Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Three

Disclaimer: I cannot hide it any more: I am, in fact, both JK Rowling AND Shakespeare. (There was a minor accident with a Gender-Changing potion and a Time Turner.) Or I could just be utterly insane. Which might be more likely…

Thanks for 718 reviews goes to: Rebecca15, Cassandra Raven, PhAnToM-ChiK, Flexi Lexi, papercrane, marie, MiRoRmInX, Lisi, FromHereToThere, rogue solus, RedWitch1, nikethana, angel, pensive puddles, willowfairy, brettley, Pheonix, SugarQuillCandy, jewell, Nikki, OBXglider, BouncingDelta88, foxeran, Bella, DracoDraconis, darkcherry, kessi1011, mizzyfreak7, draconas, Genevieve Jones, Madam Midnight, Beboots, katelyn812, Lyra Silvertongue2, samhaincat, Alexi Lupin (x13), JeCours, PsYcHoJo yourGUN-myhead, mswyrr, Calixte Ammonian, SilverMoonset, Princess Amara of Conte, insanemaniac, cindy, Scaz85, Catelina, Janie Granger, Silvestria, LittleGreenPerson, Opalfire, hazardous, plumsy321, hidden relevance, peterpanswendy, langocska, KawaiiRyu, Flavagurl, DreamingOne, Plaidly Lush, Xandrael, Jenie, Wench, ToOtHpIcK, debbie, dustbunnie, logicube, J-squeegy-tikiman, mesmer, Sever13, treehorse, ablakevh, Tayz, Kou Shun'u (x2), abi-j, sugar n spice 522, h0ll0ws0ng, Nathonea, Francinator, TsuirakuMitsukai, Serpentine Wisdom, Chiinoyami-chan, ameri, Sunshine, StoneageWoman, WWJD4mE2LiVe, LoniGirl, heavengurl899, Marti Is So Cool, ArashiAkurei, Daunting Darkness, leafsfan4eva, Aeriel Ravenna, C Argentum, JanCarpeDiem, stellarr, transcendent-sin, Donniedarkobunnylover, angoradebs, SilverT-Spoon.

A/N: Right after the chapter where I remark Macbeth has a smaller readership than Fallen, you gang up on me and prove me wrong! It's a conspiracy, I'm sure of it…

Macbeth is nominated in three categories at the Dangerous Liaisons award site, as is Cursed, for those of you who've read it. The link is in my profile, keeps adding a bit of a address onto the front of the link for some odd reason; if you get this error, just remove everything before the second w w w) Voting ends March 10th, and all the other fics on the site are also amazing – vote for your favourites!

Congratulations to everyone who even dared to try and find the Shakespeare quotes in the last chapter – Pheonix, MiRoRmInX, Syco and foxeran! There were actually 22 – I missed one… I would try and do scoring, but with people counting separate quotes as one quote, one quote as separate quotes, and coming up with incorrect quotes, it got a bit tricky. Thus all have won, and all shall have prizes… or, well, applause and congratulations. And congrats also to Alexi Lupin, who spotted that the last scene of chapter 14 was foreshadowed in the very first chapter. I didn't expect anyone to spot that!

I was also quite surprised and pleased to see how many people read Macbeth specifically because it had Shakespeare, and how many had read the play specifically of the fic. (You can find copies online.; just search in Google for Shakespeare.) And amused by the fact that the only person who correctly referred to Shakespeare as Middle English, rather then Old English, was not a native English speaker. (If you came across a page of Old English script, you actually wouldn't be able to recognise it as anything like English, it's that different.)

In answer to a question: no, Macbeth won't be as long as Fallen. I'm not sure about exact length as things have a habit of changing on me as I go along, but approximately 20 chapters total.

And now, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

When Hermione awoke the next morning, Draco was gone.

She was woken at precisely six o'clock by the spell she'd set, the magic snapping her from sleep to full consciousness with no soft, warm grey area in between, and immediately knew he was gone. Opening her eyes, she groped for her wand in the near darkness. It was just before dawn, and the night's darkness was taking on a peculiar grey-gold tint.

'Lumos,' she muttered, and the soft, clean glow of the wandlight revealed what she already knew; the bed was emptier than it had ever felt before. The blanket, which had been in such a contorted tangle when they'd fallen asleep, had been smoothed out and spread neatly over her. Hermione pushed it aside and slipped out of bed, tiptoeing to her trunk. Draco's cloak and broomstick were gone, and one of the curtains was still open. He'd left through the window, then.

