Chapter Four: Commingle
Hermione fumed all through the training session when she recalled her recruits, all the way through her shower, and back to her departmental office. There she had glared at the stacks of paperwork waiting for her on her desk, before setting to work with a vengeance.
How Harry could even think Malfoy would make a decent partner on the case, let alone sign him on without consulting anyone else, she did not understand. And they would have to work closely together. She and Harry were in charge of the case, but Malfoy wasn't just an Auror they could draft in for a bit of delegated work, and then draft out afterwards. He wasn't with the Ministry, and he would have to be with them every step of the way, if only so an eye could be kept on him. Babysitting Malfoy.
She frowned, ferociously dotting i's and crossing t's on a report she was finishing on the pure-blood hate groups for the Minister. Malfoy was rude, arrogant, abrasive, cowardly, evil, and definitely not helpful. He was clever though – a clever actor. And an even better liar. He had to be if Harry could blind himself to their past, and forget all that had happened between them – the snide insults, the constant doing down, the put downs that always struck at her strongest insecurities. Six years of being told she was less than the most menial grub to inhabit the earth. Six years of being reminded that there was a whole class of wizarding society that considered her some kind of depraved mutation to be stamped out, less than human, unworthy of her magic or a magical education or even a place in the magical world. Six years of his smirks and self-importance and arrogance shadowing her footsteps in the corridors of the castle she was awed to be in. Six years of blight on her school life. And then the torture… Such things could not be so easily forgotten and let go.
That night remained, etched into her psyche, the sensations graven in her muscle memory so that particular movements could threaten to drag the incident to the forefront of her mind, unchecked, so that she was forced to relive the agony and helpless despair. It still haunted her on nights when she was overtired and the past came back to swamp her, and she knew that it hadn't been kindness behind Malfoy's actions then – it had been cowardice. The man was a cockroach. And now they had to work together. Welcome to Hell.
Hermione muffled a shriek of frustration, plunging face first into a pillow transfigured from her blotter, and screaming into it until she felt better. Of course, her throat now hurt, and that only made her more irritable, but her desire to punch something had lessened.
It wasn't even that she didn't trust Malfoy – although she didn't, but that was only on the surface. Deep down, all the things he'd done to her still hurt, what his aunt had done to her still hurt, and she didn't know whether she had it in her to ever forgive him. Most of the time in school she had managed to shrug off his insults, but that didn't mean the bullying hadn't and didn't upset her. She knew she was being emotional and maybe somewhat unreasonable, but it wasn't possible to be completely logical about this. It was too hard a task, and while forgiving him might bring her some slight reprieve from the pain those memories still caused her, she wasn't sure she could be logical and detached enough to do it. She wanted to be able to hate him, to blame him, and she knew she was being unfair, but she couldn't bring herself not to be.
She knew that if Ron was there he would have sided with her – he would have told Harry he was insane, that Malfoy was Malfoy and couldn't be trusted. Ron didn't find it quite so easy to forgive. But he was on paternity leave as his wife, Ernie Macmillan's younger sister Isobel, had recently had their twin boys Gideon and Fabien. Hermione briefly contemplated sending a letter to Ron, but scrapped the idea irately; it wasn't fair on Ron – or Isobel and the twins for that matter – and she had no doubt that Harry would have her head for disclosing details regarding the case to anyone unauthorised to know. And Ron would want to know all the details. Perfect, the only person she could talk to was siding with her tormentor!
She slammed out of the Ministry early for once, going home to stew and brood over what would happen tomorrow.
By dinnertime she was almost calm, just a little tetchy. She'd huffed about the kitchen as she crashed the frying pan on and off the hob, Crookshanks gobbling up the flakes of fried fish that flopped out onto the floor, the tension slowly easing out of her as she made her meal, although not before she had diced her vegetables with vicious thoroughness.
After eating and a very long bath, she poured herself half a glass of a rather nice sweet muscato, upending the bottle when only a little remained. She was in her comfy pyjamas – fuzzy flannels that were soft with wear – and she curled up in her favourite winged armchair beside the fire in the lounge with the wine in one hand, and the papers she had stuffed into her bag at work in the other. Crookshanks had gone out to patrol the street as self-appointed night watchman as he did every night before bed.
