Silence pounded in his ears as a pale, blond man lay beneath a thin blanket, listening to the nothingness around him. His eyes squinted from beneath his thin eyebrows and darted back and forth, first to the flap of the tent, then to the man laying next to him.
Something was going to happen.
He could feel it in the way the rocks imprinted themselves upon his skin; smell it in the way the sweat and blood mixed themselves with the biting air around him; taste it with each breath he took; hear it in the nonexistent sounds; the sounds of waiting.
"It is the deep breath before the plunge," came the man's deep voice. The blonde man's eyes quickly sought the ones of his companion. "They're coming, Draco… can't you feel it?"
Draco said nothing. He had felt it… he could still feel it. They were being followed. By whom, only time would tell.
"My arm… the mark… it's been growing more and more apparent when I had almost believed it to be gone. My dreams," the man's voice had become frantic but still no louder then a whisper. "They're haunted by shadowy figures." The man's eyes sought out Draco's and searched them as if fearing an answer. "A man… a man clad all in black. He grows clearer and clearer as my dreams become more and more consistent. I… he turns around and lifts his head and I… I can see his face. Pointed and cold… it's you, but it isn't. He whispers into the night… I can see him." His voice grew stronger. "He's coming for us… for you. He will find you. There is no escape."
Draco's demeanor had stayed consistent the entire time. Still, he did not answer. His face portrayed nothing. "Surely you must have felt it," the man said.
Draco looked at him. "I have felt it," he whispered for the first time. "And he will find me… so let him. I am not scared of my father." The man looked slightly fearful. "Get some sleep, Zabini. You're going to need it. In the morning, you must run. I won't let him find you…"
"No!" Zabini hissed. "I must see him. He's haunted my dreams for so long… I have to find him."
"You do not know my father. You don't know what he's capable of. A coward he may be, but he knows what he's doing. You must go."
"Draco, let me fight him. You can run. We… we can switch bodies. I've been carrying around Polyjuice potion just incase a situation such as this presents itself. We can both drink some, turn into each other. I have to fight him." Determination had bound itself within his eyes as he stared at Draco.
"You owe me nothing," Draco insisted. "You cannot do this, I won't let you."
"You saved my life last night. I would have died out there if you hadn't saved me. That man would have killed me for stealing his eggs."
"But you didn't steal them, and I didn't save you. I merely brought you to safer ground and helped you out. Your strong will saved you."
"Please, Draco. Just for an hour. They're drawing closer."
Draco's face fell for barely an instant as he contemplated his words. "Alright. But just for an hour."
Silently, the potion was passed between the two men and they each gulped the gruesome liquid down like men dying of thirst. Gritting his teeth, Draco forced his body to remain still as the change coursed through his veins.
Not a minute had passed before the changing, squirming feeling ceased to exist. The two men said nothing more… a silent agreement had been reached that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
The silence continued to pound in Draco ears as he lay there, listening… thump, thump, thump… like the drum you hear as you walk down the path leading to the gallows. The icy air around him had long since found its way through the thin blanket lying uselessly across his body, but Draco did not tremble; he could feel nothing.
And suddenly… it stopped. The pounding in his ears ceased to exist and immediately replaced itself with something else… he couldn't tell what.
Draco strained his ears to hear something, anything. And then, he heard it. The faint sound of muffled breathing had reached his ears from the far corner of the tent… the corner where his comrade was not. Acting instinctively, his body went rigid and began to rise from the floor.
Barely a split second later, Draco felt a hand grope his face, covering his mouth. He growled in the back of his throat and struggled to see his captor, but the man, or woman, was too quick for him.
"Grab the boy, I'll take care of the rat!" The man holding him commanded.
A man clad all in black lifted Zabini, disguised as Draco, from the ground. Zabini snarled as he was dragged from the tent, Draco forced to accompany him. Fire shone brightly against the dark, black sky as it burned contently upon the surrounding tents. Smoke issued from the pillars of orange flame, the smell of his new surrounding now ensnaring his nostrils.