In the surreal light of dawn, the crack of time between the night before and the morning after, everything that had happened began to feel like some contorted dream. A very realistic dream, but dreams could be realistic, couldn't they?

Hermione slipped back into bed, closing her eyes. She could remember exactly how Draco had looked, with her blanket wrapped around him and the Mark sharp and vivid against his pale skin, the way nothing she could do seemed to make him warmer. The way even his smile had seemed mad, the way his eyes had shone in the dim light of the dormitory, the way his laugh had been breaking. He kept washing his hands, too and he wouldn't believe the blood had gone away.

That was how she proved it to herself, that it had happened. When she looked, there was a smear of dried blood on her sheets, the shape of a finger in a darker shade of Gryffindor crimson. 'Scourgify,' she muttered, shuddering as she remembered where that blood had come from.

It was quarter past six in the morning, and far too early to be up. Far too early to be thinking about insanity and Death Eaters, Snape and torture, anyway. Hermione put her head down on the pillow, ignored the approaching dawn, and managed to fall asleep again.

This time, she did dream about Draco.

Eight o'clock that evening found Hermione waiting in the library, her copy of Macbeth open in font of her. They were supposed to be rehearsing that day. Their Act Two, Scene Two needed a little work, and the performance was drawing closer with alarming speed, so they'd arranged to meet. Usual time, usual place.

It was only yesterday that they'd made the arrangement, casually, at the end of another long practice with the directors, but it felt much longer. Hermione could almost bring herself to believe that everything after Harry's vision had really been stretched out over days, not mere hours, and she'd simply been too tense at the time to notice. Days spent deliberating over whether to go to Dumbledore, days spent in agonising suspense waiting for news of Snape, and further days spent in bed, in darkness, trying to calm an insane Draco.

Draco was late, which wasn't like him; Draco was never late unless he was doing it on purpose, to annoy her, which he hadn't done for weeks. Hermione flicked through her copy of the script, re-reading the lines she'd already memorised and shivering. She told herself that it was because of a draught, or simply the November cold creeping among the ancient books, but she knew it was because the words and phrases and murders reminded her too much of what had happened, and almost happened, last night. Snape was lucky the Order had reached him in time.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

She firmly pushed the script to one side and leant forwards on the table, sighing and glancing at her watch. Ten minutes late. Perhaps he'd forgotten? After everything that had happened to him, it would be understandable. But Draco had tortured people before. Killed, even, and he'd never yet forgotten a rehearsal. He had a good memory - she'd seen that when he appeared to learn his words effortlessly. And if he didn't, he'd write rehearsal times down somewhere, to give the impression of having a perfect memory.

Fifteen minutes late.

Suddenly restless, Hermione got to her feet. She couldn't leave the area, in case he had forgotten, or been delayed, and would be arriving at any moment, pale-faced and looking as fragile as fine bone china, the kind you could see light through if you held it up to a window, the kind which shattered into icicle-shards if you dropped it from careless fingers.

Or perhaps he'd be calm, all his defences in place, casual and collected. He would apologise for being late. He was held up talking to a teacher, someone innocuous – Professor Flitwick, he had a tendency to ramble on a bit if you let him – about a test or homework or something innocent like that, and only a faint tremor in his voice would tell her he'd really been explaining himself to Dumbledore, or talking to Snape. They'd act, and partway through the scene his voice would stick at some phrase or other, and that's when he would look like porcelain, like china. And she would go over to him and put a gentle hand on his arm, asking if he was alright, and he would say no, and she would put an arm around him and…

And Draco was now twenty minutes late, and that was far too long for him to be simply delayed. Hermione doubted he'd forgotten, and with a simple delay unlikely, she began to get a growing feeling that he wasn't coming on purpose. He was avoiding her.

She hadn't seen him all day, except for briefly across the Great Hall at meals and across classrooms in the few lessons they shared. Potions had been cancelled, though Dumbledore and not yet explained why to the students. Rumours abounded, of course, suggesting anything from Snape's tragic death due to a Potions accident to Snape running off with a half-Veela seductress. In reality, Snape was in the Hospital Wing, conscious and stable at the last they'd heard, though Madam Pomfrey was still worried about him.

Twenty-five minutes.

He was avoiding her; there was no other explanation for it, and Hermione resumed her seat, tucking her feet underneath her and thinking. Why was he avoiding her? She must have done something wrong, or said something wrong. Perhaps she should have made him go back to his own bed, rather than letting him stay in hers; perhaps he was embarrassed. But he'd been in no fit state to go anywhere, she reminded herself, and he'd needed rest.

