Chapter 35: First Tear

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter; all I own are two parents intent on teaching me how to cook. In the past two days, I have made two meals I've never made before. Both involved large quantities of cheese, as, due to a rather amusing lack of communication between parents, I also own two large blocks of cheddar cheese. If you want to sue, you can have them. You can also have the secret family recipe for macaroni cheese! Oh, I also own a Harry-Potter pumpkin. It has a lightning-bolt scar and everything. You can't have that!

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A/N: On favourite parts: I've gone through all your reviews, and the favourite scene overall was the Trust Game. All I can say is I'm really pleased so many of you liked it – when I wrote it I was terrified it was OOC! One thing that interested me was that the vast majority of you had a personal favourite scene that no one else had – there were 16 mentioned overall. As to my favourite scene; I have three, and none of them have happened yet.

I do read fanfiction when I have free time, but it tends to be things recommended by various sites, people, et cetera – it's a lot easier to find good quality fic that way! Though most of it isn't on this site, sadly, so I don't have any favourite stories/authors in my profile. Which is a bit of an oversight, really – I should try to browse round here more often!

Anyway, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

A good friend sees the first tear, catches the second and stops the third.

Unknown.

5. Describe, using diagrams where appropriate, the difference between the transfiguration of a mouse into a notebook and that of a hamster into a notebook.

Hermione read the question through twice carefully, as she always did, before reaching for a fat textbook and turning to the index. Hamsters… hamsters… it had to be something to do with anatomy, so… ah, page 204. She turned to the right page and started reading.

After about five minutes – by which time she had found the information she needed and started writing her answer – she heard footsteps behind her. People walked past her alcove all the time, so she didn't pay them much attention until they stopped, and a voice said, 'Hermione?'

It was Draco's voice, oddly hollow. She turned round, startled, to see him standing between two bookshelves, staring at her, his skin far too pale in contrast to the warm woods of the bookshelves, the soft cream of the parchment.

'Draco?' she said, twisting round in her seat to face him properly. 'We hadn't arranged to meet, had we? I have a DA meeting in half an hour…' Then, frowning slightly, she added, 'Is something wrong?'

He laughed a little; an odd, delicate laugh that was too high-pitched. 'I don't know,' he said, vehemently, almost as if he were accusing her. Then, 'I… it's all…'

'Did something happen?' Hermione asked, guardedly, to which he nodded, biting his lip and looking suddenly downcast. For an instant, he made her think of a little boy who'd got lost in the library and couldn't find his way out.

She knew he probably wasn't in the best mood to share that observation, though. Closing her book – the homework was due the day after tomorrow, but Draco was more important – she asked, quite simply, 'What?'

He leant against the bookcase. 'Some of the third years tried to attack Ellen,' he said, closing his eyes.

'What? Who?' Hermione demanded. 'Did you tell Professor Snape?'

He sneered. 'Like that would have done anything,' he spat. 'A detention wouldn't have stopped them doing it again. I…' he paused, an odd flicker on his face, 'dealt with it.'

'If you're sure…' Hermione replied, frowning. She'd still have felt better if a teacher had known. 'What did they do? Why did it happen? I mean, why now, they've lived…'

'Stop asking questions!' he half-shouted. 'Do you have to know everything? I mean…' He took a deep breath, slumping against the shelves. 'I didn't mean that. I'm just a little…'

He didn't say what he was just a little of, but Hermione could tell that there was something wrong. Trying to make herself keep calm, she replied, 'It's okay. I just…'

There was a pause. Draco was leaning against the bookshelves with his head tipped back and his eyes screwed tightly shut, hair slightly messy, as though he'd run a hand through it or clutched at it tightly on his way here.

'They attacked her from behind,' he said eventually, his voice monotonous, and she shivered. 'Or tried to. I stopped them with a shield charm, warned them to stop…'

'Did they?' Hermione asked. Her mouth was dry. 'Shouldn't you… shouldn't you be there now? I mean, they might attack her again…'

'They won't,' Draco replied shortly, very firmly, then gave a bitter little laugh. 'Believe me, they won't…'

The silence that followed was eerie and slightly ominous; Draco was biting his lip, hard.

'Why not?' Hermione asked, trying to sound calm, as if she wasn't afraid of hearing the answer. The way he'd said it…

Draco shrugged. 'It's not important. I scared them, I suppose…'

'What did… what did you do?'

