Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Four

Disclaimer: Did I ever mention I don't own Harry Potter? Or Macbeth? Yeah, I still don't. But I have a birthday coming up! You never know…

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A/N: Thanks for the reviews! And, of course, the suggestions and ideas about the forum, which is nearing the end of the planning stage and will be created as soon as I have the time. I'm looking forward to it, especially to getting the chance to talk to some of you properly. It's going to be based on Harry Potter/writing, and it'll hopefully be a lot of fun…

Thanks for help with details of costume, stage etc. go to Hannah, Simrun and Syco. (You might spot Hannah in this chapter; I stole her name when I needed one. She has, by the way, taken over the hairstyling, as well as helping with costume and being an invaluable and frequently hilarious beta, along with Simrun and Lou. I could never have written this half so well without the support of a lot of dedicated friends!)

Oh, and don't forget that voting is still on at Dangerous Liaisons, where both Macbeth and Cursed have been nominated. Macbeth's also been nominated at another site, the link to which shall be on my profile shortly.

Anyway, with that, onto the chapter. Enjoy!


Draco,

Do you want to meet tonight for a practice? We missed the one we'd arranged yesterday, and the performances are coming up soon, so we should probably meet. I'll be in our usual place at eight. Owl me back.

Hermione.


Draco,

Why are you avoiding me? If I did something wrong the other night – I don't know what, said something which hurt you or embarrassed you – then I really am sorry; I was only trying to help you. And if you're worried what I think of you, I'm not angry. I don't think I could have done any different, in your place.

I can't say any of the other reasons I think you could be avoiding me in a letter, but I apologise for them too, if it's something I did wrong. You aren't going to solve anything by avoiding me, you know. Will you meet me? At lunch, I'll be in the library. Usual place.

Hermione

He didn't meet her at lunch, just as he hadn't met her at eight o'clock the day before, and Hermione was starting to get worried.

She'd been watching him at breakfast that morning, when the school owl had carried the second of the letters too him. He'd looked up from his breakfast, stared at the letter as though he expected it to explode in his face, then slowly opened it and read, automatically hiding the contents from anyone who might be reading over his shoulder.

His face had been fixed in a smooth blank mask as he scanned the lines, an expression which had infuriated Hermione for no identifiable reason. She wanted to know what he was feeling, what he thought, and his expression was a closed book. One written in some obscure language lost for millennia and encoded with every method of encryption known to Muggles and magic. And then burned for good measure, Hermione thought wryly.

When he finished reading, he had screwed the parchment into a ball with one crisp movement of his fist, then stuffed it into a pocket and continued eating. Not once had he glanced towards her.

He'd avoided her in the corridors too, with alarming dedication. It wasn't as though he'd simply slip into a side corridor when he saw her coming; he was simply never there. And she knew; she'd been watching for him, intently. He had to know her timetable, Hermione realised, because otherwise how could he avoid her so completely? Even when they had the same lessons, they were never in the corridor at the same time, however much she contrived to catch up with him.

Anyway, he would have to face her at some point today. There was a big meeting that day, for the whole cast, to discuss things like the stage design, the costume, and lighting. They already knew what they needed to – what props they'd have, where their entrances and exits were, that kind of thing – but Hermione was looking forward to seeing the details. And to attempting to catch Draco at the end of it.

A few hours after that, they had a proper rehearsal with the directors, and he couldn't skip that meeting, could he? Or escape from her afterwards, not when it was just the two of them leaving. One way or another, she'd find out why he was avoiding her.

The noise of her and Harry's footsteps, in perfect time, was the only sound. The corridors were deserted, and even though this was quite easily explained by the fact that it was Sunday afternoon, Hermione found it no less eerie.

Harry hadn't been very talkative the past few days, which was also easily explained but no less worrying. And she didn't think he'd been sleeping very well, partly because he was paler than usual and looked exhausted, with the faint tracings of faded blue under his eyes, and partly because she'd asked Ron to keep an eye on him and he'd told her Harry wasn't sleeping well. Ron was just as worried as she was, though he didn't show it as much, being Ron.

At least he wasn't going mad. Touch wood.

The constant one-two one-two beat of their footsteps was becoming as oppressive as the silent emptiness of the corridors, and they weren't even halfway there yet. And however much she tried to break the rhythm, her feet kept slipping back into it. Hermione took a breath and disrupted it by starting a conversation instead.