Now that she had time and was in the right frame of mind she would be able to go through it all. Harry had sent her a note with the updated case file at lunchtime, apparently not daring to talk to her about their new partner face to face for fear she might explode once more. The mountain of work she still had to finish, and the delegation of her own duties that she'd had to sort out had prevented her from reading it, and her own irritation with her friend hadn't been much of an incentive to open the folder before she calmed down. As a result, she wasn't completely up-to-date with things at Harry's end, and that bugged her.
The folder was already an inch thick, and she'd pulled the case files on the Bloodless Seven to reacquaint herself with the details, which left her with a whole foot of extra reading. She'd only been given the absolute bare bones of the case when Kingsley had requested that she joined Harry heading it that morning, and then she had been inundated with pressing matters from her own area of the department. She had glimpsed the bodies around eight that morning when the Squad were still photographing the crime scene. She had given them and the area a cursory examination, shocked by the viciousness of the attack and the sheer amount of blood everywhere before she'd been forced to Apparate back to the Ministry. Even so, she'd missed Harry, who by all accounts had been pulled every which way since the wee hours, and had been itching to pick his brains over exactly who might have done it before the Malfoy debacle.
She dropped the leather briefcase on the floor beside her armchair, wincing slightly as a distant series of thuds indicated at least one stack of the books she had in there had toppled over, and reached in to pull out the case file, propping it up against her knees and staring at the as yet unlabelled manila folder.
Let them be Death Eaters killed by normal means, please let them be that, she prayed silently to herself. It would mean they had a vigilante seeking justice against the Death Eaters on their hands, but that they had dealt with before, and would cause less fear amongst the general population. The papers lapped up those stories, although the spin they put on it was invariably unhelpful, usually promoting the behaviour, which was the very last thing the Ministry needed. If that was the case however, once they knew the general public were safe, they could focus on the much easier task of tracking the murderer and protecting reformed Death Eaters. Those still on the run could fend for themselves.
Hermione sighed, crossing her fingers slightly under the folder as she chewed on the inside of her lip. She knew Harry had dealt with several rogue Death Eaters during his time in office, but Death Eaters were Death Eaters, and more than once she knew Harry had had the unenviable task of having to return to an Auror's home to tell their family that their loved one wouldn't be coming back. With any luck that wouldn't happen this time.
Apprehension getting the better of her despite the wine, she set the folder aside on a round side table under the floor lamp behind her, and instead hefted the larger bundle out of her bag and onto her lap, flipping open the folder to skim back through the details of the Bloodless Seven. She already knew the case fairly well, but there was a possibility of a similarity striking her.
The investigations had turned up next to no information, a great deal of time having been wasted by her old department chasing up non-existent leads on vampires and sasabonsams, and Blood-Sucking Bugbears – even Pogrebins. The fool in charge of the investigation (one Samuel Blundle, a neurotic from the Being Division whom Hermione knew to hold deep prejudices against any part-human species) had believed the seven exsanguinated corpses to be the work of a rogue coven. Still called upon for consulting matters in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she'd had a little more insight into the case than others exterior to the department, and the insider knowledge hadn't comforted her. Not even the hungriest of vampires could drain every last drop from a formerly living human. Such wholesale removal of bodily fluids was beyond any blood-feeding creature. They hadn't been anything near mummification, but she'd brought in Bill Weasley just to check on the off chance that they had undergone an early stage of the process. The idea that ancient Egyptian tomb curses might have been used was unsettling, but Bill had reported that despite any similarities, there was nothing in common with the practices of the Ancient Egyptian wizards.
Blundle, of course, had ignored her report, cutting her out of the case as much as possible after she'd brought in Bill. Instead the fool had gone as far as pulling Sanguini into his investigations, disrupting the vampire's tour of the British Isles much to the disappointment of his fans, convinced that they were dealing with illegal immigrants from the Black Forest. Blundle had severely dented human-vampire relations, offending almost every coven and individual within the United Kingdom, until the whole mortifying circus was put to a stop by the murders halting after the seventh victim. It was embarrassing how poorly it had been handled. The whole seven weeks had been an absolute nightmare, which the papers had capitalised on, of course. It had been a relief not to be officially working the case, as her name had been kept out of any pot-stirring that had gone on.
Hermione felt her irritation with Blundle rise once more as she flipped through the files, recalling a number of near-misses when the fool had only been saved from a receiving particularly nasty hexes from her by her own professionalism. It had taken a whole month for things to properly calm down, leading articles turning back to stories filled with the latest gossip about the who's who of the wizarding world, and now it was gearing up again. The press loved it when cold cases resurrected themselves. Hermione sighed, running her hands through her hair and dropping her head back against the chair, hoping against hope they'd be able to solve the case before the media really got their teeth into it. The fact that she and Harry were heading it together had already hit the evening edition of the Prophet, complete with rumours and fear-mongering. It was just as well Ron was on leave. If he'd joined in on it the entirety of wizarding Britain would have been in uproar.
