Macbeth: Act Three, Scene One

Disclaimer: Surprising as this may be, I am not Shakespeare, and I don't own Macbeth. Oh, and I'm not J.K.Rowling either.

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AN: As someone asked about it in a review, I had some extremely long discussions with various people and I figured out two things relating to arms. One, when you're tugging at people's sleeves, any tugging in the direction of the elbow is generally referred to as 'down' (at least by people where I live. It'd be fascinating to see if people in other countries have different down/up conventions!)

Second, people really do not know what the forearm is. The forearm is the part of the arm between the wrist and the elbow, and on the inside of the forearm is the Dark Mark. That's your anatomy lesson for the week.

How you know you've been reading Macbeth too much: When trick or treaters knock on your door for the fifth time in as many minutes, and you race to the top of the stairs crying, 'What, Will the line stretch out to the crack of doom!' And yes, I actually did that.

And now, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

'You... you....'

Without thinking, she stood up, slowly backing away from Malfoy. For his part, he simply stared at her, arm still pressed against his chest, the look in his silver-grey eyes cold and calculating.

'Granger,' he said, his voice quiet, 'if you tell anyone about this, I swear...'

'You're one of... one of them...' she carried on, realising dimly that she was shaking. Taking another step backwards, she felt the sudden pressure of the bookcase behind her and almost screamed. 'You have...'

'Granger,' he repeated again, irritated now, and took a step towards her. Almost by reflex she drew her wand, pointing it straight at him, before he could take another step.

'Don't come near me,' she said in what was almost a whisper. Dimly, she realised that she sounded terrified, and forced herself to take a deep breath.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and stepped closer 'Merlin's sake, Granger, stop shaking!' he snarled, drawing his own wand. 'Listen to me, if you tell anyone...'

'That's where you were,' Hermione whispered, a sudden, horrible, sickening realisation coming to her mind. 'On Thursday night, when you couldn't rehearse... That Yorkshire village, the one that got attacked... you were there.' She swallowed, feeling bile rise to the back of her throat. 'And right after they announced the casting, you were away that night and there was another attack...'

'Shut up, Granger,' Malfoy spat suddenly. 'Stop it.'

She let out a sudden bitter laugh. 'How long have you had... had that thing? How long have you been... been killing people and...'

'Granger, I'm warning you...'

'... and murdering people... I've heard what happened to some of those victims.' Malfoy was shaking with anger now. 'I know what's been done to them... what you've done...' She let out a noise that sounded like a slightly hysterical hiccup. 'How many of them did you kill, Malfoy, how many...'

'Shut up!' he shouted again, fury flaring in his eyes. Hermione let out a small scream, certain he was going to hex her, and managed to cast a 'Protego!' But the shield was only effective against spells, and Malfoy was beyond the point of magic: he grabbed her by the throat, pinning her to the bookcase and strangling her, his face only inches from hers. 'Shut up!' he shouted again. 'Don't you ever... ever...'

She struggled, her fingers clawing at the hands pinned round her throat, but it was useless. She couldn't breathe, no matter how hard she struggled or gasped, and her head was going dizzy and she couldn't think straight, and her sight was blurring with greenish patches in front of Malfoy's coldly furious eyes...

He threw her aside; the next thing she knew she was sitting on the floor, gasping for air, and he was standing with his back to her, breathing hard. Her vision cleared along with her mind, and she scrabbled on the floor for the wand she'd dropped, finally drawing herself to her knees. She didn't feel quite recovered enough to stand yet.

Malfoy had just attacked her, strangled her...

Malfoy was a murderer.

She managed to level her wand at him. 'I... I'm going to Dumbledore,' she said, shaking slightly. 'I'm going...'

'Don't you dare!' he hissed, spinning on his heel. 'You aren't going to tell anyone.'

She looked up at him, rubbing her neck nervously with her left hand. 'You can't stop me,' she whispered. 'If you kill me, they'll know it was you, you'll get sent to Azkaban anyway...'

He twitched. 'But you'll be dead,' he replied, and Hermione shivered. Malfoy's eyes were frightening, set too deep in impossibly pale flesh; they were silver and shining and danced with some cold, fearful light. He took a step forward, crouching in front of her, and pressed the tip of his wand into her neck. She still had her wand, of course, but she seemed to have forgotten how to use it; everything was lost to shock and fear.

