Into the Wind
By: Kigomae

Chapter Three: Magical Fury

There were books everywhere. On the floor in piles, on the dressers, the side tables, the vanity, the window sills. And there were books on the bed, surrounding the form of Hermione Granger, obviously in her element, which of course, she had created all over my room. I had no clue why all the books were there, seeing as it was impossible that she had read them all, but from beneath my heavy eyelids I drank in the sight, feeling an inevitable growl of disgust slithering its way up my gut.

"What the hell, Granger," I mumbled, prying myself from the chair and blinking slowly, gazing around the room.

She blatantly ignored me as the upper half of her body disappeared over the side of the bed. I scowled as I watched her dangle there recklessly, straining to reach an edition of 'A Historical Study of the Diabolical', which she eventually dragged towards her with the tips of her fingers. Silently examining the cover of a book resting on the arm of my chair, I frowned. Throwing it aside, I reached for another. And another.

They all had something or other to do with Dark Magic.

"Granger, these books are not going to save you," I said smugly. No, nothing could save her from the clutches of Lord Voldemort. Not if she was already under his roof, under his watchful eye.

She did not look at me, "I know that."

I looked at her warily for another moment before making a sound- one that I didn't even know I could make- in the back of my throat and exiting the room. But just a short while later, as I stood in the shower, I could not help but give thought to the odd situation. What was going on? That preternatural quality of the dreaming state had enveloped these last hours. I was being too accepting, just as one would be of a dream. Too damn accepting.

My shoulder collapsed against the tiled wall of the shower, my fists clenching at my sides. Confusion drifted over me in waves and I shook my head angrily, trying to dispose of it. Was Granger my captive? I could not say. I could not say anything at that moment, for my state of overwhelming shock was not subsiding. What the hell was going on?

I urgently pushed aside the glass door of the shower and stumbled out. I barely had the sense to grab a towel and wrap it around my waist before sliding out into the hall on wet feet. I did not have enough sense or any of my usual grace as I tripped down the spiral staircase in a fit of panic. What the hell was going on?

I flew through the heavy oak doors that lead into the foyer and skidded to a reluctant stop in the middle of the room. There was no one in the room, save for the Dark Lord, and I tried to hide my embarrassment beneath my frustration. My breath panted from my lungs and my skin flushed red. Where had this gall come from, that I could run half naked before Lord Voldemort? Well, I supposed it had come from fear.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked breathlessly, dropping to my knees in a clumsy bow and letting my eyes plead for an explanation.

The Dark Lord chuckled at me, his red eyes amused. Beneath his gaze I felt like nothing but a quivering child.

But maybe that's all I ever really was.

O O O

I could feel my eyes drooping as I sat in that same chair an hour later. My entire body trembled and my hands shook so badly that I could barely hold the towel up. The tips of my hair brushed against my cheeks in stiff, spiky tendrils that had never had the shampoo washed out of them. The world around me was only vaguely familiar. I growled viciously at a small stack of books that tumbled into my lap. My anger, and thus my magic, was out of control. The books fell to the floor, the pages floating down after them in tiny scraps of paper.

It took me a moment to realize that there was a figure standing directly in front of me. My eyes troubled to focus on her face, finally acknowledging Hermione Granger, her lips forming a perfectly puckered O of surprise and her eyebrows drawn together. I grunted what I thought was an adequate dismissal, but she hovered ever nearer, her face coming closer to mine with every passing moment.

"Malfoy, are you dying?" she asked blatantly, her hand fluttering out as if to touch my shoulder, but then hesitantly drawing away.

I gave another grunt, which I thought obviously sounded like a no. Her face just came closer. I was sure that the expression on her face should have been glee, but her brown eyes were nothing but hollow orbs, just eyes and nothing more. I had never seen anything like it, and stared with a one minded intensity at them. What was wrong with her? Shouldn't eyes show something… more?

Suddenly her cool fingers and her warm, soft palm were resting against my arm. I couldn't describe what it was like to have someone touch me without hostility, without intent to harm. Something in me caught, some imaginary string snapped in half by that slightest touch. I looked into her calm, emotionless eyes and felt my own blur with tears as they so often did these days. I saw her steady, easy movements and then my own, trembling, jerky ones. She was composed, cool and casual. My world was falling apart.

Shouldn't her world be falling apart? She was a mudblood, stuck under the damning roof of Lord Voldemort. Shouldn't she break down, cry, scream, beg for mercy? Shouldn't I be cold, distant, and superior? The questions flew by and away without ever being answered. No one could answer my questions. Lord Voldemort could not answer my simplest questions, such as explaining why Hermione Granger was in my room. Why could he not make my world clear and intent, as he knew he had the power to do? Why would he not grant me that one thing? Why did this mudblood have a right to be calm, and yet I did not? My anger roared through my veins like liquid fire.

I distantly heard Granger gasp, saw the cuts upon her pale, pale arm. The magic was in my head, in my blood, in my very core. It swirled in torrents throughout my body, a wildfire taking me hostage. I always hated this, this out of control rage. I knew in my mind that it was not me raging, but my magic. Pure magic, it had a mind of its own. It screamed at me. This girl was a mudblood.