With the DRCMC put to one side in their favour due to the Marks (something Hermione had been arguing with her superior in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for ever since the first murder took place), Blundle, of course, had come to her office that morning. Convinced she was behind the change of department, he had given her the adult form of a tantrum, which would have put any toddler to shame. Hermione sighed, rubbing her ear slightly, sure he'd been on the verge of busting her eardrums. It hadn't helped her mood for when Harry had brought Malfoy to see her afterwards she thought wryly.
Blundle was an incompetent nincompoop. The DRCMC weren't equipped to deal with potential Death Eaters, despite Blundle's accusations that this time werewolves were involved, and that he could see that if they didn't attend to it soon the Ministry would have an uprising of murderous magical creatures on their hands. The likelihood of it being werewolves this time had the same probability of Blundle being promoted to Minister. Dark wizards were the bread and butter of the Auror Office. It was obvious that the case be turned over. Blundle, however, was completely in the dark about the presence of the Dark Marks on the victims, by design, which had made him doubly difficult to handle. She had been itching to give the fool a talking to, and had she still been in the department, would have seen to it that he was replaced, but Kingsley had interrupted Blundle's tirade in her office, intervening before she could retaliate, and Blundle was now working in Magical Maintenance. Kingsley had calmly stated that he felt Blundle's considerable talents would be far better utilised in that department. Hermione had had to restrain herself from punching the air, although Kingsley had allowed her a small wink on his way out of her office afterwards.
Hermione banished the stack of files back to her office bag with a sigh. She hadn't expected any miracle of inspiration to strike from reviewing the old cases, but she would be lying if she said she hadn't hoped something might crop up. And she'd be lying even more if she said she wasn't putting off looking at the grisly photos of the case in hand once more.
"You're Hermione Granger, woman," she muttered sternly to herself. "Act like it!"
Rallying herself, she pulled out the folder Harry had sent her once more. She frowned, and then opened it, only to come face to face with a note in Harry's usual spikey scrawl.
Hermione,
I'm sorry I didn't consult with you about Malfoy before signing him on. I understand how you feel – trust me, I do. But you also know how it's been for me this morning. If I could have talked to you first, I would have. But I do trust Malfoy – I wouldn't have involved him at all if I did not have the utmost confidence in his trustworthiness.
I know this will be difficult for you. I know you of all of us have suffered most from his family. And I would not have put you in this position if I had any other choice. But things are moving faster than we thought – this case is more involved than we assumed.
Hermione huffed a little to herself, sipping her wine, but grouchily accepted Harry's written apology. She knew he hadn't cut her out of the decision on purpose. Intrigued by the note, she read on.
Malfoy checked the Marks. They're real. The Squad tested them against his this afternoon. But they're new. I didn't notice before, but Malfoy did. They're black – the way they went when Voldemort summoned the Death Eaters. Malfoy's turned grey after Voldemort died.
Hermione froze, staring at the untidy writing, so much like her friend's hair, before she collected herself, reading through the rest of his note as fast as possible, noticing that his handwriting had become even messier as it went on, splatters of ink dotting the page as though he had pressed the quill so hard he'd snapped the tip.
We don't know what this means yet. It's got both of us stumped – I've never seen Malfoy so agitated. He said he'd only ever seen Voldemort cast Marks. He didn't even think it was possible for anyone else to. Voldemort still used his yew wand when he branded Malfoy, so we're not likely to find out much from determining the wand that branded the victims, but I have the Squad working on it anyway.
Hermione… I honestly don't believe Voldemort's back. I'd know it. I don't know how, but I just do. This has to be someone else. We've got to find out who. Malfoy thinks they've re-formed the Death Eaters, whoever they are. But he hasn't heard any chatter that might hint at that so he's even more confused than I am.
It still doesn't answer why our guys were murdered, but it's somewhere to start. Also, Malfoy seems to think that whether the Marks were branded on them before or after their death was important. Like they're a hoax to put us off.
