Disclaimer: Nope, nothing belongs to me but to J.K. Rowling.
Characters: Hermione, Harry, Draco, Pansy
Rating: R
Part: 2?
Dedication:To everyone who still remembers this.
Part Two
She can't find her place.
She's losing her faith.
She's fallen from grace.
She's all over the place.
- "Nobody's Home" by Avril Lavigne
She doesn't knock when she enters the room and catches him sitting up on the bed, shirtless, his back to her. There are scars on his back, which she knows will heal with time, unlike the others. The countless others that can never fade away, no matter how long he lives. Manages to stay alive.
For a moment her eyes trace the ugly marks marring his back, blood red and purple stains on his tanned skin, twisting around his flesh and muscles. She thinks him beautiful still, and for reasons beyond her understanding, a part of her regards him with awe, wonders how she, plain, boring, positively prickly Hermione Granger ended up as one of his closest friends. Well, once upon a time, anyway.
"Harry," she calls softly, to announce her presence. He doesn't turn completely, his head swivels around a bit so she can make out his profile in the dim light. "You're up."
His lips curl slightly in a smirk reminiscent of Malfoy and she steels herself, suddenly hating him with an intensity that shocks her. "Yes, well, there is still a war to fight and all that lot, 'Mione."
Her hands at her sides curl into fists at his use of the once affectionate nickname. They may not be at Hogwarts anymore and she may not be Head Girl or the smartest witch in the Second War of the Light but bloody hell, she hates being addressed as if she were a halfwit. Testily, she answers him, "I assumed that you had forgotten."
He stands up, tugs a white T-shirt over his head and turns to face her, green eyes stormier without the shield of his glasses. "It's hard to forget that when you're holed up in here."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh yes, the incessant complaining. How could I forget? Seems to me Harry, you had little cause for it. After all, you had me waiting on you hand and foot, our entire side – and a few not entirely on our side - worrying about your health, and a particular Death Eater popping in to sit by your side."
His anger is emanating from him, she can see the veins in his neck bulge and the lightening bolt, barely visible under his fallen hair, throb eerily. She has entered dangerous territory, she knows this and the reckless part of her, the brave (the sadistic, as Draco would say) Gryffindor does not care and stands there defiantly in the face of a hero's wrath. "Pansy is not a Death Eater."
An almost hysterical laugh bubbles out of her. Figures he would defend his girlfriend's virtue rather than himself. "Oh Harry, put your glasses back on. You've gone completely blind. Parkinson has the Mark. You've seen it. Stop kidding yourself and open your eyes for one bleedin' moment."
"Pansy's information has been invaluable to the Order," Harry reminds her, taking a step closer. He is a full head taller than her, she realizes this as he approaches her, and he seems more foreboding somehow. "She led us to Lestrange."
"All the good it did us," she states bitterly. She doesn't want to have this fight again, and suddenly, she wishes for Ron, because she knows he would be on her side, at least on this one. The urge to see him, the red hair and freckles and huge boyishly beautiful grin, rushes through her system swiftly. She blinks back tears. "Invaluable or not, information from Death Eaters doesn't seem to matter much at this point, Harry."
Suddenly, the anger is gone from his face and he cocks his head to the side. He looks unbelievably tired, weary and beaten. And Hermione wishes she didn't have the capacity to care so much.
He studies her face, a bit saddened, it seems to her and she bears the scrutiny of those green eyes with weak-knees and clammy skin. "Does anything matter much at this point, Hermione? It wasn't your fault, I hope you know that. I wish you could let it go."
He's probing her for a reaction, like Malfoy had probed a few hours (or has it been days?) ago, only Harry's tactics are different though just as sharp. A knife slicing easily through tough hide. She doesn't have to ask or pretend she doesn't know what – or much rather whom - he's talking about. "Not everyone forgets so easily, Harry. It's clear you've made your choice."
The anger returns, full throttle, and he looks magnificent again. Regal and righteous. "Do you think I have a fucking choice in any of this? Do you think it doesn't kill me everyday to be here, to go out there, to use my wand and fight for something that is getting away from me, further and further, every time? I'm fighting a battle with them and I'm fighting one with myself so that I don't give up, that I just don't bloody yell "fuck it all" and disappear from this! And no one can help, Hermione. I know no one can help, as much as they try. And I stand here, watching, as they die and they scramble and just fucking try when I bloody well know that it's only me. Alone. Do you know that?"
"I don't know anything anymore." She admits it, painfully; her voice is weak and pathetic.
He walks to her, to the door, and stops so that their shoulders are almost touching. "No, Hermione, you don't. So I keep at it, because they did. Because Ron did. I don't have a choice. I don't get to make one. But they did and I can never forget that."
