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A/N: Okay, you hate me, I know. I said I was going to post this last Tuesday, and obviously I didn't. Here's the way it worked out. I thought I was going to have an Internet connection while I was gone, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. Then, I arrived home very late Sunday night and slept through most of yesterday. I didn't feel like messing with posting a chapter last night, because that would have required a last sweep for grammatical and spelling errors and then writing out review responses, and I just wasn't up for that. Here it is, if a week late. Better late than never, though, right?
Quick summary of what's happened so far, since it's been two weeks and HBP has happened between now and then (if you remember it all, don't read this): While testing the Partis Sensus potion during a lesson, Hermione and Draco experienced a rare side effect called the Iunctus Mens Effect. The symptoms: a permanent empathic link with one another, implied though not explored connections involving physical sensations and dreams, and the ability to relive the most defining memories of each other's pasts though physical contact when under extreme emotional stress. Memories relived so far: Draco being tortured by his father, the death of Hermione's younger brother, the first murder Draco ever witnessed, and a night in which Hermione briefly considered suicide. Whoa, heavy stuff. All of this is making them both question how they see each other, and neither of them likes that one bit. One glimmer of hope remains for our beloved characters. A potions researcher named Delilah James was once under the influence of the Iunctus Mens, and it is believed that her personal journals, lost when she was married, contain some kind of spell or potion that can counteract its effects. Miss James, as it turns out, was married to a member of the Malfoy family, and her journals are in the family archives. Draco has sent for them, and they are supposed to arrive this morning, as a matter of fact. There you go, all caught up. On with the chapter!
Chapter 12: The Journals of Delilah James
Hermione awoke the next morning with golden sunlight in her eyes and a fading memory of a gripping nightmare that she suspected had not been her own. She could not remember what had transpired in the shadowy world of her dreams, but it had been dark there, the sort of dark that had less to do with a lack of light than with a lack of hope. Utterly exhausted from the events of the day before, she had fallen asleep before the sun had even fully set. Despite the extra hours of sleep, she felt curiously un-rested, as though her slumber had been more of a dream than the nightmare that had haunted it.
She had been sitting on the edge of her four-poster for several minutes, attempting vainly to clear the cobwebs of sleep from her mind, when she remembered what day it was, and what was supposed to arrive by that morning's post. Her sleepiness forgotten, she leapt from the bed and dressed quickly. Less than ten minutes later, she stood breathlessly in the doorway of the Great Hall.
She had known the instant she stepped in the door that he wasn't there, but she scanned the room for him anyway. Not only was the Slytherin table utterly deserted, but the entire hall seemed to be completely empty of occupants. She was still standing there, seriously considering giving in to a little useless but satisfying pouting, when she noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. She had just turned her head to further investigate it when the source, a large, regal-looking eagle owl, took to the air and soared majestically to her side, perching on the head of a statue.
"Hello," she said quietly to the owl, who gazed at her with amber eyes that seemed utterly unimpressed. The owl reached out one leg and offered her the note he was carrying. She took it, and before she had even opened it, the owl had spread his magnificent wings and disappeared through one of the Great Hall's many windows.
The note she now held in her hands was little more than a scrap of parchment folded in half. It was not actually addressed to her, nor was the name of the sender included anywhere in its contents, but she would have known who it was from even if she hadn't recognized the hurried, elegant script. She wondered if his scent -- spicy and expensive and elusive even when he was standing right in front of her -- could really be clinging to the parchment, or if their newfound intimacy was finally wreaking havoc on her imagination.
They're here. Come to the library.
That was all it said, and its abruptness was so off-putting, so presumptuous, that if the journals had not been so desperately important, she wouldn't have given him the pleasure of responding to his summons. She was willing to swallow a little pride, however, if it meant freedom from the emotional bedlam that had recently become her life.
Even Hermione, who possibly spent more time in the library than Madam Pince, had seldom seen the cavernous room so deserted, or at such an early hour. She could not hear or see any signs of life, but Malfoy's angry impatience crashed through the bookcases and washed over her with such intensity that it was almost tangible. It hardly seemed like a good sign that the arrival of their supposed salvation had aroused such negative emotions in him, and it worried her. She wasted no time in following the trail of his frustration to the secluded table he seemed to prefer.
As soon as she reached the alcove, the reason for Malfoy's displeasure became obvious, and she bit back a groan of dismay. Two stormy eyes and the top of a head of uncharacteristically ruffled white-blond hair were all that was visible of Malfoy over the countless, towering mountains of leather-bound journals that were heaped upon every available inch of the table in front of him. Several more stacks littered the floor around him. There must have been hundreds of them.