Not even I could restrain it as I felt it rush away from my body, leaving me so desperately tired that my eyes were closed in moments. Relief overcame me. It was out. It built up over days and weeks and months. A pressure on my mind that would not ease. But I knew not of the destruction it would cause until it was too late. Sometimes it was nothing… and others times it was not.

I had a feeling as I drifted off and heard the gasping cries as if from a distance, that this was one of those times.

This magic could not be controlled.

And I knew that neither could I.

O O O

"They are magical wounds, Severus. Dark Magic. These will only close with time."

"Damn it," came Snape's furious curse.

My eyes peeled open reluctantly, warming to the gentle glow that came from the crackling fire. I could feel a healthy heat in my cheeks and the relaxed state of my muscles and mind. I felt rested, but most of all I felt released. A weight was off my shoulders. It would not be back for months. I grinned and gave a leisurely stretch. I looked down and frowned. I had never gotten fully dressed. I stood to do so when I was struck with the odd tension that had exploded in the room around me.

"Draco, get some clothes on," snapped Snape, his dark eyes viciously accusing.

I shrugged, "Okay."

I walked to the dresser and threw a set of black robes over my form while discreetly dropping my towel to the floor. After pulling on a pair of slacks I turned back to where Snape stood, pulling my fingers through the rough tangles of my stiff hair. It was then that I noticed the other people in the room. Rookwood stood beside my bed, his pockmarked face pinched in disapproval and his greasy hair falling into his piercing eyes. He was one of the men who believed that I, and every other young death eater, was inadequate. We were not loyal or brave enough in his eyes. I glared at him for a moment.

But then my gaze skittered to the bed. I felt my own eyes widen. My pulse skittered a moment before returning to a normal pace. There was a form in my bed, looking small and encompassed by a mass of green blankets, the huge mattress and canopy seeming to dwarf her into something even smaller. She shivered even beneath the mound of covers, and her skin was pale. There was an angry gash across one of her cheeks, from her ear to her chin. Her small shoulder, barely poking out above the blanket, was covered in similar cuts.

"What happened?" I asked dumbly.

"I do not know, Master Malfoy. Can you not tell us?" Rookwood asked snidely.

I froze. My gaze searched the pallid face of Hermione Granger. There was no pain there, no distress, in fact, no emotions at all. And I remembered. I remembered what had happened, remembered my own rage at her calm demeanor. And then I remembered the magic rushing away from me at full force. So this is what it had done. I looked at Snape, trying to discern whether or not he understood. But I knew he did not.

He was not half as pure as I was.

"Draco, the Dark Lord will be displeased. Miss Granger had plans for tonight, you see. Make her as presentable as possible by midnight tonight," Snape said briskly before stalking from the room, his usual scowl in place. Rookwood followed reluctantly, a smirk planted firmly on his lips.

I took a deep breath and stepped towards the suddenly imposing bed, peering at the girl laying there. The gash was not pretty, the flesh split to reveal the pink and red flesh between the clean, obviously magical cut. The only sign that Dark Magic had induced these cuts were the dark purple veins running away from it in every direction for a few centimeters. There was a similar, smaller cut just above her left eyebrow, the opposite side of her face.

I grimaced at the sight of her bare shoulder. The look of it was horrendous, for there were cuts exactly the same there. I counted six colliding slashes on just her shoulder, all forming a gruesome entanglement of interweaving, sluggishly purple veins. Shuddering at the sight, I lifted the blanket only enough to confirm that they were everywhere. Beneath the blankets she wore nothing, but the sight was not one I took pleasure from. While her form was pleasingly slender, the purple of her veins and the red of her wounds served as coverage. Just the same, I quickly replaced the covers.

Feeling sick with myself, I felt a rare moment of compassion, at which point I found myself gently pushing a mass of tangled, bushy hair away from the girl's face. I sighed, trying to rein in my wayward emotions. How long had my world been tilting this way? Had I never noticed it swaying beneath my feet? I sat gently on the edge of the bed, trying to imagine myself inflicting all of the terrible gashes on her body. I recalled her swift hand across my face then and smirked. How foolish we all were. As if any of our problems could compare to what had been happening so discreetly around us. The world was so much larger, so much more sinister then we had all imagined it was back then.

I had been the enemy for so long, I know. I had thought myself the supreme villain in the tale of our lives at Hogwarts. And no doubt they had thought me evil. But how fickle was that? Compared to Voldemort I was a green young school boy, innocent as I tortured first years and taunted my rivals. I was so weak. If only I had inherited my fathers strength, his immunity to love and warmth. How had I turned out so soft? I had always thought myself cold. Until sixth year that is exactly what I had been. A cold, ruthless bastard.

But the pressure had cracked my reserve. My sixth year had been full of emotional turmoil. I had questioned my own morality, my own honor and my own courage. I had hated myself for questioning the fate I knew I could never escape. I was forever tied to Voldemort, no matter what. Of that there was no question. But my weaknesses had only grown in number as the pressure had built higher on my shoulders. No doubt Voldemort had expected me to crack so he could just get me out of the way. But I had succeeded. I had succeeded in all but murdering a man who had been nothing but kind to me throughout my life.

