Macbeth: Act Three, Scene Three
Disclaimer: No, I don't own any of it. It's all JKRowlings apart from the bits which are Shakespeare's.
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A/N: Yes, this is a day later than I said it'd be. This was due to computer failure, which made it rather difficult to write… As a consequence, the final scene is completely unbetaed, so I hope you can forgive any problems until I manage to find someone to beta it – I'll repost it with errors changed tomorrow. Another consequence is that I haven't learned any psychology beyond duration of memory, so you'd better hope I get asked about that on tomorrow's test! (Don't worry, I have a long bus journey, and I'm very good at last minute revision.)
Oh, and regarding characters resembling their Shakespeare characters: as a general rule, the more screwed up the person, the more they resemble a character. And yes, the romance cometh pretty soon now.
With that, onto the chapter. Enjoy!
Malfoy,
We need to practice some more. Could we do Act 1, Scenes 5 and 7? I'll be in the library at eight tomorrow, in the usual place. Owl me to say if you can make it or not.
-Hermione.
It had taken her a week to write that note.
Quite a lot had happened in the meantime. Malfoy had been avoiding her, it seemed: on the few occasions they'd passed in corridors or shared a lesson he had acted as though she wasn't there, and in the Great Hall at mealtimes he sat with his back to the Gryffindor table. They had seen each other at a practice, but not alone together. It had been a large one, the feast in Act 3 Scene 4, where the Ghost of Banquo, who Macbeth had arranged the murder of, appeared in the middle of a feast, visible only to Macbeth. Never shake thy gory locks at me.
If you didn't count his lines – and Hermione didn't - he hadn't said a word to her all practice.
She would have been quite happy to avoid him in return, but for the fact that they still had to do the play, and she couldn't really go to the directors and explain why she didn't want to rehearse with him anymore. Logically, she knew that she ought to tell someone that Malfoy had the Dark Mark, but emotionally she couldn't brink herself to do it. She'd seen something that she wasn't meant to see – not the Dark Mark, but his madness. To tell someone about that would feel like betrayal, to tell them that he was a Death Eater and miss out his obvious guilt would feel equally wrong.
Which left her keeping his secret, and consequently having to rehearse with him.
He didn't reply to her owl, but she went to the library at eight anyway and found him there, sitting silently at the desk, his shoulders tense and face pale with his copy of the script in hand.
He looked up at her entrance, and his hand twitched, but he glanced back at the words again, nodded in greeting and didn't speak. Hermione sat beside him, not saying anything either. Usually she liked the comparative silence of the library, the studious quiet that hung around the bookshelves, but now the silence felt as though it were choking her. She glanced at the area where Malfoy almost had choked her, literally, and shivered very slightly.
If he noticed, he made no sign. The silence stretched on while she rummaged for her copy of the script, opened it, found the right place, and then another piece of blank time while neither of them spoke, neither wanting to be the one to speak first. They ought to be standing up, acting it properly, but Hermione didn't dare suggest it. Better to stick with what they were used to.
In the end, it was Malfoy, very softly and without looking at her. 'Start from, 'Come, thick night,' he suggested, and she did.
'Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife-' She paused, glancing over to Malfoy, feeling suddenly nervous. Going through lines had set him off before, what if it did again? 'That my k-keen knife see not the wound it makes…'
He glanced at her and then away again, his expression unreadable. 'Start again?' he suggested.
Hermione nodded and took a deep breath, telling herself not to be so silly. Malfoy would be fine, there wasn't too much that was graphic in these scenes, and if there were something that set him off… well, she'd be okay. She had her wand, and there were others in the library who could hear her if she screamed. It was perfectly safe.
'Come, thick night,' she began, trying to give it the murderous, bloody, evil lustre she had practiced, but her voice was a pitch higher than usual. 'And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes,' her eyes flicked to Malfoy, 'nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry 'Hold, hold!'
She managed to sound somewhat normal, but Malfoy's eyes were closed too tightly, and his face was too pale, as though all the blood had drained out of it and left him a corpse. 'Are you…?' she began, tentatively.
'Fine,' he snapped. 'It's your line.' His hand, where it clutched the script, was so tightly clenched that his knuckles were pure white.