He scowled. 'Why do you assume it's something I did?' he asked, voice harsh and bitter. 'It was their fault, if they hadn't attacked her I wouldn't have had to…'

The silence, when he stopped speaking-mid sentence, was as heavy and thick as a Death Eater's cloak. 'Draco…' Hermione began, uncertain. She'd dealt with him when he was angry, uncertain how to behave, and helped him when he had a million questions with answers that weren't in books. And he'd shouted at her and been angry before, when he was completely lost and scared and didn't know what he felt or how to behave except to lash out at people, and she understood that, but it still scared her.

'Tell me,' she said, trying to keep her voice firm. 'What happened… what's scaring you?'

'I'm not scared,' he denied, seemingly by reflex, 'and I'm not telling. You're a Gryffindor, you wouldn't understand.'

She paused. 'Have I ever not understood something before?' she asked. 'You can tell me. Anything. Remember… remember trust?'

He was silent again, head turned away from her, and the seven feet or so that lay between them seemed like miles.

'It wasn't anything important,' he began, uncertainly. 'They were attacking her, and she's too young to defend herself yet. And anything less wouldn't have stopped them, I had to do it…'

'Do what?' she prompted, when he fell silent again.

He sighed, seeming to give in, and opened his eyes. 'Do you know the Incende Ipse curse?' he asked.

A thin, cold shiver, like someone running an ice cube up her spine, began in the small of Hermione's back and ran all the way up to her nape as she remembered reading those words, a year or more ago now, a few pages of writing in a book she'd read out of interest, extra revision. Draco's expression hovered between a neutral, blank mask and uncertainty. Fear.

She knew what had happened.

'You didn't…' she began, knowing that he had but unwilling to accept it. He looked away, briefly, then back towards her.

'It was the only thing I could have done,' he defended himself. 'Anything less and they'd have kept attacking her, it was the only thing…'

Hermione didn't reply, staring at the tabletop to avoid looking at him. It was funny. A year ago the idea of Draco using Dark Arts wouldn't have seemed so strange, so odd. Horrible, yes, but it would have at least fitted with her mental image of him. Now it didn't; now it was like trying to force the wrong key into a lock. Draco wasn't evil. But the Dark Arts… they were.

And he'd used them, so that made him evil, but he wasn't. She glanced up, very briefly because the expression on his face scared her, and she couldn't imagine someone who could look like that – so human, so desperate – using a Dark curse on anyone else. Torture.

His hands slammed down, a harsh thud, on the table beside her, and she looked up to see him on her left, leaning over the table. 'I told you you wouldn't understand,' he said, voice low and vehement. 'I told you you wouldn't and you didn't listen, and now you'll hate me…'

She grabbed hold of his forearms, stopping him from going into a rant. 'I don't hate you,' she said, her voice equally low. Now… now sit down, or something, and we can talk properly.'

She took a deep breath; he unwillingly slid into the seat beside her. Usually he relaxed, leaning back in his seat to the point where it almost tipped backwards or half-sprawling across the table, but today he sat with his back as straight as a ruler, as a wand, and his arms in his lap.

'Right,' she said, trying to pull herself together. 'Tell me exactly what happened.'

He sighed. 'I was talking to Ellen in the common room,' he began, his voice completely passionless, 'and we noticed that Blaise was glaring at her and people were moving away from us. I, of course, stayed where I was. Some third-years – presumably trying to gain favour with the higher circles – started planning an attack behind her When they attacked, I quickly deflected the spell with a Shield Charm, then warned them away from her. One of them tried to attack again, so I…' his voice broke off, and after a few seconds he shrugged helplessly and said, 'You know the rest.'

'You cursed him,' Hermione filled in, shuddering. 'I thought you couldn't do Dark Arts in Hogwarts.'

'Most of them alarm the teachers,' he said, shrugging, 'but there's a few which don't, and some areas near the Slytherin common rooms don't have the charms on. The… the one I used… that one gets round the wards.'

Hermione nodded. 'I... I don't hate you, if you were afraid of that,' she said. 'And I guess I do understand…' She paused, her fingers lacing an unlacing in her lap. 'What do you want me to say?' she asked eventually.

'I want… I need… I don't know,' Draco said eventually. 'I don't understand any of this! It's all…' He bit his lip, shaking his head; he didn't look towards her but what she could see of his face was painful. 'I don't know, I don't have the right words for any of it and it's all…' He slumped forward, hiding his head in his arms; she could no longer see his face, only his silvery hair. Hermione had a sudden urge to put her hand on his back, comfortingly, but repressed it – she didn't know how he'd react.