We discussed the likelihood of a new Dark witch or wizard coming forwards in an attempt to take Voldemort's place after we left you. Malfoy seems to be in favour of the idea. He says it takes power to cast the Mark, and they might use it as a smokescreen for their real activity. If we went haring off thinking it was Voldemort it would be a perfect cover.
Please do think properly about working with him. He's told us more than we'd be able to figure out ourselves already.
Harry
Hermione sighed. She was still reeling slightly from the revelation Harry had disclosed about the Marks, processing it, but Harry's last plea set her emotions rolling again. She had to admit, grudgingly, that without Malfoy's input they would be much further behind than they already were.
She hummed, resting her mouth against the rim of her wine glass as she thought.
Malfoy.
Another flick of her wand brought a third file soaring towards her, and when it opened in her lap she was provided with a copy of the Ministry's most up to date information on the Malfoy heir. She stared at the photograph of him – a clipping from the paper. He looked serious, tired; a businessman. She scanned through the file, examining the details of his generous donations to various charities and causes, the fact that his businesses had entirely clean dealings, and the number of times he had covertly tipped off the Ministry about underground Dark activity.
The more she read the less anger she felt towards the boy. Well, man, really. They were adults now, and with a twinge of embarrassment she realised she really had not behaved like one earlier in the day. Malfoy had been the mature one. She had behaved like a thwarted child – exactly as she had expected, and, if she admitted it, wanted, to see him behave. She'd behaved like Blundle, Merlin help her. She had wanted him to justify her perceptions of him, to validate her anger and distrust. To continue to hate the boy he had been. But no, he had been collected, reserved (but then he was a Malfoy), courteous even. The man she had met – the man he was – was different to the boy she remembered. And she felt ashamed of herself.
But I have to be sure. We have to be sure.
And what was she going to find in his mind tomorrow?
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. The angry part of her that thirsted for retribution and justice for the blight he had been on her years at Hogwarts wanted to see he was involved in the murders, to see he still was a Dark wizard, and not to be trusted in the slightest. But the logical woman she had grown to be told her she was being juvenile and unfair. Her lack of control that morning might have been excused by her altercation with Blundle, but after a night's sleep and a day of calm consideration, any baseless ire on her part tomorrow would simply be unprofessional. More to the point; it wouldn't be right. And doing the right thing was what her career, and at times her entire life, had been founded on.
All of a sudden she didn't know what she wanted to see into his mind. If he proved to be a good person, that would mean she had to swallow her pride and admit she had been wrong – that she had treated him poorly that morning. Worse still, that she had completely misjudged him based on behaviour that was well in the past. It was one thing admitting such things to herself at home, but to formally apologise to him stuck in her craw.
Hermione rolled the cool glass against her cheek, trying to take away the flush the wine had brought to her skin. Even if he were proven to have changed, how could she so easily forgive the wounds of the past?
Her arm twinged slightly, and she glanced down to her forearm where the silver-white scars still wrote out 'Mudblood' in her skin. No magic could vanish them. The internal scars from the Cruciatus Curses Bellatrix had used on her couldn't be seen, but phantom pains still wracked her body some nights as though lightning had been trapped in her veins. They always woke her with tears in her eyes, her body constricted with an echo of the curses that refused to go away, ribs burning with the relived heat of Dolohov's curse. Those scars still traced her torso.
And he did nothing. The coward. He just stood by. She paused halfway through the venomous thought. But then, he really did do nothing – nothing to help them, but nothing to harm them either. He could have identified Harry…he tried not to identify us. And if he is good – what then? Apologise for your prejudice? Acknowledge your myopia?
Hermione's heart tightened a little as though a pair of hands inside it had suddenly gripped the tiny box her forgiveness was locked away in with alarming strength at the thought. Could she forgive him? Was such a thing even possible?
She heard the creak and floop of the cat flap as Crookshanks padded back in, coming over to rub his face against her ankles with a rumbling purr, his fur cold from the night air, before he ran away upstairs to curl up on the empty side of her double bed. Hermione stared after her pet.
Crookshanks had the right idea. Sighing with the muddled complication of her thoughts, Hermione drained her glass, and went up to bed, hoping that tomorrow would hold answers, although what she hoped to find, she did not yet know.
oOo
The next day, Draco found himself facing Potter over a table in one of the Auror interrogation rooms, waiting on Granger. The previous day had been taken up with the logistics of signing him on, which involved a degree of paperwork, and then familiarising himself with Ministry regulations, all fitted around Potter's usual work. After going down to the Forensics lab to crosscheck his Mark with those on the corpses, confirming their worst suspicions, they had agreed to meet early the next day. Draco had intended to use the extra time to regulate his emotions, but he could feel the nerves pounding with adrenaline in his chest. I'm insane. I am actually, certifiably, insane.