Not entirely certain, she picked up her script again. That my keen knife see not the wound it makes – was that what went on his mind? Trying not to see what he was doing, to pretend it never happened, all the evils and tortures and attacks that Hermione could only imagine, or glean details about from the newspaper. She couldn't tell what he was thinking.
'Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!' she began, fully aware that she sounded sharp and nervous rather than joyful and slightly murderous as she was supposed to. 'Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! They letters have transported me beyond,' with disdain, which she managed, 'this ignorant present, and I see now,' back to excitement, 'the future in the instant.'
'My dearest love,' Malfoy began, and Hermione could only marvel at the way he only paused a second too long before starting, and managed to fill his voice with all his usual feeling, no hint of insanity whatsoever. 'Duncan comes here tonight.'
The rest of that scene went comparatively well. They didn't speak of the murder graphically – she alluded to it, of course, with 'this night's great business', but he seemed fine so long as they didn't state it directly. And when he was fine, she was fine; it was easier to relax into the acting when he was calm about it. They ran through it a second time, and Hermione managed not to stumble over the 'keen knife', and a third time she managed to suggest that they stand up and act it through properly.
'Leave all the rest to me,' she finished, a half-smile on her lips as she raised a finger to his and they stepped 'offstage'. He turned his face away, looking towards the bookshelves. 'Shall we do the other scene?'
Suddenly unsure, Hermione nodded. The next scene contained much more direct reference to murder, she was sure, and she didn't want him to go mad on her again.
'I'll start,' he said in quite a quiet voice, flicking through the pages to find the next scene and then smoothing down the spine of the book with an elegant finger. He paused before starting, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, and for a moment Hermione fully expected him to be mad when he opened them.
It came as something of a surprise when he said, 'I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent,' therefore, because it took her a moment for her to realise that this was what he was meant to be saying and not some half-mad rambled quote. 'But only vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself and falls upon the other.'
Pause, to allow time for the Enter Lady Macbeth, and then, 'How now! What news?'
She was meant to sound annoyed here. Looking up at him, she managed to take a deep breath and produce something more like an indignant squeak. 'He hath almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber?'
Malfoy, she noticed, hadn't commented once on her seeming inability to act that day. But then, of course, he knew already why she was on edge, and if he brought the topic up… And it would mean talking to each other more than strictly neccecary.
'Hath he ask'd for me?' Malfoy asked offhandedly.
'Know you not he has?' she asked, managing something more like irritation this time, He turned away from her, facing their imaginary audience. 'We will proceed no further in this business,' he said, quite firmly. 'He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon.'
For a wild, bizarre moment she wondered if Voldemort had 'honoured him of late', then shuddered at the thought. Summoning up all the anger she could manage, she stepped across to him. 'Was the hope drunk wherein you dress'd yourself?' she asked angrily; he pulled away from her and walked a short way away. She followed him, caught his arm. 'Hath it slept since? And wakes it now to look so green and pale at what it did so freely?'
He flinched and stepped away from her again, turning his head away – just as he was supposed to – and she caught his arm, forced him to turn and face her. 'From this time,' she hissed, getting into the acting now, 'such I account thy love.' He pulled away, turned his back on her. 'Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire?' she asked incredulously. 'Wouldst thou have that which thou esteem'st the ornament of live, and live a coward-' he flinched '-in thine own esteem…'
He interrupted. 'Granger…'
She couldn't see his face, and his tone was so neutral that she couldn't tell why he stopped her, but she was silent anyway, watching him. Had she set him off? What exactly had she said? A coward in thine own esteem…
After a few moment, he took a deep breath and drew himself upright. 'Go on,' he ordered.
She did, and nothing else untoward happened for the rest of the rehearsal.
Going from the library to the common room was like passing through some magical mirror that reflected not what was actually there but its complete opposite. The library had been quiet, tense and filled with muted colours; this was loud, relaxed and filled with every shade of red and gold imaginable.
'Hermione!' Ron called out from near the fireplace, leaning over the arm of the sofa and grinning at her. A bottle of Butterbeer dangled from one hand. 'How was it?'