"It seems that we can add 'the most extensive, unorganized, long-winded, deadly-boring collection of personal writings in the known universe' to our list of Mrs. Delilah James-Malfoy's accomplishments," Malfoy said scathingly from behind his bulwark of dusty volumes. Hermione made her way slowly around the table to the chair beside him, unceremoniously dumping two more piles of books to the floor in order to sit down.
"Are all of these her journals?" she asked in a hopeless whisper.
"No, Granger, only this stack," Malfoy snapped sarcastically, running an agitated hand through his hair, which explained its atypical state of disarray. "I just had my mum send all the rest for a bit of light reading." She glared at him, but it was only a half-hearted glare. He was more frustrated than angry with her, she knew, and she could hardly blame him.
"This will take ages," she lamented.
"You have no idea," he replied, sounding rather like the whiny eleven-year-old he had once been. "Not only are the journals undated and in no discernable order, but from what I've read so far, all her work and theories and experiments are mixed in randomly with personal entries. She'll be rambling on for an eternity about her troubles with the girl in the flat below her, and then all of the sudden she's talking about the theory behind the use of insect pheromones in medical potion making. We're going to have to read every bloody page of every bloody journal to have even half a chance of finding a cure that might be in there."
Malfoy threw the volume he was holding across the room in disgust. It hit a particularly wobbly tower of yet more journals, which promptly cascaded to the floor around their feet. Neither did anything about this, nor said another word for several minutes, wallowing in a mutual self-pity that hung like an oddly comforting cloud around them. Finally, Hermione shook off her dejected, forlorn state of mind, and set her face in lines of grim determination.
"Well, I suppose there's only one thing to do," she said with resolve. She picked up the journal that lay atop the stack in front of her, a slim volume bound in greenish leather. "The answer is in here somewhere. We're just going to have to keep looking until we find it." She didn't have to look at Malfoy to know that he was unimpressed by her words.
"You said it yourself, Granger. It's going to take ages. Don't you have homework to do, idiotic friends to keep in line, elves to protect, worlds to save?" She said nothing, deciding a dignified silence was the best course of action. Irked by her lack of response, Malfoy leaned back in his chair and pouted.
"Well, you waste all the time you want," he sneered. She kept her eyes on the journal even when she heard him push his chair away from the desk and get up to leave. "Let me know when you find it. See you in a year." He was just about to turn the corner and disappear into the rows of shelves when she spoke.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she suggested in a rather sing-song tone that she knew was childish but which felt oddly satisfying. Malfoy paused, and she felt his conflict as he tried to decide whether or not to take the bait.
"Why not?" he asked through gritted teeth. Hermione turned the page of the journal she was skimming with a nonchalant air that she knew wouldn't fool him for a moment.
"Well, if you'll remember, the man Delilah James was linked to was never made privy to her method, and was rather upset by it. I did a little research, and found an interview in which he admitted that the blocking of the effects was one-sided. Whenever she wanted, Delilah could tap into his feelings. He had to live out the rest of his life knowing that his dreams and emotions and fears were completely exposed to a person he hated. Now, if that sounds like your cup of tea, by all means, go ahead and leave me to do all the work and reap all the benefits. Otherwise, you can get your sorry, lazy ass back over here and help me."
Having said her peace, Hermione waited in the silence, skimming the pages of spiky, haphazard handwriting and gloating inwardly as Malfoy's shock and infuriation swirled dangerously in the air around her. Finally, he stalked back over to his chair, swearing creatively, first in English and then in several other languages she didn't understand, although she knew enough French to blush slightly at one particularly imaginative string of expletives.
"I hope you're happy," he snapped and he snatched up a thick black journal with worn edges and opened it with more force than was strictly necessary. Hermione smiled slightly, but she was already beginning to lose herself in the search, and did not answer.
It wasn't until the room had fallen silent, and Malfoy was deeply absorbed in his own work, that she realized he hadn't once mentioned the potentially humiliating events of the day before. She wondered if he had ignored the topic on purpose, or if he had been too distracted by their current predicament to remember. Oddly enough, she suspected it was former.
She studied him for a moment, trying to discern an possible motivation he might have for showing her such a kindness, when he suddenly stirred in his seat as though he felt her eyes on him. She cast her gaze down quickly, and therefore missed the look of puzzlement Malfoy sent her as a wave of gratitude washed over him, as cool and soothing as the breeze in spring.
A/N: Ta-da! It wasn't worth the wait, I know, but I'm already working on the next chapter, so it should be out soon. In the meantime, review! Oh, BTW, if you've read HBP already, we're just pretending that certain things in that book didn't happen for the purposes of this story. If you have read it, I have a question for you: How do you think the events of HBP will effect the world of Draco/Hermione fan fiction? Just curious. Let me hear your thoughts!