'If you tell anyone,' he whispered, his voice dry and scratchy, 'anyone at all, I will kill you. As painfully as I can. Do you understand?'

She nodded, and he smiled; a mock half-smile which was somehow terrifying. Hermione had no doubts about the fact that he meant what he said. The tip of his wand dug hard into her throat. 'False face must hide what the false heart doth know,' he said, his tone almost singsong, then his face darkened. 'Get out. Get away from me.'

Hermione pulled back, but hesitated before leaving, and Malfoy scowled. 'Out!' he shouted, and half-panicking, she scrambled to her feet and ran for the darkest corner of the Library, as far away from him as she could get.

'Okay, well done, you two,' Ruth said. 'I think we're ready to try with the proper swords now, don't you?'

Megan nodded. 'Sure. Did you bring them, Adrian?'

It was the day after Hermione had found out about Malfoy's Mark, and – partly because Harry had asked, partly because she wanted to keep an eye on Malfoy – she'd agreed to go and watch the rehearsal. It was Malfoy and Harry only, that day; they were practicing the choreography of the sword fight near the end where Macbeth got killed. Up till that point, they'd been using wooden poles enchanted to be light and cushioned, only miming the part where Malfoy got stabbed.

Harry eyed the swords warily; they were real swords, borrowed from some of the school's suits of armour. 'They are safe, right?' he asked nervously with a quick, suspicious glance at Malfoy.

Malfoy's eyes widened and he looked directly at Hermione, one eyebrow raised. The question was clear. Have you told him?

She shook her head briefly, biting her lip. She hadn't told Harry – hadn't told anyone – but she felt guilty about not doing so. Malfoy was a Death Eater, he had to be expelled or sent to Azkaban or whatever it was they would do...

'Of course they're safe,' Ruth replied. 'Adrian and Olivia have been working on them for ages.'

Harry looked even more worried at that, glancing dubiously at Adrian, who simply sighed. He picked up one of the swords, held his arm out and carelessly sliced through it.

His arm failed to fall off, but the sleeve and skin were convincingly cut and a ring of blood welled up around his arm, dripping onto the floor. 'It's fake,' Adrian said lazily, slicing another line along his arm, which also began to ooze blood. 'The swords are charmed not to cut flesh and to produce this fake blood when they come into contact with skin. You won't even feel them.'

He sliced through a finger. 'Thank you, Adrian, that's quite enough. Finite Incantatem' Megan said, and all of Adrian's fake wounds were healed. He looked quite annoyed. 'Could you give the swords to our actors?'

He did so, and immediately sank into his chair again. Harry held his timidly, as though afraid of what it could do, while Malfoy's grip was confident, calm. Both boys were tired from repeated tries with the poles, and Harry's cheeks were red, his forehead sweaty, while Malfoy's skin was tinged a pale pink and his eyes were feverish and alight. Hermione shuddered, remembering the previous day's events in the library. Her hand moved reflexively to her throat.

Why hadn't she told Dumbledore yet? It was the sensible thing to do, and she knew that he could easily protect her from Malfoy. It would be a simple matter of keeping her somewhere hidden and safe – Dumbledore's office, perhaps – while he made the necessary arrangements for Draco to be expelled and taken to the Ministry by Aurors. He was over sixteen; he was of age by wizarding law, and it'd be an adult's trial and sentence. Azkaban or the Kiss. He'd never get near her.

Besides, she wasn't afraid of him, she told herself firmly. In the Library she'd simply been in shock, unsure what to do. If he tried to attack her again, she was confident she could fight back. So even if he did escape or bribe the Ministry, she would be safe.

So why hadn't she gone to Dumbledore?

On stage, the boys began their fight; Harry was too cautious and kept making mistakes. 'Don't be scared of the sword, Harry, it can't hurt anyone,' Megan called. 'Start again.'

It wasn't fear that kept her going, it was something else. Perhaps going to Dumbledore would make it too real. While she told no one, it was an isolated event, which it was possible to ignore or forget or pretend hadn't happened. She could act as though she didn't know about Malfoy's Mark, and go on as normal.