He hadn't told either of his parents what had happened in his meeting when he had collected them in the afternoon, and they hadn't pried. His mother had been occupied with trying to hound her husband out of his depressive funk, insisting that he went to the classes with an open mind. Draco could tell she was thinking about his not idle remarks from the morning about how easily Lucius could return to Azkaban, and genuinely concerned that her husband might get himself sent back there due to no more than obstinate mulishness. Apparently, he had spent most of the day glaring at the instructor, and had refused to answer any question put to him. Naturally, this had left him in a foul mood, little improved by his wife's badgering, and he had stormed off into the Manor the moment they cleared the Floo. Narcissa had had the presence of mind to vaguely enquire after Draco's meeting, but he had shrugged it off as he so often did, before flooing to his apartment to leave his parents to their domestic squabble.
Potter was trying for an encouraging smile that Draco found entirely unnecessary, and more irritating than anything else. He didn't require any emotional support, and even if he did, he wouldn't turn to Potter for it. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and trying to calm his mind. It wouldn't do to let Granger in when his thoughts were as scrambled and incoherent as they were at the moment. He envisaged millponds and icebergs, slowly restoring order.
The door opened and Granger marched in. She took the seat opposite Draco, frowning, her arms crossed. It didn't bode well.
Draco blinked, lifted out of his anxiety and meditations for a moment by the realisation that when she wasn't wearing that ridiculous Muggle getup from yesterday, Granger was actually a very smart dresser. Her insane hair had been restrained in the kind of French twist his mother favoured, if a little looser, and her tight black skirt stopped at her calves and rose up to her waist, cinching in the loose white satin blouse she wore beneath her open fronted black and grey herringbone robes. Simple but stylish. He'd always thought she was a rather dowdy dresser in school, with the exception of the Yule Ball. That was probably the first time any of the male population of the school had actually realised she was a girl, and a not unattractive one at that.
She met his enquiring gaze with an eyebrow raised in unimpressed bemusement, and Draco looked away.
"Right," Harry cleared his throat uneasily. "Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be," Draco muttered, his mind back on the task in hand.
Hermione nodded. Then she turned to Draco. "Let down your barriers, Malfoy."
Draco stared into her brown eyes. They were intense, but he dared to think there was a little less anger in them than yesterday. With a sigh at his own foolishness, he closed his eyes, and lowered his mental barricades.
Granger did not speak the incantation, but he could feel her presence instantly. Her mind was a foreign fluidity that pressed against his own, feeling out his lowered walls, before slipping over them like water spilling over the edge of an over-filled cup. Draco struggled to keep the barriers down as he felt her glide over them, every instinct screaming at him to slam them back up, but he resisted the urge. Granger locked out was bad enough, but Granger locked in didn't bear thinking about.
She ghosted over his mind, sliding between his uppermost thoughts and deeper towards his memories like quicksilver. Her touch was surprisingly gentle. When he'd practiced occlumency with his insane aunt, Bellatrix's touch had been invasive and barbed, the threat of her intrusion a severe inducement to succeed and shut her out. Granger, although she did not seem to be taking extreme care, seemed able to easily wind her way between his thoughts, her presence less invasive and more subtle, her mind smooth against his, brushing against the bubbles of his thoughts and sending off little shockwaves of their contents. His concerns about his father's obstinate behaviour rose up before his eyes as she skimmed the thought; his nervousness before he'd gone to meet Lucius for the first time after his release eclipsed by the arrival of Potter's letter requesting a meeting; his shock seeing the Dark Marks; his anxieties about the rise of the Dark Lord or a new Dark witch or wizard. Granger brushed them aside lightly as one might gently fend off a puppy when busy, curious but uninterested in them, and moved deeper.
Draco struggled with himself for a moment as she cleared his immediate thoughts and came to the edge of his memories, his barriers trembling as he fought to keep them down, fear and anxiety willing him to return them to their proper place and keep his mind safe. It was his last haven – his only bastion. But he had agreed to this, he had suggested it, and he had to let her into the place no other had ever been.
He could feel Granger waiting; watching and feeling his struggle with a patience he hadn't expected of her, until eventually his will won out.