When he leaves, closing the door behind him, she crumples to the floor.
- & -
She knows he's there, waiting for her, when she finally apparates into her flat in the right middle of Muggle London. The magic is drained from her in hopes of keeping any watchful Death Eaters at bay. She wishes that it was possible to be rendered completely lame, to become a Squib on the spot. Pansy knows she doesn't want to fight with him.
She's been fighting too many battles and she's already forgetting who's on her side.
"You stupid bint!" he snarls as she stands in front of him, in the middle of her flat. It's messy and reeks but she knows better than to spend time cleaning it. Will it even be standing the next time she comes here, or will it be dust in the trail of her traitorous acts. "What the fuck are you thinking, Parkinson?"
"No lectures tonight, Draco," she pleads as she faces her wrath. "Please."
His expression does not soften, he is a Malfoy after all, but he takes a step back. "Are you asking for the death curse? This is not the time for secret rendezvous. Because believe me, no one will hesitate to pull out their wand, Pansy. No one."
She manages to raise an eyebrow. "Even you?"
His face remains neutral but she sees him swallow past a lump. His mercurial eyes betray him as they search her face, almost beseechingly. "Pan -"
She snorts and turns away. "Thanks Malfoy. Means so much."
His fingers dig into her upper arm with great force but she is used to his violence, Draco has always been predictably physical in a fight. She whirls around as he yanks her against him, eyes darkened and she remembers one night when there wasn't violence between them, when there wasn't nearly this much hate.
She remembers when she was foolish enough to believe in happily-ever-after.
So very long ago.
"Listen to me," he whispers harshly. "Do not think for one bloody second that visiting Potter is safe and alright. I don't care if the fucking bastard is crippled and you want wish him well, you fucking stay on this side of the line. The Dark Lord will kill you and he won't even blink." He grabs the sleeve of her robe and pushes it up her arm, revealing the ugly black mark staining her flawless skin. "Remember this, love? Your curse. By choice."
She doesn't want to cry, she will not cry in front of him. Still, tears clog her throat and burn her cheeks and she swallows before she answers, "Yours too."
"Yes," he answers through gritted teeth and she knows he is remembering the two of them, proud, reckless and stupid, kneeling in front of madman as he brandished them as his forever. No way out. "And I bloody well remember it."
"And yet, you've time to stop to fuck a Mudblood," she replies harshly, cutting through whatever ties that bind them time and again. They maybe on the same side (whatever side it was they pretended to be on) but they are enemies.
No one in this war is a friend. Not anymore.
He pushes her away, shakes his head and turns away disgusted. "This isn't a game, little girl."
"Oh do not patronize me, Draco," she yells this time, anger sparking her energy. She doesn't care who he is, that once upon a time she loved him blindly and without question, she twists the knife deeper, without remorse. Hate, she understands better than anything. "You bloody well know that you're doing the exact thing you're asking me not to. You've been toeing the line since Daddy Dearest killed Narcissa. So do not fucking come here and give me a righteous sermon. Leave that to the bleeding Gryffindors."
"This war isn't about Slytherins versus Gryffindors, anymore, Pans. It hasn't been for a long time. Loves made you soft headed, Parkinson. And you best remember what you're about. Grow up."
"Bollocks! What I am about?" she asks, her voice now a shrill whisper. "Who even knows anymore? I've killed and I've lied and I've hated myself. Don't pretend to be any better, Malfoy. The only thing I am certain of is Potter, so forgive me for holding onto that."
Draco's expression is cruel as he shatters her delusions. He makes a dramatic gesture with his hands before grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking her. "You really don't get it, do you, Pansy? You think your precious hero will save you at that last crucial moment? Potter has one goal in mind and that is to kill Voldemort. If he doesn't die trying, that is. He simply doesn't have time to save you, pet." He steps away, hardens his face and continues to stare at her. "So go sit by his side, lead him straight to us…but don't fucking cry when he pulls out his wand and doesn't even think twice about killing you."
Because it hits a little too close to home, to her greatest fear, she battles against his words. Straightening her spine, she spits back, "I always knew you were a bastard, Malfoy. I never knew you to be a coward."
He moves fast, whips out his wand and has it against her throat, her against a wall, before she can even blink. The tip digs into her skin, near her windpipe and she struggles to breathe. Despite the fear and tug of betrayal that pulls at her heart, she meets his murderous gaze coolly. Do it, she begs him silently. It would be so easy. Her eyes close as his fingers flinch reflexively on the wand and she counts backwards from five.
The wand leaves her throat, she hears him let out a weary sigh but keeps her eyes shut. "I wish I could hate you, Parkinson."
When she hears a soft 'pop' her eyes open and the tears stream down her cheeks, unbidden.
To Be Continued…