Draco struggled, trying desperately to wriggle free of his captive's hold. Zabini stood in front of him; his wand held aloft as he pointed the thin rod at Malfoy Sr. "I've been waiting for you father," he spoke in a harsh tone. "To long have you haunted my dreams."
"You will pay for your crimes and loyalty against the Dark Lord, my son. You will beg for the end to save you long before I'm finished with you."
"Cruc-" Zabini shouted, but Lucius had already uttered the same curse. There Zabini lay, writhing on the floor, his breath coming in short pants.
"NO!" Draco shouted. He kicked behind him and his foot collided with his captor who stumbled backward. Running forward, Draco collided with his father, pushing him into the ground.
"Get off of me!" Lucius yelled, but Draco had already raised himself to his feet and was halfway to Zabini. Feet away from him, he heard the sound of his father uttering a spell as he shot to his feet.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Draco ducked instinctively and jumped out of the way. Not a second later, he looked back at the spot the curse had landed.
And there lay Zabini, still disguised as Draco, his face a cold, gray color, his lips as blue as Lucius' heart. Turning his head, Draco stared into the eyes of his father and found him staring at the boy he had thought to be his son.
Hatred had laced itself into his face, but so had astonishment and, was it a touch of grief? His father's eyes shot to find the real Draco's and glared threateningly. "Take him to the shack," he said, his voice still as cold as the air surrounding him. "I'll deal with my son."
Words began to soundlessly make their way up Draco's throat, and just as they began to pass by his lips, he felt someone knock him in the head with a massive force, and he knew no more.
A tear slid down Draco's face as his eyes shot open. The memory continued to course its way through Draco's very essence. He remembered that night. He remembered the hatred he had felt as if it were yesterday. He had awoken the next morning in his own body and had been locked in this room… this illusion. The memory filtered its way through his heart for the first time since the memory charm had been placed upon him.
So this is what it felt like… this must be death. For if death had not found its way to Draco at last, he didn't think it ever would.
Hermione simply stared at Harry through the transparent glass separating the house from the outside, bitter cold. Her heart clenched as she watched him, standing there, her eyes locked in the same spot, unable to move. From the rigid position her back had adapted, she could have easily passed under the full body bind.
One phrase spiraled through her mind; one, unbroken, unending, unforgivable phrase; "I'm leaving… I'm leaving… I'm leaving… I'm leaving. America, America… America… America…"
And then, suddenly, her body jerked: her head flying to the left, her knees crashing down to the floor below. Her hands, as if mechanically forced to do so, shot up to cup her face as she sobbed, forced, confused sobs. A scene had forced its way through her brain, overtaking common sense and banishing reasonable thought; Draco was leaving her.
"Draco, no. Don't. Don't go. Draco, please. Please! Don't go! No!" she sobbed, her hands covered in the same tears she had cried three years before; and then she stopped.
Her head jerking up from its defeated position and pulled her body erect. She looked, questioningly, out the window. And then, slowly, she smiled. The tears streaming down her face had stopped and she stood there, her hand now poised in the air, waving at someone who apparently stood on the other side of the glass.
She jerked again, her mind shutting down, not functioning. For a moment, she stood there, her body rigid, the same words flooding her brain once again. "I'm leaving, Hermione. America."
Her body twitched, shaking violently under the invisible strain coursing through her veins. Her knees crashed down the floor and she began sobbing. "DRACO!" she called through sadistic tears. "No… don't leave me." She convulsed again, her body jumping into the air this time.
And she screamed: a blood curdling, high-pitched, agonizing scream. Her brain had ceased functioning with reasonable thought. An invisible guide seemed to be pushing her, forcing her, to cry, uncontrollably, while another wished, no demanded, she wave joyously out the window to "Harry" who wanted to say good bye to her. She couldn't do both; she was incapable of handling two completely different emotions at one time.