Hermione drifted towards the edge of Malfoy's memories, hesitant now she was here, reluctant to discover what truly lay in the depths of his mind. His thoughts were relatively predictable, although she couldn't help but be a little surprised by the lack of any negative ruminations on her, especially given her behaviour the previous day. She had expected to come across at least one offensive slur, but there had been nothing. His memories, however, and beyond that – his deepest convictions – they gave her pause for thought. There were things there that they shared – memories she had little desire to see again from a different perspective than her own – and convictions that she couldn't help but fear.
There was no doubt that Malfoy was not enjoying the ordeal. Immersed within him as she was, she could feel the struggle that he was undergoing every second that she was present, and experienced a faint echo of the battle he was fighting with his instincts. His instinct for survival and self-preservation was strong, strong enough that she could understand why he had been a coward in the past. He feared death; he feared emotions and their effects; he feared vulnerability. Little wonder that the desire to shut her out was so overwhelming. It was impressive that he had managed to bring down his walls, let alone keep them down long enough for her to get as far as she had, and she knew her dawdling was not helping matters.
A streak of fear chased its way through her at the thought of being trapped in Malfoy's mind if he accidentally put his shields back up before she could get out. She shook the thought off, however. She was a professional. She was here to prove Malfoy couldn't be trusted; she had a job to do.
With a mental huff of forced bravery, she moved forwards into his memories, dropping down towards them. She didn't need to look at anything from their school years or before, but it was difficult to stay out of them entirely as she sifted through his recollections of the past six years. Memories were always tied together like a daisy chain of interlinked bubbles, and once she started investigating one, she would be pulled quickly down through the rest.
Harry watched Malfoy and Hermione's faces. Hermione's was quite calm, her breathing even and meditative, although a small frown of concentration drew her brows together and her lips were slightly pursed. Malfoy was quite different. His teeth were clenched, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and he was panting shallowly. Sweat had begun to gather at his temples and above his lip. Harry had no doubt that Malfoy was more than capable of throwing Hermione out of his mind if she crossed the line, and he knew from his own experiences with Snape that what was happening was far from pleasant for Malfoy, but he could not help but remain on the edge of his seat, straining to notice the slightest sign that he might need to intervene. He trusted Hermione not to be callous – to be aware of the immense trust Malfoy was placing in her by allowing her into his mind – but even the gentlest of invasions remained an incursion into that which should never be assaulted.
Draco fought to remain calm as his memories flashed past his eyes, no control over what he saw or where Granger went, the entirety of his will bent on keeping his mind open to her. There was his father's trial at which he had been a reluctant attendee, his mother's trial – Potter testifying in the witness stand, being shunned by people in the street and at school or else hissed and jeered at, receiving curses in letters, the day he returned home after finishing school and his alienation with the Manor and its echoing corridors. Going to the drawing room Granger had been tortured in and barely being able to cross the threshold – the echoes of her screams seeming to follow him from it. Moving out to his own London apartment, the simple pleasure of having a place that belonged to him and him alone – a fresh place that he could make his own. Months and months of him bent over his desk sifting through papers as he established his businesses, the setbacks and failures he'd gone through getting them up, the glow of success when he'd finally managed to get them on their feet. The sleepless nights he'd endured since the end of the War – the nightmares that plagued him, waking up covered in cold sweat and still panting with fear for his life, or else with her screams still ringing in his ears. Drowning in Firewhiskey before bed, his mother lecturing him on his drinking, the relived burning of his arm, the pain arcing out from where the Dark Lord had pressed his wand to bounce around inside his entire body while he yelled himself hoarse.
Draco wanted to wrench Granger away from those memories, to expel her from his mind with the force of a hurricane; she didn't need to know the weakness he felt at night. It was personal. But she had already drifted away from them of her own accord.
They glided together to other memories. Weekend Quidditch games with Blaise and Nott – the pleasant discovery that they really could be friends, meetings with Potter and the other Aurors, taking his mother to her re-education classes and listening to her gush about the weird Muggle objects or customs she'd learnt about afterwards. Being dragged to the Muggle opera and theatre by her, nights spent reading or out with Blaise cruising for women. Following the case of the Bloodless Seven, reading the news of the latest murders and deciding to check the Manor's wards. His father's return from Azkaban. And then older memories from his childhood; days spent alone in the echoing Manor playing with his toys, peering around doors and watching his parents meeting men and women he now knew to be Death Eaters. Growing older and being schooled on the proper way to behave as a Malfoy, his father's cold gaze and the heavy weight of his expectations. Reprimands from his father for playing with the house-elves. Beginning to shoulder the unwelcome mantle of expectations that was his family name, cultivating his impassive mask and his father's sneer. The intense relief of being able to refashion the Malfoy name after the War. Seeing her across the room laughing with Potter and Weasley at social events, all the resurfaced memories from their schooling and the sincere regret for his insufferable behaviour.