He could be frightened about what she thought of him. He could think that now she'd seen what he'd done, seen the blood for herself, she wouldn't want anything to do with him. But no, that was nonsense; she'd known what Draco did as a Death Eater before last night.

And he must know that she still cared about him. She had let him stay in her bed, still wrapped in her blanket; she had held his hand as he slept and helped him wash the blood away. That had to be proof enough that she cared.

Thirty minutes.

Perhaps he was disgusted at having spent the night in a Muggleborn's bed. A Mudblood's bed, he'd put it, and she shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps he was ashamed, angry with her. But he'd needed her help. He'd been insane, completely out of control, and he'd come to her, to a Muggleborn. What did that say about him? She didn't know. She was the only one who knew what he was and would help him: perhaps that was the reason. Even in the throes of madness, he'd come to her and not anyone else in the school, straight to her. Because he knew that she cared about him and wanted to help him.

Thirty-five minutes.

Hermione didn't quite remember when she'd started to care about Draco, but somewhere between now and the first time she'd seen his insanity, in the library right after he'd almost been stabbed fatally by Harry's sword, she must have started to. Earlier then that, perhaps; she'd started to get on with him even before she found out he was a Death Eater, before all this confusion and mess began.

Before he was forced to torture Snape. Hermione could only imagine what that must have been like, and she knew her mind couldn't do justice to the terror of Voldemort, the horror of the blood, the darkness and the pain. What would it feel like to torture someone, she wondered morbidly, to torture someone who she knew, who had taught her for years and been her Head of House besides, too afraid to stop, to refuse, because if she did Voldemort would probably have her tortured too as well as Snape…

Forty minutes.

What would it feel like to be Snape? Hermione couldn't even begin to consider that; she didn't know enough about him. Had he known it was Draco torturing him? What had he thought? Had he thought Draco was doing it willingly, pleased to be ridding the Dark Lord of a traitor, or had he known Draco was unwilling, even mad?

Hermione didn't know whether Snape knew or not. Instinctively, she felt that he didn't know, but she had no logical basis for that. Draco wouldn't let anyone find out if he could help it, of course, and she knew that Draco mustn't have betrayed his insanity explicitly at the Death Eater meetings. Mainly from the fact that he was still alive; she couldn't see Voldemort allowing a follower who had suddenly started screaming about blood and death and murders and floating daggers in the middle of a meeting to live.

Though Voldemort must have some idea; Draco's words from last night came back to her, haunting and desperate. He knows what it does to me. He knows. He likes… likes choosing me… making me… it…' Of course, Hermione realised: Voldemort was a Legilimens, so he'd have to know what was going on in Draco's mind. She had read about Occlumency and Legilimency when Harry had first started taking it. Insanity such as Draco's scrambled the mind, making it difficult to read but obvious to the Legilimens that the mind's owner was going mad. So Voldemort knew, though he probably didn't know much about it, and so he was… playing with Draco, like a cat with a mouse. Or a snake with a mouse.

Hermione's fists clenched suddenly, furiously, and for a second the world before her faded to a dark haze. Draco was her friend, and Voldemort was hurting him, like he'd hurt Harry so many times before, like he'd hurt Ginny in the Chamber, like he'd hurt everyone.

And now it was Draco, insane Draco, her Draco with the silvery hair and the deep grey eyes, and she wouldn't let that happen. She wouldn't let Voldemort have him and destroy his mind; she would do something, because Draco was hers. Because she was the only one who knew, who understood, who cared; because she was the one who he came to, insane and bloodstained, for comfort in the night. She wouldn't let him down.

Hermione realised her knuckles were white as marble, and her fists were so tightly clenched that even the bones were aching. She opened them, laying them flat on the table, and at the same time let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The world came back.

She felt as though she'd just been in the centre of a sandstorm in the middle of a desert; like the sandstorm had been burning and blasting the hot grit and dust around her chest, her heart and lungs, and let them bruised and injured and stinging. Hermione shuddered a little, surprised more than anything – what had set her off like that? She'd go mad too if she wasn't careful.

Setting the alarming moment aside, she turned, as she always did, to knowledge and planning. If she was to help Draco properly in the long-term, stop him from going completely insane, she had to convince him to turn away from Voldemort. Dumbledore would give him protection, she was sure, but the first hurdle was getting Draco to go to Dumbledore. Hermione had suggested it to him before, and he'd refused; he didn't trust Dumbledore to keep him safe, and he knew that if he left the Death Eaters he would be hunted. And now he'd seen what happened to traitors – quite literally at first hand – he'd be even harder to persuade. She could almost hear his voice, mocking with a trace of fear, Dumbledore didn't do a very good job keeping Snape safe, did he?