Her arm twitched, waving convulsively out the window while she crouched, half standing, half kneeling; her eyes downcast, sobbing hysterical sobs. The scream continued to shatter the remaining wards around her as it emanated from her lips. Distantly she heard the sound of a door slam open behind her, a person sprint across the room. She dimly felt a hand rest upon her shoulder and tried unsuccessfully to connect the gibberish flooding from the person's mouth.
A moment later, she felt the hand flee her shoulder and heard footsteps sprint across the room to fetch… the phone? The door? Where were they going? But conscious thought stayed with her for only a moment more before darkness overtook her, and she knew no more.
For a moment, two sets of eyes merely stared at each other, one gray and one blue. Harry's mouth had fallen open in, what Draco could only assume, complete surprise. Draco, on the other hand, felt both relief and annoyance flood through his veins.
"Oh, wonderful. Saint Potter here to save the day. Should I bow now after you saved the wizarding world, or would curtsying suffice? I'm afraid that, in my current position, both will be a little difficult but I'll do my best," Draco drawled in both annoyance and sarcasm. He couldn't remember having this much fun in years; it was pathetic, really, how much amusement he found in slamming The Chosen One.
"You… you're," Harry stuttered, but he didn't seem capable of finishing his sentence.
"Draco Malfoy," Draco finished for him. "Yes, I'm glad your eyes work well enough to tell me apart from the Weasleys. If you'd started calling me Arthur, I might go mad."
"You're alive," Harry whispered. "Merlin's beard." He took a step back, his steps running him directly into Tonks who was looking at him quizzically.
"Harry," she said, clearly confused. "What's going on, is there someone inside?"
Harry shook his head; what do you tell someone who's cousin's supposed to be dead? "I… yes. There's-Draco he's… trapped," he finished, rather vaguely.
Tonks stared at him. "Harry are you feeling all right? Draco, he's - well, dead." She continued to look at him strangely, until, finally, she began moving towards the split in the wall.
A gasp confirmed what he knew to be true.
"You know, while I'm sure there's a particularly wonderful reason for you two to be gawking at me, I am getting a bit tired of hanging here. Amusement only holds my attention for so long," Draco offered in hopes of hurrying up this engagement. "Especially if you've brought along the Order; my father will, no doubt, be here any moment and I was so hoping to surprise him with my absence."
Harry's head was reeling. Draco was alive and Harry had married Hermione. Draco's last words to Hermione had been, "I will come back; I promise," and he had shattered that illusion. Worst of all, though, Hermione was still in love with a man currently impersonating dried salami.
He had no choice; he couldn't save him.
What! Harry heard his conscience scream in his ear. You, Harry Potter, are going to let someone die when you could have saved him?
I don't have a choice; he'll steal Hermione back, Harry countered.
So what? She'll be happy again.
But she won't be with me.
You can still be friends; it worked at Hogwarts.
I'd be handing her over to the enemy.
So what?
So – I'm doing what's best for her. She would never be happy with someone so immersed in the Dark Arts.
The truth is, you don't really know what she would or wouldn't like.
"…PTSD, the muggles call it; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." A muffled voice forced its way through Hermione's brain as she laid there, her eyelids closed; sleep slowly withdrawing from her mind. Muggles don't really understand the chemical imbalance it causes in a person," the voice continued in front of her. "All they know are the obvious symptoms… as if that's hard to figure out. They use… oh what's the word again? Ah, yes," the voice continued without breaking stride. "Therroppy Sessions."
"You mean Therapy sessions?" a second voice asked. This voice sounded familiar.
"Yes, that's it. Well, they seem to think it helps a little; it really depends on the case, though, doesn't it?" the voice recovered.
Hermione blinked. Opening her eyelids, heavy from fatigue, she gazed around the room. It looked as though she had been placed in an alternative universe; every bit of the room seemed to be bathed in white; the door, the walls, the sheets, the bed, the people standing in the corner; everything seemed to be whitewashed.
