Macbeth: Act Three, Scene Two

Disclaimer:

The Scottish play. No,

I don't own it – nor Harry.

J.K.Rowling does.

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A/N: Congratulations to everyone who spotted all the last chapter's quotes!

For any of you who wanted to know, Hamlet was excellent. The set particularly was really innovative, they had these massive doors – three each side – and they kept opening and closing different combinations of them to create different effects. So all the doors would slam shut for one of Hamlet's soliloquies, for example, and it went really eerie. Very effective.

This fic, if it would interest you to know, was conceived directly after a production of Macbeth, and the previous chapter's final scene was The One that the Muses decided to dump straight into my head by way of inspiration.

Anyway, onto the chapter. It is slightly shorter than usual, but I hope you can forgive me for that… at any rate, enjoy!

'Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy,' Hermione said, feeling far too intently now the double application of that phrase – to Macbeth and to Malfoy. It had only been five days ago that she'd been practicing that scene with him, completely innocent of any knowledge other than that Malfoy was incredibly irritating, and then she'd pulled his sleeve down and seen…

Mind on the rehearsal. Malfoy was supposed to enter behind her, while she faced the opposite wall for a moment, thinking, then turned and saw him. 'How now, my lord,' she said. 'Why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions making…'

It was far too ironic. Malfoy had tried to 'keep alone', and had succeeded for the past three days. She'd barely even seen him, except in the lessons they'd had together, and then he'd ignored her completely. True, he'd only managed to stay alone because she'd been avoiding him too.

And sorriest fancies. Those thoughts which should indeed have died with them they think on, as Lady Macbeth said. The guilt and fear that Macbeth felt after murdering Duncan, mirrored perfectly – as far as she could see – in Malfoy, life mirroring art mirroring life.

'What's done is done,' she finished, a half-pleading note to her voice, as if she were begging him to listen to her.

He wasn't facing her at this point, having been walking up and down the stage while he spoke; now he turned to face her. 'We have scotch'd the snake, not killed it,' he began, and for a brief moment she wondered what he meant, with the unsettling feeling that a mirror she'd been looking in had just broken. Of course, he was talking about Banquo; this was all in the script. For a moment she'd been thinking of the words in the context of reality, not in that of the play, and it had thrown her.

It was an odd juxtaposition. For the most part, the speech was wholly centred on the play, but sometimes he'd look sharply at her and say 'But let the frame of things disjoint,' and it would seem as though he was speaking about reality rather than speaking his lines; then he'd say something else and it would flick back. It was like one of those Muggle puzzles, where you can either see a vase or two faces but not both at once.

'Nothing can touch him further,' he finished, and turned his face away; she crossed the stage to him and took his hands.

'Come on, gentle my lord,' she said, then, touching his face, 'sleek o'er your rugged looks,' – and that felt like reality, as if she was telling him to hide his guilt, his insanity. He looked back at her with eyes that were as silver as mercury and unreadable.

It was five days since she'd found out about the mark, four since he'd come to her and asked her to heal the wounds, and she hadn't told anyone about any of it. She hadn't known who to tell, what to do. Please, Professor Dumbledore, Malfoy has a Dark Mark and I think he's going mad.

She couldn't tell. He was a Death Eater, and she was almost certain that he had murdered. One-way ticket to Azkaban, and he was already losing his mind here, how much worse would he be with Dementors? The practical side of her pointed out that if he was a Death Eater, he deserved it – but if he was going insane, and it looked likely, then he obviously had a conscience about it. Of course, it could be something entirely different sending him mad. Potions or poisons or even just guilt over something else. It could be anything

The problem was finding out. Until she knew exactly what was going on, she couldn't make any decisions about telling or not telling people.

'So, prithee, go with me,' Malfoy finished finally, holding out a hand; she took it and they walked offstage together. As soon as possible, he dropped her hand as though it were poisonous, turning to face the directors.

'Excellent,' Megan said. 'Once more?'

They did it again, and then another time because Ruth had a suggestion, and when Megan said they could go Hermione felt very relieved. It was somehow disconcerting to be acting up on the makeshift stage with the feeling that imagination and reality were getting their lines mixed up, with Malfoy who was a Death Eater and half-mad. It felt surreal.

Just as she was about to step off the desks, as the directors were backing their things away and heading out, she felt a pressure on the inside of her elbow. A hand. 'Wait.'

For an instant, she wanted to ignore him and walk straight out, but then she decided it was probably better to stay. For one, there was no telling what he'd do if she left. He'd probably just come and find her later, anyway, and he might be angry. Quite possibly the last thing she wanted to do was anger a half-insane Death Eater. Secondly, she might find out something, if he let something slip or told her outright.

When Stan had closed the door behind him, she turned to face Draco. 'Did you want something?' she asked, suddenly very aware that they were alone in the room.

