy moved his eyes back to the ceiling. He had never noticed the intricate designs before. The whole thing seemed very out of place in the centuries-old castle. Lines and swirling colors intersected each other. His eyes darted over the ceiling. He could find no pattern there, and this disturbed him somewhat. He moved his head sideways and squinted his eyes, but it made no difference. Where were the lines going? The stupid colours didn't even match – faded and cracked blues, oranges, purples, reds, greens, yellows, browns and blacks. It was chaotic, and he didn't like that. There was no order there – it made no sense. Things had to make sense. The world was supposed to make sense.
He comforted himself with the thought that a blind house-elf probably painted the ceiling.
Quite suddenly, something that felt like a bludger pounced on his stomach. In his weakened state, it took him a moment to recover. Despite the medi-witch's warning, he pushed himself to a sitting position with much difficulty. Whatever had taken up residence on his stomach shifted as he moved.
An exceedingly ugly orange cat sat contentedly purring in his lap. Malfoy briefly wondered if the cat was born with that squashed face or if it had suffered some injury along the way. He delicately poked a finger at its face. Unsurprisingly, the cat lightly bit the offending finger, but continued purring. Strange animal.
He awkwardly patted its head, as he wasn't exactly sure what to do with a cat. The only animals he had ever owned were owls. Unlike cats, owls were actually useful. He let his hands run down the animal's back and through the unruly fur. The cat nestled further into him. The animal's presence was almost comforting.
Footsteps echoed in the desolate hospital wing. The medi-witch returned with a very old man. Very old man. He knew this man. His mind slowly grasped the fact that this was Headmaster Dumbledore.
"What is that animal doing in here again?" the woman snapped and brusquely pushed the unsightly and now growling cat away. Malfoy watched as she shooed it out of the hospital wing and closed the doors behind it.
"How are you feeling tonight Mr Malfoy?" the old man questioned.
Malfoy immediately renewed his dislike this man. What right did he have to ask him how he felt? How dare anyone ask him such a thing when he could not possibly answer? Where was that medi-witch he so liked? She seemed to have disappeared.
His mind had. . . Malfoy didn't know what his mind had done. He felt so confused. Barriers were destroyed. Other realities were obliterated. Things were remembered that wished to stay forgotten. He was exceedingly disappointed in himself. He had worked so hard, and now, it was all gone. The images, sounds and smells of the things he had witnessed exploded out of his mind. He shivered as he remembered the intensity with which they struck.
Just a few short weeks ago, he was the picture of cold indifference and last night – was it just last night? – he had wept into a strange girl's shoulder. Strange girl – oh gods – it was Granger. His breathing quickened. How could he have been so stupid as to let Granger of all people see him like that? He would never live this down.
He looked down at his hands and attempted to rationalize his actions. He must regain control. Weakness was not an option. He brutally berated himself for his weakness. He took several deep breaths, blissfully unaware that his visitor watched the play of emotions on his face.
"I'm fine," he replied in a clipped tone. Just because he had lost self-control last night did not mean that he had to make a repeat performance tonight.
"I see," Dumbledore replied. "Mr Malfoy I am sure you can understand our concern. You gave Miss Granger quite a fright last night." Granger again – how could he ever forgive himself for letting her see that?
Malfoy cleared his throat and chose his next words carefully.
"Yes, well, I was tired." Not exactly what he was going for, but he still evaded the bigger question that lingered unspoken between the two of them.
"You were, and are, more than tired my dear boy. You look as though you have not eaten in weeks." The headmaster settled himself into the very uncomfortable looking chair at his bedside and looked into Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy immediately turned his head away to avoid the penetrating gaze.
"I know I am not your favorite person in the world Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore said. Malfoy snorted and Dumbledore continued, "But I wish to help you in any way I am able. We live in difficult times, and the very best of us cannot make sense of things that are happening."