"Ah!" came the voice of a woman from the corner of the room. "She's awake." Bustling over to Hermione, the woman bent over and pinched her hard on the arm. Sucking in her breath, Hermione glared at the woman from behind her eyelashes. "Yep," the woman said. "Awake and alert." Hurrying to the head of the bed, she muttered something, which sounded suspiciously like, "Muggle remedies… I ask you!"
"Sorry?" Hermione asked.
The woman ignored her. Another woman in the far corner of the room looked at Hermione, relief evident in her eyes. "Mum?" Hermione croaked.
"Oh, Hermione," the woman breathed, hurrying over to her side. "We've been so worried about you. You're father's out pacing in the hallways. We argued with the matron her for a good fifteen minutes before she'd let us in the building."
"Matron?" the woman at the end of the bed questioned. "What, you mean those crazy nurses in muggle hospitals?" She scoffed. "We are Healers, dear; not matron, nurses, or doctors."
"Where am I?" Hermione asked groggily. She made to sit up but quickly felt the strong hand of the "healer" push her back into the pillows.
"You need rest, dear," the woman said sternly. "Here," and without a moments notice, she quickly poured a thick, red potion down Hermione's throat. Coughing and spluttering, Hermione swallowed the horrid substance. "Umph," replied the healer, and she hurried to the end of the bed once more. "I'll allow you to catch up with your family while I help a patient in another ward. I'll be back in a minute." And, in an instant, she was gone.
"What happened?" Hermione asked. "I… I don't remember anything. Am I… am I in Saint Mungo's?"
Hermione's mother nodded. "Ms. Farmcook called us soon after finding you in the house; screaming. She said you looked to be having a panic attack and had no idea what to do." She sighed, pulled the glasses off the end of her nose, and rubbed them on her thin jacket. "We were so scared," she whispered, rubbing her eyes with her hands. "We had no idea what was happening to you. We called Ron's family and they helped bring you here and, well… here we are."
Silence split the room in an eerie stillness.
"Where's Harry?" her mother asked. "Why wasn't he with you?"
"He's…" Hermione swallowed. "He… he's in…" she swallowed hard, determined not to break down, but finding it hard to control her emotions. Sitting up in bed, she brought her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly as she whispered, "He's in America," under her breath.
Mrs. Granger looked at her strangely. "Whatever for?" Hermione didn't answer. "Work, I assume?" A nod.
Hermione felt Mrs. Granger relieve herself of the bed as the pressure from her left side suddenly repressed. "I'll fetch your father, dear. He's worried out of his mind."
And she was gone.
Hermione blinked back the tears threatening to overtake her as she sat there, curled in a fetal position. What had happened to her? She could remember bits of the past 24 hours, but only vaguely. Closing her eyes, she let her mind soar with illusions of darkness overpowering her mentality.
The outline of a man stepped behind her eyelids, walking toward a door at the end of a corridor. Turning around, she realized who it was. Draco', she breathed, her heart clenching violently in her chest. But then it changed. Suddenly, she watched as he hung in the air; his feet dangling just above the floor, his hands tied harshly to the ceiling. A cruel, menacing, maniacal laughter pounded in her ears as she watched him, thrashing and kicking about, his head thrown back in pain. And then, another man entered. A familiar man… Harry. 'You can't win,' Harry whispered to Draco. 'You know you deserve this.' And, as suddenly as he had come, he left and the only words left in Hermione's brain were the words of her devastation… the words that would forever haunt her…
"I'm leaving you…"
A/N: coughs uncertainly Um, well what'da think? Just so you all know, PTSD is a real syndrome and causes a reaction of the sort to occur. Hermione's reaction was a bit extreme, but it makes for better description. The disease is awful and I'm not trying to offend anyone. The way I explained her reaction to myself was by saying, "Well, Hermione does have common sense, so don't you think some part of her would be trying to fight off the reaction?" I dunno and I'm really sorry to anyone who was offended by her reaction. So, um, leave a review?
Yours,
PhoenixCGandAC