'Okay,' she called back as she picked her way across the room, regretting – for a brief moment – the fact that there was no way she could tell them about what was really happening. 'It went fine, I guess.' Harry passed her a Butterbeer; she thanked him and opened it.
'No trouble with Malfoy?' Ron asked.
Did trouble include having to tiptoe round his insanity, or being afraid he'd go completely mad on you? 'Not really,' she replied. 'We didn't talk much apart from the play.'
Harry shook his head pensively. 'Don't know how you manage it,' he admitted. 'I'm going to have to do extra practices with him – the sword fighting, you know – and I'm never going to be able to put up with him. We'll end up killing each other.'
Ron snorted. 'I thought you're the one who's meant to be killing him?' he asked.
'If I can hold the sword straight next time,' Harry replied, shrugging. They'd had a second rehearsal a few days ago, as the first one had been so rudely interrupted by Peeves. Hermione had been scared stiff all through it. The first time Harry had stabbed him through the heart, and the blood had started spurting everywhere and he'd crumpled to the floor, dead, she'd almost screamed. But then he'd got up and they cleaned off the blood with a Scourgify. And then did it again, and she was just as terrified that time, and the next, and the next.
Ron had been there too, under Harry's Cloak – only cast members could attend the rehearsals – and he'd laughed himself silly. Especially when Harry, who was rather clumsy with the sword, has misaimed completely and stabbed Malfoy through the head. Everyone had been in hysterics, apart from an irritated Malfoy, an embarrassed Harry, and Hermione.
'It really makes me nervous doing the sword fighting,' Harry remarked, taking another sip of his Butterbeer. 'I mean, standing in front of Malfoy when he's holding a lethal weapon…'
'The swords have charms on, though, don't they?' Ron asked.
'Yeah, but what if they don't work, or he takes them off?' Harry asked, and Hermione's mind was filled with a sudden memory; the way Draco had knelt on the floor, that strange light in his eyes and said Help me, and Adrian left them lying around the common room, you see, so I changed the charms…
She shivered.
Ron, beside her, snickered. 'If the charms don't work and you kill Malfoy? They'll probably give you a medal,' he told them with a grin. Harry laughed; Hermione didn't.
Malfoy was at the rehearsal, two rows in front of her and a little to the left, face fixed on the stage.
Why was he here? This rehearsal was for the witches, and apart from herself, him and the directors, no one else was here. She'd come because Ginny wanted her too, and being in the rehearsals helped her think about her own acting, helped her in some way see the play as a whole. Plus, they were quite peaceful; if she wanted to, no one was going to tell her off for slipping into her own thoughts, her own imaginations.
As for Malfoy? He could be here for Blaise's benefit, she supposed. She didn't even know if he and Blaise were friends. Or he could be here to think, or to consider acting, or for some strange, madness-related reason, or…
There was no way she could guess. He was here, and watching the performance, and that was all she knew.
How long had it been since she found out his secret. More than a week; almost two, and she still hadn't told anyone. And wasn't planning on telling anyone either. They'd barely spoken, apart from the most minimal of practices, but what she had seen of him had been intriguing.
He was mad. Half-mad, anyway; it seemed to come in bouts, set off by any strong reference to murder or death or killing such as were found in vast quantities in the play. Hermione wondered if anyone else would notice. She was the only one who had to work with him in very close situations where the play talked about death a lot. In the director-led rehearsals he seemed a lot better. Why was that? More pressure to control himself, or could he remind himself more easily that this was only a play? Or was it simply less noticeable with more people around?
There was so much she simply didn't know, and wasn't ever going to find out unless he told her, and that was unlikely. They'd carry on as they had been for the past week, with minimal rehearsals and minimal discussion of the issue, and survive it somehow, and then the topic would never come up. She'd never tell anyone, and he'd act as though she didn't know. Simple.
She didn't like it. She didn't like not knowing, but there was no way she could force him to reveal more, short of blackmail and threats, and while she considered that for a wild moment she forbade herself to even think of doing it.
Which left what she did know: he was mad, and the cause of that – it seemed – was his being a Death Eater. She still didn't feel comfortable thinking that, as though she was whispering it guiltily in a dark corner of her mind. Hermione told herself off; it was the truth, and while it was unpleasant she shouldn't be trying to pretend it wasn't there. She thought the words very slowly and clearly, Draco Malfoy Is A Death Eater, and felt better.