A sense of panic was building in Malfoy's gut. What did this man know? How could he possibly know what he witnessed this summer? He couldn't possibly know. Dumbledore and his goody-goody minions wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near him or his kind.
He turned to face Dumbledore and a sneer graced his face. He congratulated himself on figuring out that this man didn't know anything about him.
Dumbledore sighed as he intently watched the young man's face.
"Well, I guess there is nothing to do but allow you to recover. I expect Poppy will release you within a week or two. I will contact your parents and let them know you are in fine, as you say."
"No!" Malfoy said, far too quickly and forcefully. Fuck! Was that a look of triumph on the old bastard's face? He was thoroughly baffled as to how Dumbledore had turned his victory into a failure so quickly.
"I see. Well, you are of age and therefore, able to make your own decisions, so I will not press the issue. Goodnight Mr Malfoy. I do hope you recover quickly." And with that, the headmaster took his leave, leaving Malfoy to his confused thoughts.
In the next two days, Malfoy spent much of his time rediscovering his appetite and avoiding looking at the ceiling. It was difficult as he was usually on his back. He found that the lack of order and purpose in the design greatly bothered him.
He slept most of the time. He spent the rest of his time trying not to think about anything. Various magazines and comic books kept him nominally occupied.
He knew that he had to figure out where to go from here. His father's world had nearly destroyed him, as Madame Pomfrey kept reminding him by admonishing him for his current state. It was the only world he knew – it was not comfortable, but it was familiar. He knew what to expect from these people - that being cruelty. He found that it was best not to think of these things. Maybe he would decide later, or let life simply take him where it wanted him. His father must have surely heard about his sojourn in the hospital wing and could very well be thoroughly disgusted with his son now.
Several of his housemates came to see him in an effort to confirm or deny one of the many rumors surrounding him. Apparently, several people had seen a harried-looking Granger levitating his unconscious self to the hospital wing. He kept his answers short and curt – he had no desire to see these people. How could they possibly understand him? Most of his housemates got the idea and didn't press him.
Thankfully, it seemed Granger did not tell anyone the particulars of that evening, so his classmates relied on their own overactive and pathetic imaginations to explain his current condition. His favorite rumor was that he called Granger a mudblood one too many times, and she snapped, and had tried to stun him. She was seen around the castle the last few days with a thoughtful and somewhat bewildered look on her face. He liked the idea of an unbalanced Granger.
He found, much to his own dismay that he couldn't get Granger out of his head. She was witness to his most vulnerable moment. He feared that she knew more about him than anyone else. That night she held him, he remembered babbling brokenly and incoherently about his mind and the things he had seen. He was sure the blasted girl was smart enough to figure things out.
It was during this time that his father sent him several letters, which he summarily ignored. He felt it was the best course for the time being. His father was an escaped convict after all, and whatever his feelings towards Dumbledore, he felt safe under the old man's watch. For the first time in his life, he was glad that the Dark Lord and his ilk feared Dumbledore.
On the third day, he finally had enough strength to walk the length of the hospital wing, and then collapsed back into his bed, exhausted. His body was slowly returning to its normal condition. Malfoy found that if he worked his body into exhaustion, he simply didn't have the inclination or the energy to think of . . . things.
It was also the day that Granger came to see him.
She burst into the hospital wing carrying rolls of parchments and a book bag that looked like it weighed a tonne. Her wild hair was tied in a messy bun, held together by an old quill. He would have found her appearance comical had he not been overcome with anxiety at facing her.
She unceremoniously dumped everything on the bed next to him and turned towards him. She avoided eye contact with him and spoke in a business-like tone.
"I brought your homework, and Professor Snape retrieved your books and things from your room." She handed him a role of parchment. "Here, I wrote down all your readings and assignments. I don't have all the same classes as you, so I'm not entirely sure about Divination and Muggle Studies, but I'm sure that if you have questions or anything, you could find someone else." She pointed to the other roles of parchment on the bed. "Professor Flitwick showed me a charm that copied all my notes, so you have the notes from Defense, Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms."