Draco could sense they were on the edge of something dangerous, the memories Granger was sieving through starting to peter out. As the last few flickering images faded, it became clear what they were nearing. His feelings and deepest convictions. His resolve faltered for a moment as she drifted closer to them, anxiety and fear rushing up through him, and his barriers resurrected themselves with a thud.
The restoration of Malfoy's barriers cannoned into Hermione like a shockwave, thrusting her forwards into the deepest recess of his mind and cutting her loose from her own like skydiver gone into freefall without a parachute. She had already sensed his convictions floating above them, sifting through the mist of echoes that rose up from that part of him, and despite all her expectations, she recognised that Malfoy truly was trustworthy. His past was consumed with bitterness and jealousy, anger, and a self-righteous belief in his own superiority, but he seemed to have sloughed that off in exchange for a new cloak of feelings that felt more wholesome, cleaner – happier. He'd started to become his own man – separated from his family name, his father, and the expectations that went with them both. He truly no longer cared for the blood prejudices he had been raised with. It had humbled her, and she had been about to ascend and exit his mind when his barriers had shut her in.
Her closed lids were inundated with waves of roiling emotion as she spun deeper into his mind, all of her own control lost. Feelings deluged her in tidal waves, unfiltered and powerful enough to take her breath away – his determination to be a better man, his bitterness, his loneliness, the unacknowledged aches from his childhood, jealousy and envy from their school days, the terrifying threat of inadequacy, and an overwhelming sense of shame and disgust at his own past behaviour and his family's, the gut-wrenching sickened feeling of listening to her screams and being powerless to stop them for fear of his own safety and that of his parents, and the dangers of his aunt and their master.
Draco thrust all that he had into bringing his barriers back down, feeling Granger's sudden loss of control and the panic flooding into her as she spiralled deeper. With a roar that ripped from his lips, Draco slammed them back down, plunging after Granger to grab her before she fell too far, and Hermione found herself slingshot backwards, up and out into her own mind.
Hermione drew a deep breath, and opened her eyes. She met Draco's across the table. They were both panting hard, and sweat had gathered on Malfoy's neck, glistening in the ridges between his veins and rigid muscles. He was gripping the table as though to flip it, but his eyes were locked on hers, no longer as mysterious or impassive as they had once been. He was open to her.
"Are you two OK?"
Harry's voice seemed to come to the pair from a long way off, echoing as though they stood in a tunnel.
Draco stared into Granger's eyes. He had never felt so vulnerable. Not even while facing the Dark Lord. He'd still had barriers then. This time, everything that he was had been laid bare, placed in Granger's hands to do with as she willed. And she had given him back. She had respected the enormity of the act – the leap of faith that it required, the trust which he barely had for himself that he had extended to her – and although she now knew him more intimately than any other person ever would, and understood him as he understood himself, he had no doubt whatsoever that she would not take advantage of what he had just allowed her access to. Yesterday he would not have thought so, but her behaviour today assured him of it. And for that Draco was grateful. Immensely so.
Hermione blinked, breaking the contact and disconnecting herself fully from the swirl of thoughts she could read in Malfoy's grey eyes. She nodded faintly. "I trust him." I forgive him.
Well apologies about the delay in getting this to you. Dramas and work press-ganged me into inactivity :( But it's here now and I am super excited for you to read it!
This is my absolute favourite chapter so far! I had huge fun coming up with the legilimency section, and creating new lore around the art. Probably because I love world building haha. I'm super interested to hear your thoughts on what I've come up with, and whether you liked it!
Also, this has further reaching consequences than either Hermione or Draco are aware of yet - so keep it in mind in the future! (Hint hint!)
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it, and I'm going to try and upload the next chapter before June to make up for not putting this up in April :)
Please do review and/or favourite :) Tell me what you like or don't like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)
If you want to get access to sneak previews to chapters before they're posted, you can like me on Facebook (JZJ Tomkins) or follow me on Twitter ( jtomkinsauthor) or Tumblr (jzj-tomkins):)