'Are you excited about the meeting?' she asked cheerfully. 'I'm quite looking forward to hearing what they're going to do with the set, Megan said something about it in one of our rehearsals and she was practically dancing with delight. And you know how stressed she is normally.'

Beside her, Harry gave a shrug as they turned the corner into another corridor. 'Yeah, I guess,' he said, noncommittally.

Unperturbed, Hermione continued. 'I don't know anything about the costume, except that they aren't making the men wear tights. Some of the fifth-years demanded to know. Stan and Ruth were both laughing about it for ages.'

'That's good.'

Hermione waited for a while to see if anything else would be forthcoming, and when nothing was, she continued, feeling slightly desperate. 'Have you learnt your lines?'

Harry simply nodded, his eyes staying fixed on the floor, and Hermione couldn't think of anything else to say. And she knew that whatever she said, he wouldn't listen, so really, what was the use?

There had to be something she could say to help. Something she could do, perhaps. Trying to get him to talk about other things wasn't working; perhaps if she…

'Hermione?'

The interruption startled her; she hadn't been expecting Harry to speak. Glancing upwards, she saw Harry was looking up at her, a faint half-smile on his face. 'Stop worrying,' he told her firmly. 'I'll be fine, I'm just a little distracted.'

'That's what you always say,' she pointed out, but couldn't help but feel relieved. The mere fact that Harry had been shaken out of his distraction, even by her worrying, made her feel better.

'Well, I always do end up fine. In the end,' Harry pointed out stubbornly. 'Just stop worrying about me. See, I'm better already. Now, what were you saying about the set?'

Hermione smiled back and began to share the rumours she'd heard, feeling slightly relieved that he'd at least cheered up a little. Though she had no doubt that this wouldn't be permanent.

Oh well. Best to make the most of it while it lasted.

The meeting had been underway for an hour and was reaching the boring parts; at least half the cast had given up listening to Ruth and Megan chattering away and were staring at the miniature model of the stage that sat in the middle of the table.

That had been the big excitement of the meeting; the stage. The design was fairly simple, with a narrow balcony around the top – mainly for witch scenes, Olivia had explained – and five doors arranged around the bottom, with everything in an eerie black. But the real excitement had been the rest of the design; on all three sides of the stage, from just underneath the balcony ledge, there would be water running down the walls. With silencing charms, obviously, so the noise of it didn't obstruct what the actors were saying. The stage would be lit by groups of floating candles, the flames of which glistened off the water; the effect was eerie.

Hermione watched as Adrian, glancing sideways to ensure Megan wasn't paying any attention to him, muttered a spell in the direction of the model. The flames of the miniature candles grew twice as large, changing to a deep crimson, reflecting off the walls and making the water look almost like blood. She shivered.

Draco was there, of course, but he was sitting about as far away from her as he could get, diagonally opposite across the long table. Hermione had been watching him surreptitiously. He looked the same as always; same cool stare, same composed expression, guarded, not giving anything away. His chin was tilted upwards slightly more than most peoples' were, a habit she'd noticed in him before. He looked exactly as he always did, except for the fact that he was pretending she didn't exist.

He'd noticed she was looking at him. Hermione had seen him glance up, the briefest flicker of an eye before he forced his eyes away from her. He was watching Megan talk, now, with a rapt expression which Hermione would bet a lot of money was utterly false.

Listening to Megan with one ear – after all, she was supposed to be listening, and Megan might say something important – Hermione leant back in her chair and watched Draco. If she kept staring at him long enough, he might give in…

An appreciative murmur running round the table told her that Adrian had done something else with the lighting, and from the corner of her eye she could see that the candles had turned a heavenly sky blue. She kept her attention firmly fixed on Draco. His eyes were flicking round the room, now, between Megan and the other directors and Blaise, who was sitting beside him. He knew she was watching him, and…

'Hannah Baker, one of the Ravenclaw seventh-years, has very kindly agreed – expelliarmus! – to do the hairstyling for us,' Megan said, deftly catching Adrian's wand in her left hand and tucking it away without even looking, a decided smirk touching her lips. Adrian, and a large part of the cast, looked fairly annoyed. 'For the women, we're thinking…'

Hermione listened while Megan talked about braids and crowns and ribbons, and while a few of the other girls put their hands up to ask questions or make suggestions, but she wasn't particularly interested in the hairstyling. Draco was more interested; he looked, by now, distinctly uncomfortable, leaning forward over the table, fidgeting nervously, running delicate fingers through his hair. He kept glancing towards her too, only brief flickers, but Hermione was finding it hard to stop herself from grinning. It felt like a game, or like learning a new spell, even though it was more important than that. If she could get him to give in, perhaps he'd stop ignoring her.