She shifted uncomfortably and sat down on the bed next to him. "So, er- if you have any questions about any of the homework, you can just ask me."
"Why are you doing this?" Malfoy questioned harshly. He did not want this girl anywhere near him.
Granger shrugged, "Dumbledore asked me to."
"So, what, you're his little lackey?" he sneered. Granger had a temper – she would leave him in peace if he made her angry enough.
But again, she just shrugged. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
"No."
Ignoring his response, she continued on, "Has the world gone mad, or are you actually taking Muggle Studies?" She was looking at him now – amusement in her eyes, and a smirk on her face. "At first I thought that there had to be some sort of horrible horrible mistake, but no," she continued on very dramatically, "here I find that the world has indeed gone mad. Left is right and up is down. It was the only explanation I could find for Draco Malfoy to be in Muggle Studies." She was almost laughing by now.
"What can I say, it's an easy class. You muggles aren't exactly a complex people."
She grinned, "I'm not a muggle Malfoy."
"You might as well be," he bit back, "It's obvious to anyone with half a brain that you study so hard because you know, deep inside that you'll never really be a witch. You try to drown yourself in the magical world in an effort to forget your lowly muggle roots. You might forget them Granger, but you'll never be free of them." That ought to get her the bloody hell away from him. If it didn't, he would just call her a mudblood a few times, and she would take off, hopefully crying. He desperately wanted to see her cry.
"You're such a sodding idiot Malfoy. I'm not trying to forget my roots." Why was she still grinning? "And I can't help it if I have. . . an insatiable appetite for knowledge." Insatiable appetite? Hermione Granger? When had she become so. . . playful and flirtatious?
He quirked an eyebrow at her, but could find no other response. He was angry that she had rendered him tongue-tied and made him feel more than he had since that night in their common room, even if it was anger and annoyance.
"I'll bring you some more homework tomorrow Malfoy. Sleep well." Still grinning, Granger grabbed her bag and left him.
Over the course of the next few days, his visitors slowed to a trickle. His own housemates were baffled with his behavior – he made it quite clear he didn't want anything to do with any of them. He found that not speaking and evading questions and comments worked quite well. Even Pansy left teary-eyed, swearing she never wanted to see him again.
He was quite glad they all stopped bothering him. Even though he did his best not to think on anything of great import, he knew that he had irrevocably changed over the last few months. The people he knew and liked last year meant nothing to him this year.
Only Granger visited him everyday. She would bring his homework, as he was sure she was ordered to. They would snip at each other a bit, Malfoy viscously, Granger playfully, and she would leave after a few minutes.
The ugly orange cat also popped in for a visit or two. The cat would curl up at the end of his bed until Madame Pomfrey would toss it out sputtering about filthy animals.
His homework was a welcome distraction, even if it did have to come from Granger. He worked harder on his studies these last few days than he had in his entire school career. Currently, transfiguration was frustrating him to no small degree, while the cat sat on his feet.
Tossing his wand on his bedside table, he glanced at the clock on the wall, as he had done every ten minutes for the last couple of hours. It was nearly six o'clock. Almost time for Granger's visit. Not that he was looking forward to it or anything like that. He was just bored, that was all. She did break the monotony of homework and recovery, and she thankfully never mentioned that night in their common room.
Right on time, Granger burst through the room carrying a stack of books and papers. He found it amusing to request far more books than was necessary from the library. She stumbled a bit as she dropped them on the bed next to him, huffing from the weight she had carried.
"You know Malfoy, one might think that you enjoy seeing me struggle with all these books." He realized he was grinning at her.
"How could you say such a thing Granger? My studies are of utmost importance to me. And you only prove my point that you are not a real witch. You could have just levitated them here." Victory at last!
"Tut tut Malfoy. You know we're not allowed to do magic in the hallways." She always did make short work of his so-called victories. He thought it best not to mention the incident when she had levitated him through the hallways.