But when she told someone that made it all real; when Malfoy was taken away by Aurors it made him undeniably a Death Eater; when he was tried and the crimes he had committed were revealed, it made him a definable murderer - these are the people he killed and this is how he killed them – rather than an abstract murderer, when she knew that he had killed but didn't know who or how or where.

Harry cut a line along Malfoy's collarbone as he was supposed to, and Malfoy gave an impressive imitation of a painful wince. Then Harry stumbled as he moved backwards for his next thrust, falling over.

'Sorry,' he said, blushing and getting to his feet.

'Don't worry,' Stan said with a grin, 'just start again.'

They did, and Hermione watched as they moved back into starting positions.

Besides, if she told Dumbledore and Malfoy was sent to Azkaban – or Kissed – that made her responsible. And he was a Death Eater, and if she hadn't known him previously she would have done it in an instant. But this was Malfoy, and yes, he had insulted her and fought her friends and generally been hateful for all the time she'd known him, but he wasn't just a faceless figure in a hood with a Mark on his arm.

He was Malfoy, and she may have hated him, but it still made him known to her. She could imagine too easily the figure of a Malfoy screaming in a prison cell of Azkaban, Dementors by his door, or a soulless shell sitting in a corner and stating at the wall blankly.

Knowing the person who you condemned to Azkaban made it all worse, somehow. Knowing them meant you could lie awake at night and wonder what they saw every time the Dementors walked past, or wonder where their soul went after the Dementors sucked it out, and then you couldn't sleep without dreaming about it and waking up, cold and guilty, even if you knew they were evil and knew they'd done wrong.

Hermione wondered if everyone who'd ever been in this kind of position had these problems.

Onstage, Harry swiped another slash along Malfoy's collarbone with his sword – another well-timed flinch – then they carried on, without falling this time, slashing and parrying with considerable success. They were nearing the end of the fight now, when Harry would stab Malfoy and he'd fake a dramatic death. Slash and parry, slash and parry, across the stage...

There was a cackle up above; Hermione glanced upwards with a sinking feeling – she knew that voice – and saw Peeves descending through the ceiling holding an armful of what looked suspiciously like water balloons. He cackled again and performed a backwards somersault in mid air.

'Are the ickle actors having a swordfight, then?' he said, laughing and swooping under Harry's sword. Harry stopped, which forced Malfoy to do so as well.

Megan got to her feet. 'Peeves,' she said firmly, 'Get out of this practice, or I'll be forced to go to Professor Dumbledore about you.'

The poltergeist giggled. 'Oooh, the Headmaster is it, then?' he asked, flipping upside down and blowing a raspberry. 'He'll get so angry at poor innocent Peeves...'

Malfoy was glaring at the ghost. 'The one thing you aren't is poor and innocent,' he spat. 'Leave.'

'Shan't,' Peeves replied, picking up one of the water balloons and throwing it straight at him. It burst all over his head, and after a second's silence, Harry started laughing. The balloons weren't full of water, after all; they were full of fake blood.

No sooner had Harry started laughing then Peeves threw one at him, too, and then swooped over the directors and the small audience, flinging the balloons everywhere. 'Out damned spot!' he whooped, as the balloons splattered crimson over everyone. People began ducking under seats; Adrian simply headed for the door.

Megan was furious. 'Peeves!' she shrieked. 'Go! Now!'

He threw a balloon at her; she was soaked in crimson. For a moment she stood, gaping, then with an irate cry of 'I'm going to the Headmaster!' she headed for the door, pursued by more bursting balloons. With Megan gone, everyone felt free to leave; hurrying for the door with Peeves raining down fake blood on them 'Out, damned spot!' he cackled again, somersaulting across the ceiling and laughing like a maniac.

Hermione, frowning at the stains on her robe, happened to glance back at Malfoy. He was standing on the stage, sword still in his right hand, his left stained with the false blood and raised to his face. He was staring at it in horror, and in that moment, blood stained and sword-bearing and dressed all in black, he really looked like a Death Eater.

She shuddered, and got out as quickly as possible before heading for the library. She felt safe there.

'Granger.'

She flinched, glancing sideways to see who was there, even though she knew the voice. Malfoy must have followed her straight here; he was still dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing to practice: black shirt, black trousers – you couldn't swordfight in robes. His face was still flushed, his eyes still oddly alight, the twin fake cuts across his collarbone and the accompanying blood still soaking his shirt, his face and hands still red-tinged from Peeves' balloons, the ornate sword still in his hand.