I loathed him. And yet his home was inevitably my home also. How could I murder him?

I knew that my thoughts were going to deep. Traveling to far down that path could lead to nothing but a frantic fervor of emotions. And suddenly I did not have to travel any further, for my attention was rapt upon Granger as her eyes fluttered open, her expression one of confusion. I laid a hand on her arm, trying to smile but knowing I was failing monstrously. I just stopped, because if I did not I would obviously scare her into thinking I was angry.

"Oooooh." Her moan echoed through my head for a moment and I winced.

"Granger," I murmured, "You must wake and prepare."

"What time is it?" she asked in a faint whisper.

I looked to the little wizard's clock on the mantle and squinted. We did not have much time, I realized. I must have slept the whole day through, as had she, for it was coming up fast on 11:00 pm. I sighed once again and helped Granger sit up. Her face contorted in pain and she barely noticed when the blanket fell away to reveal that she wore nothing. I looked away as I pulled the blanket up to cover her.

"It is late. We must hurry," I said.

She looked warily down at her body and appeared merely calmly surprised, "What has happened to me?" she asked with no emotion in her voice. Was she not frightened?

"My magic… You see, pure magic has a way of… well, it explodes. And you were closest and so… you were also the one affected," I stumbled through the explanation and then turned away hurriedly, going to my dresser to look for something for her to wear.

Obviously someone had already thought of Granger's lack of proper clothing, seeing as one of my drawers was occupied by solely women's clothing. I pulled out the clothing and stared at it for a moment. It was not a very sensible outfit, seeing as it was a startlingly virginal white. But I had to admit it was a fine set. I gathered it all in my arms and dumped it on the bed beside her.

I frowned when she struggled to stand. The blanket fell to the floor, once again revealing all of my hideous creation. I hurried to help her, my guilt rendering my helpless to her will. She stood there trembling for a full minute, her breath weary and heavy. I realized she could do no more and immediately assisted.

I was shocked to discover that they expected her to wear sinfully red undergarments, but helped her nonetheless. Next there was a white dress, form fitting with a complicated pattern of strings from her bottom to her shoulder blades, which were left bare to the world. I would have been impressed with the intricate design if the deep wounds had not been so blatantly revealed by it. I was thankful when I slipped the loose robes around her shoulders and they were covered. But through the thin robes I could still see the red of the cuts on her arms.

I handed her my comb and watched as she pulled the pearl teeth roughly through the weaving of knots. When she was done it was bushier then ever. I did the best I could with a loose braid down her back.

I was surprised when she spoke, "Why are you helping me?" she whispered, looking up at me with her empty, calculating brown eyes.

"Because I was ordered to," I replied coldly, leading her to a bowl of water where she could awaken and cleanse her face.

"I see." Her voice was distant and quiet.

When she was done and she turned to look at me, I finally realized how angry the Dark Lord was going to be with me. Dressed as she was in her ethereal white I realized that she was meant to look stunning. No doubt she would have, if not for me. Her shoulders were slumped and her body was limp with pain and obvious exhaustion. The purple beneath her eyes was prominent, the dryness of her lips startling, and the cuts were appalling.

"I'm sorry," I finally said in a fleeting voice.

Granger appeared startled for a moment but she recovered and looked away, her jaw tightening a fraction. She did not reply, just walked slowly to the bed and sat on its edge, her head lolling and her arms wrapping around her stomach. I stared at the fire from my chair and then looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to midnight.

There was a crack and a thump. I jumped up and brandished my wand, but lowered it at the sight of Crabbe, sprawled on the floor. He stumbled unceremoniously to his feet and then grinned lopsidedly at me, as if the whole world was something amusing. I scowled. Crabbe had done nothing but enjoy being a Death Eater. What was wrong with me that I was not the same?

"What do you want?" I questioned harshly.

Crabbe's smile slowly faded, "Uh, the Dark Lord wishes her," he jerked a thumb toward Granger, "presence at the graveyard."

My scowl only deepened as Crabbe disappeared with another loud crack. I wanted desperately to know what was going on. Why would he want her at the graveyard? Why was her execution being so elaborately planned out? I sighed and dragged myself to my feet. Her gaze was rapt on my, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. She looked for all the world like she would faint on the spot, but instead she got calmly to her feet and came when I summoned her to the door.

I frowned down at her bare feet, but realized that shoes would only aggravate the wounds there. I did not hesitate as I hauled her off the floor and carried her away. But I was disturbed by her. She did not gasp, nor did she give any change of expression, no sign of surprise. I scowled. There was something wrong with Hermione Granger. I did not know if I had time, but I was determined to find out what.

We walked in silence down the beaten path I had traveled myself almost two years ago.

I looked down at her face, her eyes now closed and her breathing even as she slept in my arms.

And I was grateful.

I was grateful that, for once, I was not alone.