Homecoming
"You're alive," Ron said in relief, leaning back against the banister shakily when he saw me.
"Of course I am," I scoffed, burying the trembling fear that still threatened to overwhelm me, and turned to look at Malfoy and Snape, both of whom were also standing in the foyer. I avoided Snape's eyes – however good at Legilimency I was, I wasn't going to risk letting him pry while I was this weak – and then glanced at Malfoy, who still looked chalk-white. When I met his eyes, to my surprise, he forced a smile and then glanced away.
"What is his Mark?" Snape asked, moving forward.
Wordlessly, I held out my right palm and whispered, "Reveal." The black star appeared, the purple points moving around it steadily.
"Can anyone aside from you do that?" Ron asked as he stared at my palm, moving closer to get a clear look at the new Mark.
"I don't know," I said. "How about one of you try?" I suggested.
Malfoy cleared his throat, stepped forward, and placed the tip of his wand on my palm. "Reveal," he murmured.
For a few seconds, it looked as though nothing had happened. Then, suddenly, Malfoy staggered backward, panting slightly as he grasped for something to hold onto. His eyes rolled up into his head; not even really thinking about what I was doing, I rushed to him, grabbing his arm to hold him upright. "Malfoy," I said sharply, right in his ear. "Are you alright?"
There was no response except for a faint moan; when I glanced back at Snape, he had gone even more ashen than usual. Ron, too, almost despite himself, looked somewhat worried. "Someone help me," I snapped, buckling under Malfoy's weight.
Ron rushed to my aide, grabbing Malfoy's other arm. "Where…?"
"Front room," I panted, "on the couch would be best." We heaved him toward the door. Snape fluidly moved out of our way. Ron let go of Malfoy as soon as we reached the couch; the former Slytherin leaned heavily on me, and I managed to set him down on the couch. I knelt beside him. "Malfoy," I said quietly, "can you hear me?"
There was no response, none at all. I felt worry clench my heart and buried it swiftly. "Professor," I called to Snape, "do you know what this is?"
Snape had left, however; Ron went after him to see where he'd gone. I glanced at the clock and realized it was nearly midnight; I'd met Blacnell over three hours ago. I rubbed my eyes tiredly and then turned my attention back to Malfoy. He didn't look right at all; his skin had gone an even more pasty white. Gently, hesitantly, I touched his hand and then gripped it in my own, realizing how strange it was that I was sitting here keeping watch over my former enemy, actually worried for his health.
The minutes ticked by; Ron came back to say that Snape was brewing a counter-potion and hadn't said much except to get out. He left again, seemingly unable to bear being in the same room with Malfoy even when he was obviously hurt in some way, and I was alone with the unconscious Slytherin.
More minutes trickled out, then hours. It was three in the morning, and I was nearly drifting to sleep, when suddenly Malfoy's eyes flickered open.
"Granger?" he asked, his voice hoarse, his pale grey eyes struggling to focus on me.
"Malfoy," I said, fighting the relief out of my voice. "Do you know what happened?"
For a moment he didn't answer her, just looking up at the concern in her eyes that she couldn't hide like the concern in her face. He felt his hand in hers and wondered if this was how low he'd sank, coming to such terms with a Mudblood like her; more and more now, though, there was something inside him that fought the term "Mudblood" and resented using it. Her hair fell over her pale face and he realized how tired she looked; it must have been a hard night for her, and yet here she was, sitting up with him, keeping watch. The clock ticked loudly, and he realized it was past three a.m. He struggled to sit upright and she let go of his hand.
"How long have I been out?"
"About three hours," I answered, glad that he remembered what had happened. "How are you feeling?"
He looked at me with a peculiar expression on his face. "I remembered a lot of things," he said slowly, resting his back against the couch's arm.
"What things?" I asked cautiously, unsure as to whether or not I really wanted to hear this.
"Being turned into a ferret; torturing you, Ron, and Harry at school; losing the House Cup, and the Quidditch Cup; being beaten by my father; having the chance to murder Dumbledore; fighting that final battle; losing my mother; leaving the wizarding world, supposedly for good; meeting up with you again; coming back…" He shook his head, then rubbed his temples, leaning forward so that I could not see his face. "It was a lot to remember, in three hours," he whispered, and it struck me how weak his voice sounded.
Hesitantly, I reached out to touch his arm. "It would have driven most people insane," I muttered, trying to sound soothing. "That was Lord Verloren's intention. You survived."
When he looked up at me, I nearly reeled back in shock; those cold, grey eyes looked so vulnerable, so hurt, so lost that I didn't know what I could say, what I could do, to comfort my enemy. "I survived, Granger," he said softly, "but how many times will I have to go through it again?"
"Snape's brewing a counter-potion right now," I said firmly. "You'll never have to go through it again."
He looked almost warily at my palm and then forced himself to his feet; I followed and nearly fell over, and to my surprise, he caught me. His face was inches from mine in that moment, and when my eyes met his, I realized that through the vulnerability, concern was showing. "Looks like we've both had a rough night."
I nodded, exhausted, glad for his arm as support, for I was certain that I would not be able to stand on my own. We both sat down again, side by side on the couch, and he suddenly said in a low, strained voice, "It was almost too much to bear. Remembering all that. Lord Verloren knows what he's doing, doesn't he." It wasn't a question.
I nodded weakly again. "He does."
We sat in silence for another moment, and then I felt Malfoy tremble with weakness next to me; almost of its own accord, my hand reached out to touch his. His voice was forced when he said, "Don't even touch me, Granger, you…"
But the words "filthy Mudblood" didn't make it past his lips this time. Instead, his hand was wrapping tightly around mine, and I was pulling him towards me; my arms wrapped around him and he wasn't fighting, instead getting closer, and in all his vulnerability in that moment, his forehead pressed to my chest and he didn't cry, but I felt him shaking against me, felt his heart racing.
In that moment, I could no longer find it in me to hate Draco Malfoy. He was lost, and alone, and a pitiful remainder of the person he'd once prided himself for being; I couldn't hate someone like that. I hated myself for it, but I stroked his hair and tried to help him through that night, even though I knew that he would never admit needing help. He was a Malfoy, and that could never change.