She bit her lip and tried not to look at him; looking at him only made her more frightened. 'I haven't told anyone,' she said, as if this defence would help her. 'I haven't. Malfoy, just... go away, please.'

'Be quiet!' he hissed, sounding almost afraid, spinning around and backing into the enclosed space with his sword pointing straight towards the entrance, defensive. 'They'll hear you!'

He looked as though he'd just come off a battlefield. 'Malfoy...' she said, her voice pleading, but he raised a finger to his lips, staring out of the gap between the bookcases. 'What do you want from me?' she whispered.

He looked at her, then, with his sword clutched tightly in his hand and his hair sticking to his face with blood and sweat and his clothes torn. Like an angel of death. When he spoke, his voice was low and almost desperate and nothing like what she'd expected him to say.

'Help me,' he whispered. 'Please help me.'

Hermione bit her lip, looking down at the book in front of her. 'Malfoy, I don't want...'

She was cut off by the sword clattering down on the table in front of her – she flinched – and then Malfoy was kneeling at the floor on her left, clinging to her arm and looking up with eyes like liquid mercury. 'Help me,' he hissed again.

Frightened, she tried to tug her arm out of his grip but could not. 'I can't help you,' she replied desperately, 'Malfoy, just go.'

He touched the false cuts on his collarbone. 'I need you to help me. I need you to heal these, I don't know any medicinal magic...'

She shook her head, still trying to pull away from him. 'No, Malfoy, let go of me! They're not real cuts, they're fake, let me go!'

He shook his head. 'I'll let you go if you heal them,' he said.

Realising she wouldn't escape any other way, she grabbed her wand from her schoolbag and pointed it at the injuries. 'Finite Incantatem,' she said.

Nothing happened.

'I told you they were real,' Malfoy whispered, 'and all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.'

They couldn't be real. She'd seen Adrian test the charm herself. 'Sana,' she whispered. The wounds closed up.

For a second, they were both silent. 'You said you'd let go of me,' she whispered, and he obligingly did so; she scrambled out of her chair and stepped hurriedly backwards, away from the bloodstained Malfoy kneeling by her seat.

Hermione pulled herself together. 'You should go and tell Olivia that the charm broke,' Hermione said, trying to get her mind back to some semblance of order. A thought occurred to her: if Peeves hadn't come in when he did, and Harry had stabbed Malfoy with his sword...

But why hadn't Malfoy stopped the rehearsal when the sword cut him for real?

Malfoy's eyes were unwavering. 'It didn't break.'

There was only one explanation. 'You... you did something...' She gasped, feeling suddenly dizzy. 'Why? Were you... you were trying to kill Harry, weren't you?'

Malfoy shook his head, very slowly. 'My sword's still charmed,' he said. 'You can test it if you want. It's only Potter's that I took the charm off; Adrian left them lying around the common room, you see, so I changed the charms...'

Hermione shook her head, disbelieving. 'You changed....'

'Yes. I made it so that when Potter's sword touched mine, the charms would come off,' he said, then smiled, a slow, wide smile that had everything of madness in it. 'I thought he'd like to kill me. An accident, the charms didn't work, such a shame...'

'You did it... You...' Hermione couldn't think straight; everything seemed confused and jumbled. Malfoy had taken the charms off Harry's sword but not his own, that meant that when they fought, Malfoy would be stabbed. But that meant Malfoy had wanted to be stabbed, which meant he wanted to...

'I don't want to die,' he whispered, almost desperately. 'I thought I did. To be or not to be, that is the question, but that's the wrong play, isn't it? By self and violent hands...'

He raised a finger to his lips, then slowly sank down behind the chair, eyes fixed on her until the last possible moment, and then all she could see was blood-stained silver hair as he rested his head against the seat.

AN: 'Sana' is translated as 'Heal'. There are also an impressive four Macbeth quotes in this chapter, and a gratuitous Hamlet quote as well. If anyone spots them all, I'll be impressed. (On the topic of Hamlet: I'm going to see it tomorrow with school, very excitingly).

I'm sure you all know the drill by now. Review!