'I don't know what you're feeling,' she said eventually, speaking quickly and timidly, as if afraid that saying the wrong thing would make him explode. What would he be feeling? Guilt, probably, and shame, and horror, and fear… But that was based on what she'd feel, in that situation, and while some of it was probably the same she couldn't know what was different. 'But I… I want to help…'

Draco was silent for a while, and she sat and watched and worried. When he did speak, his voice was oddly tight, almost hoarse, and a little afraid. 'There's something wrong with my eyes. They hurt.'

Her first feeling was one of relief – eyes were something she could sort out, if not herself then with a trip to Madam Pomfrey – but then she immediately felt guilty for feeling that. 'Is there something in one of them? Let me see,' she asked.

Almost unwillingly, he lifted his head. 'They feel… heavy,' he said, his voice still quiet. 'Like something's squeezing them. And…'

Hermione frowned, looking at them closely. They were slightly red, but apart from that… 'I can't see anything,' she said. 'Do you want to go to Madam Pomfrey?'

He shook his head, and as he did so a tiny drop of water formed in the corner of his eye, began to glide silently down his cheek, and in that moment she realised what was happening.

'You're crying,' she said, half in wonder, half in puzzlement. 'There's nothing wrong with your eyes at all…'

He looked away. 'It feels like there is,' he said, softly.

'Haven't you ever…?' she asked, resisting the urge to touch one of the tear tracks, or to laugh in amazement. He shook his head. 'Not even as a baby?'

'Fallens don't cry,' he said, rather shakily. 'How… how do you stop?'

'You… you don't, you just have to wait until it stops on your own… I have a handkerchief,' she said suddenly, realising that she ought to do something but not having a clue what. And you were meant to give people handkerchiefs, weren't you? She ducked below the table, searching through her schoolbag.

When she emerged, he was slumped forward over the table, head in his arms. He wasn't making any noise and his shoulders were still, for the most part, but tense. Occasionally they twitched, as if they were trying to heave and shake and all the other things shoulders were meant to do when they cried but he was stopping them.

Hermione bit her lip, not knowing what to do. Comforting another girl was easy, but when it came to boys you couldn't just put your arms round them and say it'd be alright, that didn't work.

'Draco?' she asked timidly, and placed her hand on his shoulder. 'I… It's okay. It's okay. It'll be alright.' Even though she knew that didn't work. 'It's okay…'

Draco had used Dark Arts, and now Draco was crying for the first time; both of those things were huge and impossible and confusing, and Hermione didn't quite know where she stood, except that Draco was upset and she needed to help him.

'Hush. It's okay…'

'It's not like her to be late,' Ron said for the sixth time, checking his watch and glaring at the door as though it were the sole culprit for Hermione's lateness. 'She's always on time. She'd rather… I don't know… have her foot chopped off than be late normally…'

'Well, there are five minutes till the DA actually starts,' Ginny replied, frowning. 'She's probably on her way…'

'Have you ever known her be this late before?' Ron asked. 'She's usually here first…'

Ginny sighed. 'Stop being so paranoid,' she told her brother firmly. 'Hermione's late; she's allowed to be late once or twice in her life. She probably just… got absorbed in a book, or forgot there was a meeting today…'

'Hermione doesn't forget things like that,' Harry interjected absently. 'She'll have remembered, she probably just got held up…'

Ron shook his head. 'Held up by what? She knows she ought to be here…'

'Perhaps there was a book-slide in the library and she got buried,' Ginny suggested wickedly. 'Or she's helping dig the survivors out.' Ron threw her a dark glare, distinctly unimpressed; Ginny returned a cheeky grin. 'If you're that worried, Ron, maybe one of us should go and find her. I will, if you want,'

'That'd only leave two of us to teach,' Harry pointed out.

'It's not far to the Library,' Ginny pointed out. 'And I know where she usually sits; I'll be there and back in ten minutes. Besides, you two aren't scared of a bunch of twelve-year-olds, surely?'

'It's hard enough keeping them from running riot when there's four of us here,' Ron said, leaning against the wall. 'But we should really find out where Hermione is… go on, Ginny, but hurry.'

'I'll be quick,' she replied. 'Maybe I'll find out who this mysterious D is that she keeps studying with…'

Harry shook his head. 'She said she was going to study alone before,' he pointed out. 'Go on, get going. We need you back as quickly as you can make it.'

'If she's not there, come straight back, don't run around looking for her,' Ron added as Ginny hurried off towards the door. He turned to Harry. 'What do you think could be holding her up?'

Harry shrugged. 'One of the teachers, perhaps?'