Finally, reluctantly, he let his eyes meet hers, glaring as viciously as he could manage. He reminded Hermione of one of the angered Greek gods; Apollo, perhaps, 'Stop it,' he mouthed at her.

'Stop ignoring me,' she mouthed back, and as if in defiance, his head instantly snapped away. She was certain she saw him shiver, although it was hard to see.

He didn't look back again.

Megan finished discussing hairstyles, then glanced at her watch. 'And I suppose they'll have to be all for now,' she said, smiling at them all. 'You all know when your next rehearsals are? And don't forget, no more scripts, those of you that still need them!'

With that, the meeting broke up, dissolving into excited chatter about the upcoming production and the scraping of chairs. Hermione was one of the first on her feet, to the surprise of Harry who was sitting next to her; she had to try and catch Draco.

But he was sitting slightly closer to the door than she was, and the people on either side of her were getting up and blocking her way, and by the time she made it to the corridor he was gone.

'We fail!' Hermione said and laughed, then crossed the treacherous floor of the makeshift stage to Draco, hoping that this would be the final run-through. She had to talk to him. 'But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail,' she told him, pitching her voice low and bloodthirsty.

His acting was perfect as ever. The only thing that betrayed how he felt was a slight tension, unnoticeable unless you were standing as close as Hermione was, and the way his skin twitched as she reached to touch his jaw. Almost as if he didn't know whether to lean into the touch or jerk away from it.

'What cannot you and I perform upon the unguarded Duncan?' she asked, trailing her fingers down his skin lovingly to slip off his chin, leaving her hand hovering in mid air. Draco's skin was colder than usual, and tensed, but as smooth and perfect as polished stone. 'What not put upon his spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt of our great quell?'

Draco, whose eyes had been dancing with delight as her speech reached its murderous conclusion, laughed and caught her hand. His grasp was too tight, she noticed, then too loose, as if he were afraid to touch it. 'Bring forth men-children only,' he told her, raising her fingers and letting his lips brush softly over them. Only she noticed the way he flinched; she forced herself to keep smiling, to stay in role as Lady Macbeth and not react.

'For thy undaunted mettle should compose nothing but males,' he praised her, and she laughed as he continued, excited. 'Will it not be received, when we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two of his own chamber and used their very daggers, that they have done't?'

'Who dares receive it other,' she asked, letting her voice become gleeful, 'as we shall make our griefs and clamours roar upon his death?'

Draco laughed a little again, eyes blazing with the mask of excitement he was wearing. Beneath them, if she looked carefully, Hermione could make out something else; but what she couldn't tell, except that it was mercurial and changed with every instant. He leant forward then, so she couldn't see his eyes any more, and kissed her forehead. His lips felt cool and dry, and pulled back a fraction of a second before they were supposed to.

'I am settled,' he said, looking her in the eye again, his voice oddly quiet, 'and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat.' He raised his free hand, brushed a strand of hair from her face. 'Away, and mock the time with fairest show: false face-' he gently touched her cheek- 'must hide what the false heart-' the fingers moved to rest just above her heart and she had to stop herself shivering at the feel of it- 'doth know.'

Together, they took a few slow steps, backwards from Hermione's perspective but forwards from his, until they had crossed the line on the desks that marked where the door was. Draco let go of her abruptly, dropping her hand and stepping sharply backwards, so that the sudden removal of his physical closeness felt like a loss. Hermione shook herself, gave Draco a long look, then turned her attention to the directors.

'That was brilliant,' Megan was saying, beaming widely at them and making a few notes on a piece of parchment. 'Keep practicing and the play will be utterly amazing.

'Do you want us to do it again?' Draco asked, in a tone which was unfailingly polite but still, implicitly, sounded like 'Can I go now?'

'I think that's enough for today,' Ruth said, smiling at them. 'You're both doing amazingly.'