Snape. Things kept coming back to Snape. Snape was a Death Eater who had gone to Dumbledore, Snape had been tortured by Voldemort, almost killed, for spying. Snape's torture had been carried out by Draco's hand. Snape, very possibly, was the only one who had been where Draco was now – with the guilt, though Hermione doubted the insanity. Snape liked Draco; he'd always been one of Snape's favourite students, and she expected Snape would want to help him. Help him turn away from Voldemort, if that was what Draco wanted, and Hermione knew that if he wasn't terrified of retribution he would turn away in a heartbeat.

If she went to Snape and told him about Draco… Her chest tightened at the thought, it would be like betrayal. Telling Draco's secrets to someone else, someone he might not want to know. But Snape… Hermione was sure that Snape would only help. He might not be the kindest or most sympathetic of people, far from it, but he did care about the Slytherins he was Head of. It showed itself in odd ways, such as unfairly giving hem House Points and praising them over the Gryffindors, but he did, and he wouldn't want any of them to slip into Voldemort's clutches if he could help it. And he knew what it was like. He'd help; he'd be sarcastic and caustic about it, as always, but he'd help Draco.

She used that thought to press down any remaining qualms she had about telling him, and then – an hour after she was supposed to meet Draco – Hermione packed her things away and headed for the Hospital wing. 'This deed I'll do before my purpose cool,' she muttered to herself, and almost laughed when she realised she'd been quoting Macbeth.

'Oh, very well,' Madam Pomfrey gave in, dark eyebrows frowning. 'But not for long, Miss Granger, Professor Snape is still recovering and needs rest. Ten minutes,' she cautioned, raising a finger in warning,

Hermione nodded in agreement and followed the nurse as she turned and bustled across the room, heading for the bed furthest from the door, which was surrounded by clean white curtains.

She was beginning to have second thoughts. It had taken her five minutes to persuade Madam Pomfrey to let her see Snape – she had lied and said she desperately needed to discuss some very important Potions work – and all that time she'd been starting to doubt.

Draco trusted her. He'd proved that much when he came to her last night, when he told her about the Death Eater meeting in the Muggle Studies storeroom. And telling Snape about his madness would be betraying that trust, in a way, because Draco didn't want her to tell anyone.

Snape's help would be invaluable, though. He'd been in a similar position; he knew the risks, what it was like being a Death Eater, the dangers of changing sides. Draco respected him and might listen to his advice. And if Snape knew that torturing and killing people was sending Draco insane… Hermione was aware that torturing Snape would be haunting Draco, though she didn't like to think how long for; and if Snape was aware that insanity was part of the problem he'd be able to help Draco better.

'Severus?' Madam Pomfrey asked, stopping outside the curtain and hovering, waiting permission. 'You have a visitor.'

A disgruntled sigh came from within the curtain, along with the shuffling of parchment. 'Very well, Poppy,' came the reply, in Snape's usual sharp tones, and Madam Pomfrey pulled the curtain back and gestured for Hermione to enter.

'And don't let her tire you out with questions, Severus,' she added, 'you should be resting, remember.'

The curtain fell closed behind her. Snape was sitting up in bed, looking paler and more tired than usual but otherwise fine. An inkpot glistening with red ink stood open on the bedside table, and as Hermione watched, he dipped a black quill in it and wrote what looked suspiciously like a zero on a homework essay, before setting the pile of marking to one side. Only then did he look up, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise as he noticed who was standing there. He raised an eyebrow.

'Miss Granger,' he remarked, frowning slightly. 'I assume this has something to do with last night's… occurrences?'

Hermione sensed the point of no return approaching rapidly. Either she shook her head and made up some Potions problem, keeping silent about Draco and losing whatever help Snape might have been able to give him, or she admitted that it was and risked betraying Draco's trust in her. She took a breath and opened her mouth, not sure what was going to come out of it.

'Partially about last night, yes.'

Snape closed his eyes, while Hermione tried to conquer the twinges of guilt which were curling through her stomach like a Devil's Snare. 'If you are here either to express pity or to talk about Potter's childish and unnecessary reaction to the vision,' he remarked in his cold drawl, 'then I have far better things to do with my time, and I suggest you leave.'