'Possibly…' Ron checked his watch again. 'It's almost time to start, you know. Ginny had better get back fast…'

The door opened at that point and their eyes swivelled towards it, even though it was far too soon for Ginny to be back. It admitted only a group of Slytherins – there weren't many, but some did come. They appeared to be clustered around one of the third-years, who was speaking loudly, a dirty sneer on his face.

'Of course, Michael can't go to Snape about it,' he was saying. 'He'd end up having to explain what he was doing in the first place, and if Snape asked for that blood-traitor's side of the story…' He sighed over-dramatically. 'We've been trying to persuade him to go to Snape – they could probably get him expelled if they tried hard enough – but Michael doesn't want the detentions for trying to attack that thing.'

Harry frowned, nodding in the direction of the Slytherins. 'What's going on there?' he asked.

'Where is the Mudblood, anyway? She usually comes here,' one of the second-years asked. Beside Harry, Ron sucked in a deep breath.

'He said…!'

Harry, knowing his friend well, grabbed onto his arm. 'Leave it,' he warned him quietly. 'They're Slytherins, they've probably…'

'Who cares?' the first boy asked, shrugging. 'Anywhere that's not near me is good…'

Ron was trying to get his arm out of Harry's grip. 'Let me go!' he hissed.

'A Mudblood in Slytherin… Ha!' the boy continued. 'We should have killed her the moment she was Sorted… filthy thing. The only good Mudblood is a dead Mudblood.'

There was laughter from the Slytherins; no one apart from Ron and Harry seemed to be paying attention to them. 'Let me go!' Ron demanded again, trying to struggle inconspicuously. 'I'm not gong to stand here and let them talk like that…'

Harry was torn between stopping Ron from hurting anyone and letting him wreak havoc, because at this point he was almost ready to start hexing the Slytherins too. He settled for a compromise. 'Go and tell them off,' he said. 'But no violence, okay?'

Ron glared. 'Okay, no violence. Got it.'

'I mean it,' Harry said again, and let him go. Instantly Ron was storming across the Room of Requirement, giving the Slytherins a look that really ought to be able to kill.

'Excuse me,' Ron said to the third-year, quite coldly, 'would you care to repeat that?'

Harry sighed, leaning back against the wall with one eye on Ron. The only good Mudblood is a dead Mudblood… A year ago, only Malfoy would have said that in public. And now…

Entering a library was always an odd experience, or so Ginny thought: there was the sudden break between the noise of the corridors, where there was always the noise of footsteps or some chattering group to keep you company, and the eerie silence of the library. Of course, it was only silent around the entrance; as you got further in and further away from Madam Pince's watchful eye, people started whispering and giggling and chattering again.

Still, the entrance was always unnervingly silent; and silence which came from a lot of people making no noise was always subtly but eerily different from that which happened when there was no one to make noise at all. It was awkward and eerie, as though someone had died.

Shrugging off such morbid thoughts, Ginny headed towards Hermione's accustomed place. She always sat at one particular table, which was half hidden by bookshelves and had a cosy feeling of being enclosed, so she didn't have to worry about trying to find her.

Ron might have been acting paranoid, but it wasn't without good reason; it wasn't like Hermione to forget the DA. Of course, Ginny chose to take a more practical view of the event, rather than worrying that the worst had happened. Most likely she'd just got absorbed in something, or had started talking to someone – the mysterious D, perhaps – and forgotten to stop.

Hermione's usual corner was silent as she approached. That didn't mean anything, of course, if Hermione were reading she'd be silent…

Then she heard it, a quiet whisper; if the library around her hadn't been so quiet she never would have noticed it. 'It's okay…' It was Hermione's voice.

Ginny frowned, paused a moment. Who was Hermione speaking to? Cautiously, she crept closer, peered round the corner of a bookcase.

The scene in front of her looked like one of Harry's Muggle photographs, static and unmoving, but there didn't need to be motion for Ginny to let out a gasp of amazement, quickly clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle it. They hadn't heard.

Hermione was biting her lip, looking worried and pale, with her hand on the back of a boy. The boy was sitting with his head in his arms, obviously crying, and Ginny couldn't see his face – but she'd have known that peculiar shade of silver-blond hair anywhere.

It was Draco Malfoy.

A/N: And that's all for this week, but of course there's Macbeth on Monday and another Fallen next Friday to look forward to!

And, as you should know by now, it's time to review. Hit the button, or I'll send a plague of trick-or-treaters to your house to ring your doorbell incessantly and demand all your chocolate…

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