"Crookshanks! How many times have I told you not to come in here? Pomfrey will have both our heads one of these days." She scooped up the cat and he happily cuddled into Granger's arms.
"You know this cat?"
"Of course I do. He's mine."
"He comes here often?"
She smirked. "Yes. I think he likes to terrorize people when they are at their weakest." His heart lurched. Did she seem him as weak? Not that he cared what she thought of him. "Whenever Ron ends up here, Christmas comes early for Crookshanks. He loves sinking his claws into Ron when he can't always resist."
"So, Crookshanks doesn't get along with Weasel? I knew I liked the mangy cat for some odd reason." Malfoy did wonder why the animal didn't "terrorize" him as Granger said he was inclined to do.
"Oh shut it Malfoy." She peered at his Transfiguration work. "Are you having trouble with yesterday's assignment? I did too at first," she said, not waiting for his response.
She grabbed his wand and thrust it at him. He took it and she guided his hand. "Here, it's all in the wrist." Her thumb was directly over his pulse point.
"It's kind of complicated. You swish left, and then right and kind of down and around." She took him through the motions a couple of times. "Now you try it."
He did as instructed, said the magic words, and the pillow he was practicing on turned into a rabbit.
"See, it's not so bad. And you just do the reverse movements to turn him back." Once again, he said the magic words, and the pillow returned. He should have pretended to have a bit more trouble; she might have taken his hand again.
They chatted a few more moments about Weasley and Crookshanks. When she told him about the time the cat jumped on Weasley's head and Weasley could not disengage him, he laughed so hard his sides hurt. He would never forget the image of an orange cat with his claws in Weasley, while he danced around shrieking. He hadn't laughed like this in a long time, and he was grateful to Granger for that.
"Gods Granger, I will never forget that," he laughed, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes."
"I don't think I will either," she grinned, "I thought that when Ron and I, you know, started seeing each other, that they might get along a bit better but, oh no, their hatred of each other increased exponentially." Was she blushing? He wondered if Weasley was the cause of her new found sense of playfulness. For some reason, he did not like this, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.
Their next few encounters were just as pleasing to Malfoy. She told him tales of Weasley, Potter and Crookshanks, and he told her of Crabbe and Goyle's general idiocy. She kept her monologues light and friendly, sparing her friends any real embarrassment; he did not feel compelled to do the same for his housemates.
They talked and laughed together, and often made fun of one another. It was nothing too intense, personal or cruel. He did note how easily she had disarmed him these past few days, but for some odd reason, it didn't particularly bother him. Really, she was the only person in his life, except maybe Madame Pomfrey, and even though the old woman didn't treat him quite as coldly as she did at first, she didn't really count.
He was nearing the end of his stay in the hospital wing, Malfoy felt better than he had in months. He had gained weight, he wasn't exhausted with the simplest of activities, and Granger was the only person he talked to anymore. Although their interaction was superficial for the most part, it surprised him how easily the two of them got along.
He never would have guessed at such a thing. Their relationship was strange to say the least. Malfoy held something of himself from her, and he could tell that she did the same. He suspected that she only came to visit him because she was ordered by Dumbledore. It bothered him, and while he enjoyed her company, he did not expect anything from her, but he did hope for something.
Some small part of him also feared her and hated her. He wanted to know her secrets, as she knew his darkest secrets. It confused him that she never mentioned that night or his ramblings. She never asked him about what he had done, seen or known. From what he could see in her expression, she did not judge him for what he had done, or not done. He could see the wariness in her expression, but not disgust, or superiority. She did not give him a reason to distrust her, and yet he did. He imagined that she told Potter and Weasley ever detail of what transpired between them.
Despite all that, he could not forget how she had held and rocked him that night. Madame Pomfrey told him that he had left dark bruises on Hermione's body from clutching her too tightly. He imagined his dark handprints on her back and sides, and wondered if they were black and brown, or black and purple. It was not that he wished to cause her physical pain, but it pleased him to know that he hadleft a mark on her skin, but he did not understand why.