'And if it's neither?' Hermione asked, fighting the impulse to defend Harry; she couldn't infuriate Snape by arguing, not now. Though she was surprised that he'd thought it might be her reason for coming; she hadn't spotted it, though she supposed it was a fairly obvious assumption.

Snape gave her a long, calculating look, then indicated the chair which stood by the side of the bed, and Hermione quickly crossed the floor and sat in it, hands in her lap, feeling decidedly tense. Even resting in a hospital bed and half-buried in fluffy white pillows and crisp blankets, Snape was no less intimidating.

'It's about Draco Malfoy,' she found herself saying, and mentally apologised for what she was about to do. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help you. It will help, and it's necessary, but I'm sorry all the same.

'About Draco Malfoy, and connected to last night's events,' Snape repeated, his voice flat. 'Gryffindors are always so quick to blame, are they not? Allow me to guess: Potter believed he saw Malfoy among the Death Eaters in the graveyard?' He didn't allow her any time to answer. 'You may assure your friends that Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater. Now kindly permit me to return to my marking, Miss Granger; I have an entire class of second-years who have spectacularly failed their homework.' And with that, he picked up his quill again and began to mark another essay.

Hermione simply stared at him. He was in a particularly foul mood, and with reason, but that was no excuse…

'Harry didn't recognise anyone in the graveyard but you and Voldemort,' she cut in firmly. 'He doesn't even know I'm here. And you don't have to lie, because I already know Draco is a Death Eater. And I know he was one of the ones who… who tortured you last night.'

Snape abandoned his marking again; his head snapping upwards sharply, his cold face filled with utter fury. 'What misbegotten mixture of lies and rumour led you to bring that nonsense to my ears?' he asked, his voice spitting acid, but Hermione remained calm. She knew that Snape was lying to protect Draco – which relieved her; it meant he was clearly on Draco's side – and that meant he was probably more afraid of her discovering the truth and spreading it throughout the school than he was actually angry.

'The one that came from Draco's own lips,' she replied firmly, and quickly explained. 'We're acting together in the play, and I saw his Mark one rehearsal, and we've kind of become friends. And I know he was one of the ones who tortured you because he told my himself last night.'

Snape, cold and untrusting as always, had merely gone a shade paler and raised an eyebrow. 'Why would he tell you?' he demanded.

'I'm not entirely sure,' Hermione admitted, giving a small shrug. 'Because I'm the only one who knows? He doesn't want to be a Death Eater.' She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 'I don't think he has anyone else to tell. And I want to help him.' Hermione glanced up at an incredulous Snape, then back down to the floor, and closed her eyes tightly.

'And he's going mad.'

Hermione kept her eyes closed while she waited for Snape to reply. She felt unaccountable nervous, because she was telling Draco's secret, and because while she knew that Snape would help Draco she didn't know exactly what his reaction would be.

'Mad?' came the response at last; Snape's tone was cool again with a hint of something more urgent, and Hermione let out a breath. 'In what way?'

'It's the guilt, I think,' Hermione replied, spreading her hands wide on her lap and studying them, her fingers appearing oddly thin, slight. 'Of… of torturing people. Killing them. He keeps… He wouldn't believe me when I said you weren't dead, last night. And I helped him wash the blood off but he kept saying it was still there, it wouldn't go away… Like Macbeth. Once he thought he'd killed me and I was a ghost.' She twisted her hands around each other, swallowing. 'I'm worried about him,' she found herself admitting to the silence.

Snape took a long time to reply, and when he did his tone was distracted, vague. 'There is a lot to worry about,' he said, and she glanced upwards to see Snape staring in the vague direction of the curtain, frowning in thought.

The curtain was pulled back abruptly, and the familiar face of Madam Pomfrey appeared. 'Ten minutes up,' she said firmly. 'Come on, Miss Granger, Professor Snape needs to rest.'

Hermione glanced to the bed, where Snape nodded, his expression once more perfectly normal. It had to be, she guessed, in front of Madam Pomfrey. 'Indeed, Poppy. Thank you for coming to see me, Miss Granger, I shall consider your information most carefully,' he said, nodding and returning to the second-year essays. Hermione got to her feet.

'Thank you,' Professor,' she said formally, and allowed herself to be hustled out of the Hospital Wing by Madam Pomfrey. Hermione felt incredibly reassured.

A/N: I am now going to be boring and ask the same question I asked in Fallen: what do you think about me starting a forum? What kind of forum would you prefer – Harry Potter, writing-based, something else? Contest ideas? What kind of things would you want to do? Discussions? Basically throw ideas at me. Name suggestions are also desired!

Review!