Draco nodded and leapt down from the platform with one elegant move, and was halfway to the door before Hermione could react. 'Wait!' she called out, jumping down after him – her ankle gave a twinge of protest – and chasing after him. She managed to reach the door at the same time as he did. 'I want to talk to you.'

He didn't meet her eyes. 'Later,' he said, his voice curt and cold. He reached for the door handle, but Hermione was well past compromise; he didn't manage to get it more than an inch open before she slammed it shut. 'Now.'

Draco did look at her then, for one short, sharp glance. 'Let me past,' he hissed. 'I'm not talking to you now. Mudlood,' he added, and the vicious, furious tone to his voice startled and hurt her more than the swear word ever could.

'Tell me what's wrong, then,' she replied, half-leaning against the door in an effort to keep it shut. 'I don't know why you're so angry at me, Draco, but I swear I didn't do anything intentionally…'

'Is everything alright over there?' came a voice from the directors; Stan's. Hermione glanced over her shoulder to realise that all five of them were watching with varying degrees of curiosity and alarm.

Beside her, she felt Draco stop trying to open the door. 'Perfectly,' he assured them, giving the directors a wide smile, then while Hermione was distracted, he opened the door and sped out through it.

Muttering a curse, she followed him, managing to catch hold of his sleeve halfway down the corridor. He stopped, but didn't turn to look at her. 'Let go,' he spat, trying to tug his arm out of her grasp, but she held on determinedly.

'Not until we've talked,' she replied. 'I want to know why you're avoiding me, and I don't much care whether you tell me in private or in the middle of a public corridor, but you aren't getting away from me without saying. You can't avoid me forever, Draco.'

He didn't reply to that, but she could see his tension in the line of his shoulders, the dip of his head, the way one of his hands was curled sinuously into a fist by his side. She waited while he stood in silence, feeling the heady heat of determination simmering inside her; she wasn't going to give in, not now, not when she could finally force Draco to listen to her, to talk to her…

The sound of muffled conversation from the practice room alerted her to the fact that the directors were coming; she spun, not letting go of Draco's arm, and opened the door to the Muggle Studies store room with a flick of her wand and a muttered, 'Alohamora.'

'Inside,' she ordered quickly, giving Draco a piercing glare, and after a moment's hesitation he stalked slowly inside. She followed, closing the door behind her.

The room was exactly the same as it was a few days before, but this Draco was nothing like the anxious, confiding boy who'd sat on top of a dusty television and allowed her to comfort him. He stalked through the dangerously stacked piles of Muggle objects, swirls of dust billowing in his wake, and turned sharply to face her, folding his arms and raising his head imperiously.

'What do you want, Granger?' he asked, sharply.

Hermione stared back at him firmly, refusing to back down. 'I want to know why you're avoiding me,' she stated, clearly and simply.

He sneered in return, which surprised her; she'd seen him sneer plenty of times before, of course, but not recently; never in the past few weeks. Not since they'd started acting together. Belatedly, she realised that Draco avoiding her and being so - so like his old self – without telling her what she'd done wrong hurt her. As much as if Harry had suddenly started acting the same, or Ron.

Had she really come to care about him that much? Yes. Yes, she had.

Hermione sat down on the television and wiped a bit of dust off a stack of old videos that stood beside it. 'I just want to know why you're doing this,' she continued, her voice far quieter.

'I should never have gone near you in the first place.' His voice was low and quiet and felt like daggers; she winced to hear it. 'I should never have forgotten you were a Mudblood, an… an unnatural freak!'

His words hung as heavy as the dust in the air, and she slowly turned her face to him, surprised to find her vision slightly blurred. Tears. 'Is that what you really think?' she asked.

'Yes,' he said, without hesitation. 'I told you before. Mudbloods are animals. Worse than animals. Mutations. Aberrations. You're unnatural.' His voice was utterly flat, deadpan.

Watching him, hearing him, her hands curled into fists, nails stabbing her palm. She had to fight to open her eyes, open them and actually look back at him, because they'd screwed themselves tightly shut. Her breathing rasped. 'You didn't care about that before,' she whispered.

'I had to put my revulsion aside for the sake of the play,' he said, his tone artic.

'Revulsion? You never reviled me,' she said, feeling the horrible slow leaden choke of something darker than misery clutch at her heart. 'Or did you forget that when you fell asleep on my bed the other night?'