'Have you told anyone?' he asked immediately, his face kept as hard as stone. Hermione shook her head. 'Good. Keep it that way,' Malfoy continued, then jumped gracefully down from the makeshift stage and headed for the door.

She had only a split second in which to think. 'Wait.' He paused, halfway across the room, and looked over his shoulder at her.

'What?'

For a moment she considered shaking her head and letting him go, but she wanted to know what was going on, needed to know. She stepped down from the stage, rather more clumsily than he had, and paused. 'We need to talk.' She said, choosing her words carefully.

'No.' he replied, immediately and firmly, before heading again for the door.

'I'll go to Dumbledore,' she called out, and his step faltered, hand paused on the doorknob. He glanced back at her.

'You wouldn't dare,' he hissed, but she could hear a note of fear in his voce.

She stepped towards him, feeling more confident now that she held the cards. 'Yes I would,' she said firmly. 'I just want one conversation, and then I promise I'll keep it secret. All of it.' A promise she was half-intending to break, of course, if she had to. She swallowed the little swirl of guilt down, reminded herself that he was a Death Eater. Promises could be broken – sometimes had to be broken – in some cases.

Something in his eyes changed, though his body didn't move. 'When I said I… I'd kill you,' he said, surprisingly softly for a threat, 'I meant it.'

'You didn't,' Hermione replied, not at all confident that what she was saying was true, but if she'd guessed right… She took a step closer to him. 'You wouldn't kill me because… because you know me, even if I'm just a Mudblood to you. And it's hard enough to kill people you don't even know the names of…'

She'd been right; he swerved round, face ash-white and terrified. 'Shut up!' he shouted, sharp and quick, and she did, waiting for him to say something else. He didn't, but after a few seconds he turned away and leant against the wall, right forearm pressed to the cool stone, head pressed against the arm, eyes closed, hands curled into loose fists and shivering.

Hermione paused for a few seconds, feeling slightly guilty over saying something that had clearly upset him, but she resolved herself. She could consider Malfoy's happiness when she'd found out what was going on.

'Malfoy…' she began. 'I just want to know what's going on, and then I won't say anything else about it. Not to anyone.'

He took a deep breath. 'Fine,' he spat. 'But somewhere private.'

Hermione bit her lip and nodded, then realised that he couldn't see her and said 'Okay,' instead. 'I… I know somewhere. Follow me.'

The Room of Requirement was the best place – it was never used except for last year's DA meetings. Still, she wouldn't have used it, except that he already knew after being on Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad, and the fact that it was the only truly safe place. He followed her there in silence.

What did she want? Somewhere we can talk, somewhere secure and – glancing at Malfoy's expression – relaxing, she thought as she walked back and forth in the corridor. When the door appeared, he followed her in silently.

The room looked fairly cosy; the walls were a cheery butter-yellow with a pleasantly warm fire burning in a fireplace. There were two sofas and a small wooden coffee table, with two steaming cups of what smelt like hot chocolate thoughtfully resting on it. A yellow rug, thick and woolly, covered the smooth wooden floor.

The sofas were where it went a little odd. One sofa was a deep shade of blue, slightly battered, and so similar in shape and colour to one at Hermione's home that she thought for a moment it was the same one, until she spotted the differences. The other sofa, however, was deep black leather and contrived to look completely uncomfortable, with an intricately carved mahogany panel at the rear. Its effect, in the small and cheerful room, was to look completely out of place, as though a furniture shop had confused the purchases of a small suburban cottage and a vast, imposing mansion.

It was due, Hermione supposed, to different perceptions of what was relaxing. Who knew? Maybe Malfoy had a sofa eerily similar to that one at his house.

Without speaking, they sat down on their respective sofas. Malfoy looked impossibly out of place, sitting stiffly on the black leather with his arms defensively crossed. Hermione picked up one mug of hot chocolate to give her something to do with her hands, sipped at it, and winced as she burnt her tongue.

A few moments passed like that, in silence, before Malfoy said, 'Well?'

Hermione sighed, put down the mug, and tried to decide what to ask about first. It didn't help that Malfoy was sneering at her from across the room, and the whole situation was too tense, and she didn't know where to begin.

'Why?' seemed like a fairly good starting place.

'Why what, Mudblood?'

She forced herself not to react. Somehow it was easier when she knew Malfoy was doing it defensively. 'Why… why did you join him?'

He didn't answer, simply looked away. Hermione sighed. 'Because you wanted to? Or were you made to?' He still didn't respond, and felt a flash of annoyance. True, she was the one who'd demanded to talk to him, but…

'Look, Malfoy, I just want to know why…'

'I joined because I wanted to,' he said, interrupting her, his voice oddly distant. 'Okay? Why else would I have joined?'