Which of course posed the question of why exactly he'd become one in the first place, which brought up all kinds of things about his parents and his upbringing and his beliefs that were simply too complicated to consider. Perhaps he'd been coerced into it, or had wanted to do it but been ignorant of what it truly entailed, or known what happened but hadn't realised it would send him insane…
Perhaps it wasn't killing people that was having this effect on him. He'd never seemed to care about hurting people before, verbally or physically, though killing people was of course a lot more severe. It could, of course, be something else. Like Voldemort; she knew what he was like to his Death Eaters – often treating them little better than the Muggles he hated – so perhaps it was that which was driving him mad. It could even be the Cruciatius, and then he was transferring that torture to his torture of Muggles in his insanity. Perhaps…
There were too many possibilities to consider. Without talking to him, without knowing him better, there was no way she could know. And of course, without knowing she couldn't decide what to do about him; whether to tell someone or try to help him in some other way. But then she couldn't tell anyone, could she?
Sighing, she turned her gaze away from the back of Malfoy's blond head and looked instead at the witches, partway through Act One, Scene One. They were a lot better than last time; they'd obviously been practicing, and they worked a lot better as a team, too. Ginny in particular…
All the lights went out, plunging the room into sudden darkness, and a voice from the roof called out 'Let not light see my black and deep desires!'
'Peeves!' came Megan's furious cry from the front of the room, and a murmur from the directors. 'Dumbledore will hear about this! You've messed up the rehearsals for the last time!'
Peeves' answer to this was a ghostly giggle, and then all was darkness and silence but for the noise of people searching for their wands. Hermione tried to grope for hers, but in the darkness she couldn't even find her schoolbag. It was incredibly disorientating; there should have been at least a little light from the doorway and windows, but Peeves had obviously done something to prevent that as well. It was rather like what people imagine blindness must be like.
'Peeves,' came Ruth's voice, calm as always, 'have you hidden our schoolbags?'
Another giggle. 'Maybe,' came the reply, to be greeted by a furious yell from Megan.
'You're lucky I have my wand in my sleeve, aren't you?' came another voice, a drawl; it took her a moment to recognise it as Adrian's. 'Orbislucis.'
All of a sudden there was light; a pale, eerie orb of it which floated, bobbing slightly and swirling in the air, coasting gently on the air currents. He muttered the spell again and a few more appeared, lighting the room in an ominous light and revealing both the missing schoolbags in one corner and Peeves, floating angrily near the ceiling.
'Spoilsport,' he muttered, flipping upside down and waggling his bottom in Adrian's general direction.
Olivia, meanwhile, seemed entranced by the orbs of light. 'What spell is that?' she asked, reaching out to touch one; it swirled around her hand. 'I've never read it before…'
'It's an old one,' Adrian said, shrugging. 'My mother taught it me.'
Stan looked fairly impressed as well. 'They're gorgeous,' he proclaimed, examining one critically. 'So… witchy.'
Megan gave Adrian a critical eye. 'Well, looks like you've done something right for once, even if it was complete accident,' she sniffed, before turning to the company. 'Do you think we should use them in all the witch scenes? They're really atmospheric with the lighting off, they'd look great.'
'I really like them,' Blaise said, nodding, and the others agreed; Adrian just sat there, smiling rather smugly.
In all that time, Hermione realised, Malfoy's eyes hadn't moved from the stage, as though he were watching some performance taking place entirely in his own mind which had nothing to do with reality at all.
A/N: Orbislucis, or orbis lucis, means 'orb of light'. I wrote it the former way instead of the patter purely because it looked better.
Earlier today I had an absolutely terrifyingly horrible experience. It was presentation evening, where the headmistress says a little bit about you and then gives you this pretty file with your exam certificates in. She was in the common room asking people if her information on us was correct. My description began, 'Helen is an avid writer…'
'Of course,' she said to me, 'I know you're an avid writer. You wrote a Harry potter book a while ago, didn't you?'
I very nearly keeled over and died. To make me feel better: what was your most embarrassing experience related to the HP fandom? Review!