On his last night in the hospital wing, Malfoy decided he was going to ask Hermione something that had bothered him since he came to this place.
"Granger, have you ever noticed the ceiling in here?"
"Of course, I have been in here before you know."
"What do you think of it? Do you like it?" he asked apprehensively. They never spoke of consequential things. She lay on her back on the bed next to him, her legs resting haphazardly on stacks of books and parchments.
"I don't know if it's a matter of liking it or not. It makes me feel. . . I just don't know how to explain it," she sighed, obviously frustrated that the great Hermione Granger could not find the right words with which to express herself. "It's kind of confusing and anarchic isn't it? I guess it's uplifting in a sense, but it's also. . .sad."
"But, I mean, look at it. It doesn't make any sense. There is no order – I see nothing but chaos. I get abstract art and all, but this is pure shite. What the fuck is it supposed to mean?" His voice rose, angry at the very existence of this ceiling. "Everything clashes. It looks like fifty different people painted this thing. I just – I just don't like it. I don't get it."
She turned her head to look at him and asked, "Do you not like it because you don't get it?"
"No. I don't know. I mean look over there." He moved from his bed so he could show her just what he meant.
"Where?"
He moved her head in the right direction. "There – where that blue and yellow are right next to each other. Are there two colors that clash more than those two? And look over there," he again moved her head, "the blue and yellow are swirled together almost into one. What kind of mentally unsound. . . idiot painted that?" He realized he was almost shouting when she looked at him with a worried expression. He stepped away from her, back to his own bed.
"Rowena Ravenclaw."
"What?"
She cleared her throat. "In Hogwarts: A History, I read that Rowena Ravenclaw painted the ceiling," she said quietly.
"Wasn't she supposed to be the smart one?" Malfoy flopped down on his back. If it was Hufflepuff, Gryffindor or even Slytherin, he could dismiss it outright. But no, it had to be the smart one.
"Well," she began carefully, "she was the smart one. She was also very artistic and very disturbed by the things she saw in the world."
"What did she see?"
"I don't know."
"It still doesn't make any sense," he said sullenly.
"Maybe it was a reflection of something."
"Like what," he snapped. "What could that possibly represent?" He waved his hand dismissively at the ceiling.
"I don't know – the disintegrating friendship of the founders, the political upheaval of the time, life, love – it could be any number of things." He tilted his head to the side to look at her slightly sad face – she was not giving him the answers he wanted. He wanted to hear her say that the ceiling didn't make any sense, and a bunch of drunken students had painted it.
"I know you like things to make sense Malfoy," she said gently. How did she know that? "But life doesn't work that way."
"It should."
She shrugged, "It should, but it doesn't. We try to impose some order in the face of chaos so that we might make some sense of the world, of our own lives and relationships. But it's just an illusion. Things change, people change. Anything can change Malfoy. Maybe that's what Ravenclaw was trying to portray – the chaos underlying our false sense of order and security."
He didn't know what to say. He supposed she made some sense. And yet she didn't. He looked into her worried eyes, and saw things swirling there that he didn't understand. Even though he had always thought she lived a sheltered life, he realized then, that she understood the world better than he did.
"It will all be okay Malfoy." Granger bit her lip. "I promise. Even in chaos, you can find meaning. It may not make any sense to you, and it may not last, but you will find your place there, but it may take some time." Her eyebrows were knit together. She extended her arm to reach toward him. Unsure of himself, he reached out and lightly took her hand. They must have looked strange – holding hands from adjacent hospital beds.
"And – and I will help you if I can. Do you understand Malfoy?" He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Okay," she said. She released his hand and pushed herself off the bed.
She moved away from him and grabbed her things. "I'll help you move all your stuff out tomorrow, okay? Sleep well Malfoy." She took his hand again and gently squeezed it.
He watched her every movement as she left him in the confusing darkness of the hospital wing.