Hermione gave a small shrug. 'I don't know. You might have been pressured into it…'

He scoffed. 'Don't give me any of that rubbish, Granger.' He looked at her, then, and his eyes flashed. 'Mudbloods and Muggles don't deserve to live. They're filthy and ignorant and destroying Pureblood society. They should be wiped out.' It was a short speech, but vehement and somehow sincere, and Hermione shuddered. She picked up the mug again, took a long drink.

'Do you really-'

'Yes, I mean it.' Malfoy spat, and raised his head in a haughty manner. 'Your kind disgusts me, Granger. Common Muggle blood coming into our schools with no idea about wizarding tradition or culture or society, taking wizarding jobs, marrying wizarding families and marring their bloodlines… They're subhuman.' He didn't shout, or hiss, or spit, but there was something quietly furious in his voice, and Hermione shivered. He believed what he was saying.

But this wasn't the time to get into a debate on bloodlines. Breathing deeply, Hermione put her mug down – the liquid in it was visibly shaking – and sat back again. 'But you can't kill us,' she said.

He flinched, very visibly. 'Check your facts, Granger,' he said in a tone that was half mockery, half fear. 'I already have.'

'And you're going mad,' she replied firmly, bitterly. 'Mad from killing us, from killing Muggles,' she said, and gave a short bitter laugh that was half a sob. She may have been determined not to get into an argument about bloodlines, but that didn't mean she wasn't affected; fear had now turned to a kind of desperation, a voice pleading why do you believe those lies in her head, and anger. 'That's a bit contradictory of you, isn't it? Killing subhumans sends you mad…'

'Shut up,' he whispered. His eyes were wide, silvery. 'Stop it.'

She paused, looking up at him, clutching both her elbows with the opposite arm in an attempt to stop them shivering. 'Would you kill me?' she asked. 'If Voldemort captured me and brought me to the meeting, or they attacked my house in summer, and he told you to kill me…'

'Stop it!' Malfoy half-shouted, his face impossibly pale. He screwed his eyes shut, raised his hands to them, curled into little fists and pressed against his forehead. 'Stop it!'

'Answer me,' she replied, sharply, feeling something horribly like fear and horror rise in the back of her throat. 'Answer me…'

'Yes!' he shouted, the cry seeming to be ripped out of him by some other force. 'Yes, I would, you don't understand, I don't have a choice…' He paused suddenly, simply stopped in mid-flow, while Hermione was still feeling sick at the idea that he would kill her. He was staring at her, wide-eyed and horrified, then he pulled his legs quickly up onto the sofa and scrambled to the far end of it, knees to his chest and staring at her as though she'd risen from the dead.

'Go away,' he whispered. 'Go away…'

Hermione frowned, conflicted. He'd kill her, he'd admitted that himself, but he'd said he didn't have a choice… And now he was acting so…

'What's wrong?' she asked softly. This, if anything, appeared to frighten him even more.

'You're dead,' he said, very quickly, hunched up against the corner of the sofa and looking for all the world like a toddler frightened of a horror film. 'I killed you. You're dead…'

'Malfoy?' Hermione asked, getting to her feet. 'I'm not dead. It's okay. You didn't…'

'Don't come near me!' he almost shrieked, scrabbling at the back of the sofa. 'You're dead, go away, never shake thy gory locks at me!'

She paused, held up her hands. 'I'm not dead,' she repeated slowly, half-wondering whether she might have died and not noticed. 'I'm alive. Look. Flesh and blood.'

He shook his head. 'Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold…' he paused, gave an odd sound hat was almost a choke, raising his hands to his face and staring at them. 'Blood.'

'I'm not dead,' Hermione repeated, feeling almost panicked. 'There isn't any blood, it's all in your head…'

Malfoy paused, staring up at her. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' she replied. 'I'm alive. Not dead. Alive, and you didn't kill me.'

He looked at her, rather disbelievingly, and then hid his face rather clumsily behind his arms and was silent. Hermione didn't dare go closer; it might set him off again. She cursed herself; why had she said that in the first place? It had seemed a good idea, to annoy him into revealing something, and she'd desperately needed to know besides. She hadn't meant to cause this.

'Malfoy?' she asked, when he hadn't moved for a few minutes. 'Are you…'

'I'm fine,' he whispered. 'Fine. Granger… go.'

It was probably best to do as he said, though somehow she didn't want to leave him alone. Still, if he wanted her to leave… At the door, she paused, looking back. She had all her answers, when she thought about it.

'I won't tell anyone,' she promised quickly, and left.

A/N: I've noticed a curious phenomenon with these final ANs. If I threaten or bribe you to review – or ask a question – I always get noticeably more reviews than when I just ask for reviews. I've been wondering if I could do a psychological experiment to get it to work, but can't think of any possible way to make it work, which is a pity. What do you think? Review, or I'll send the Typo Demons to gnaw on your fingernails. All reviewers get imaginary chocolate, sweets, or foodstuff of their choice.

Review!