He flinched, closing his eyes briefly. 'Granger…'

'Did you forget that Mudbloods were freaks and mutation when you went insane because you'd tortured them, killed them?' she continued, with the dim feeling that even if she'd wanted to stop, she couldn't: the words came in an unstoppable torrent from some place inside her that was hurt red raw. 'Remember it, Draco. Remember the screams, and the blood, and the way the corpses looked when you'd killed them and then tell me Mudbloods aren't human!'

For one long, fury-filled moment, she could feel all the pain and hurt and absolute anger inside her, could feel it carving a glare in her eyes and an expression of rage on her face as she watched Draco, and then she realised that the pale boy's arms weren't crossed in defiance any more, but wrapped loosely around himself for comfort, and his eyes were closed and he was shaking.

She shouldn't have done that, even if she was angry, even if she was hurt; she shouldn't have pushed his madness and guilt out. Shouldn't have used it against him. No.

'Draco?' she tried tentatively, into the silence. 'Draco, I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean…'

She trailed off. Draco was taking deep gulping breaths, and though she wasn't sure whether he'd accept it well, she stood, hesitantly, and crossed the room to him, reaching out and putting a comforting hand on his back. For a moment he let it rest there; she could feel the warmth of his skin through the robes, then he jerked violently away.

'Don't touch me!' he spat, stumbling backwards away from her and tripping on a fallen CD case; he collapsed onto a pile of old books and sat there, shivering, eyes open and staring at nothing.

'Draco?' Anxiously, she crouched by his side, not wanting to touch him in case she upset him more but not knowing what else to do. 'Draco, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. Please. Don't go insane again. Focus, you're here with me, it's okay…'

He shook his head, rocking back and forth on the pile of books. 'No,' he whispered. 'Mudbloods are horrible, foul, disgusting, I'm supposed to hate them. Please don't die. Don't make me kill anyone. These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad. And there must be something wrong with me, if it makes me mad, because it's not like they're proper people, only Mudbloods, and Muggles and half-bloods, only filthy animals who look like people but they look so much like people, they talk and they laugh and they scream like people and I can't remember where the line is anymore, oh, help me…'

'Draco, don't do this again.' Hermione whispered, unable to stop herself from reaching for his hand. He didn't start away; rather he moved his head, slowly, and looked down at her with a glassy, broken smile.

'Hermione,' he said. 'Missed you. Shouldn't have missed you, shouldn't have wanted to see you, shouldn't even have gone to your room. Mudblood, filthy Mudblood, but… but you're the only one who cares, aren't you. The only one…' His eyes closed, and Hermione would have sworn that he was crying if his face hadn't stayed completely dry.

'That's why you were avoiding me?' she asked when she felt the silence had gone on too long. 'Because I'm – I'm Muggleborn?' It made a horrid kind of sense; Draco had been brought up prejudiced, taught from the cradle to hate Muggleborns, and he must have forgotten or conveniently ignored that hatred to become… well, friends, for lack of a better word. Perhaps waking up in her bed had been too sharp a reminder of who she was and just how far they'd come as far as friendship went.

Another thing he'd said struck her suddenly. 'You missed me? You wanted to see me?'

He nodded silently, and shifted his hand under hers, taking hold of it and interlacing her fingers with his. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'Yes.'

His eyes still tightly closed, he raised his hand to her mouth, brushing impossibly gentle lips across it in a gesture which made her shiver, then turned the hand against his shoulder, cradling it.

And with a sudden flash of insight, Hermione knew. He hadn't started to avoid her because of the shock of realising he was friends with a Muggleborn.

Somewhere in the hours of practice, the tension, the fights, the gentle help and comfort – who else did he have to help him? – somewhere, somehow, he'd fallen in love.


A/N: I don't have anything important to ask you this chapter, so I'm going for something a little fun. This is a game I like to call The Game Of Ships, being decidedly unimaginative when it comes to naming things… Basically, you invent a ship. Anyone, any and any work of fiction is fair game; Dumbledore/Willy Wonka, Faustus/Mephistopheles, Hermione/Artemis Fowl… We tend to do it a lot in English Lit, where one of the two groups is firmly convinced Hamlet fancies his mother and the other (mine) seems convinced to various degrees that all the boys are gay.

How did I get onto this? Ah, yes. Review, and invent a ship when you do. Amuse me, I have to spend all evening with an aged aunt, so am going to need amusement. Review!