Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Six

Disclaimer:
Thrice the Potter I hath borrow'd

Thrice and once the lawyers glared,
Cyropi cries, 'Not mine, not mine!'

Thanks for 923 reviews goes to: Rebecca15, JanieGranger, Highlandcoo, Nathonea, Opalfire, stellar, KawaiiRyu, thesnowcrane, Madam Midnight, samhaincat, Amber, PsYcHoJo, Alexi Lupin, RedWitch1, insanemaniac, willowfairy, Stoneage Woman, BouncingDelta88, DracoDraconis, Plaidly Lush, LittleGreenPerson, plumsy321, OXBglider, booklover (x2), draconas, Marti Is So Cool, cuznhottie, Nikki (x2), Brinneybit, Dreaming One, sashlea, SilverMoonset, Lisi, lanien, FromHereToThere, Athena Linborn, Shaney of Goldenlake, ablakevh, Tayz, Angel-Wings-Forever, missingthecat, Blonde at heart, Beloved-Stranger, brettley, je suis une pizza, nigellus, Artemis, Avelynn Tame, Genevieve Jones, TsuirakuMitsukai, Julia, Black Slytherin Girl, Zyzychyn, Xandrael, Dagon ng Likha, krisis81, heavengurl899, Kim, sugarnspice522.

A/N: I think it's possibly quicker easier to list the things that did not get in the way of writing this chapter, and these are: mortal injury/death of myself or a loved one, fire, Apocalypse. I swear I've been through everything else. Hell of a fortnight. (Did I break a mirror and just not notice?)

Anyway, wish me luck for next Tuesday. I mentioned the Harry-Potter-in-Latin play last AN, and yep, Tuesday is the day. Any tips for my acting? I'll tell you how it went next time.

Thanks for all the replies to last chapter's question. I am Working on Things. Either slipping something into a conversation or accidentally leaving a printout lying around somewhere. Hmm… Also thanks to everyone who voted for Macbeth in the Dangerous Liaisons awards: it won first place in the 'Where Did That Come From?' award!

Oh, and to answer a question: yes, 'touch wood' is from the same place as 'knock on wood'. It used to be believed that wood and wooden objects was inhabited by nature spirits, and that touching the wood would awake these spirits and invoke them to protect you from bad luck.

And finally, as of Sunday 13th, I am officially 17. Happy Birthday to me! Thankfully for the safety of the British public, I'm not intending to learn to drive yet. You can all relax now.

On to the chapter. Enjoy!

'Harry's already at breakfast,' was the first thing Ron said as Hermione approached. He didn't look up, because he was busily scribbling on a roll of parchment, glancing at his textbook every few seconds. 'Bloody homework. Wait five minutes for me, will you? I'm almost done.'

Hermione gave him a disapproving look as she sat down beside him. 'Is that due in this morning? Why didn't you do it last night?'

Ron glanced sideways at her, his quill pausing momentarily. 'I was talking to Harry,' he replied simply, after a moment's thought. 'I'm not completely irresponsible, you know,' he added, mimicking her tone almost perfectly. 'I did have good reason.'

Abashed, Hermione looked down. 'Sorry,' she said, 'I just assumed… was there something wrong? I mean, more than…'

'Not really, he just needed, you know, distracting, I think,' Ron replied, frowning at his textbook. 'How many ounces of beetle eyes…?'

'Two,' Hermione replied, and settled down on a comfortable sofa to wait for him. It was the least she could do, after all. If only she could know who needed her most and when! It would make things far easier. Harry did need her, and Draco needed her, and last night she'd been helping Draco – she'd needed to listen to what Snape was saying to him, after all, but…

But she wished she could have been back to help Harry too. Though of course it would have been impossible. She'd had that 'detention' with Snape, and then Dean and Padma had waylaid her and asked if they could practice the sleepwalking scene, and by the time they'd finished that Hermione had been exhausted. Too exhausted to do anything but crawl into bed and lie awake half the night, tossing and turning and trying to think of anything but Draco with the Mark on his wrist, with blood on his hands.

'Finished,' Ron said dramatically, throwing his quill down and then starting to pack away. 'Lets get to breakfast quickly, I'm starving.'

She couldn't help but smile at that; Typical Ron. They headed for the portrait hole together, and out into the pleasantly cool corridor, walking beside each other in a companionable early-morning silence. Hermione found her thoughts wandering back to Draco, as they did far too often these days. Hopefully he wouldn't know shat she'd been the one to tell Snape, or that she'd be listening in; he'd be furious if he found out either. Still, it was for his own good, so she could justify the… not the lie, as such, the omission of truth. And considering what he'd told Snape…

'You look worried,' Ron said, in the air of someone remarking on the weather, though he gave her a long glance sideways as he said it. Hermione knew Ron, and that suggested he wasn't just making a casual remark.

For a split second, she was convinced he knew. About Draco, about his Mark, about his insanity, about the way he felt and everything… and then she caught herself and remembered that was impossible, unless he'd been listening in on all their conversations. Harry. He would think she was worried about Harry – which she was, of course, but to a lesser extent than she was worried about Draco. Mainly because Harry seemed to be coping well, even if he was a little melancholy and pensive, while Draco was, well, losing his mind.

Back to Ron. She frowned a little, letting herself look anxious. 'It's just… with what happened with Snape, and the vision, and then… Well, Snuffles, of course.' She couldn't say Sirius' name in the middle of the school corridors, after all. 'I'm just a bit worried about Harry.'

It was true, she was worried about Harry. She wasn't lying; simply omitting some further aspects of the truth – like the entire Draco issue.

'He'll be okay,' Ron said, in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring tone. 'Don't worry too much about him, he's doing fine.'

Which was exactly what she thought, too, but hearing it from Ron – when he thought it was Harry she was really worried about – was somehow cheering. She wished for a moment she could tell Ron about Draco, but held her tongue. She'd like his thoughts on it, or even just his simple, warm reassurance, but she knew full well that Ron would be, well, less than pleased of he knew. And she couldn't justify telling him Draco's secrets, not like she'd been able to with Snape.

Instead, she opted to give him a warm smile. ' Thanks Ron,' she said. 'I… you're right. Harry will be fine.'

School seemed to be over before it had fairly begun; it was one of those days where whole hours seemed to pass in a matter of minutes, as if the day were racing impulsively towards sunset with no regard for the natural progression of time. Breakfast was barely memory, it seemed, before the day was drawing to a close.

Harry and Ron had an hour's Quidditch practice, after which Hermione had vowed to put all her homework aside – it was Friday night, so she could afford to – and spend the rest of the evening in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room with her friends.

But for now, she had the best part of an hour before the two of them returned, and a large Arithmancy homework due in on Monday, and she was heading to her usual table in the library to immerse herself in sums. Hermione liked Arithmancy; it was such a scientific subject, neat and precise with answers that were always right or wrong. It was refreshing, in a way, after the nuances and complexities of NEWT-level Transfiguration or Potions. Arithmancy was challenging, of course, but in a much…

She never finished that thought, because she rounded the corner to her usual table and saw Draco Malfoy sitting there.

There was a sheet of parchment on the table in front of him, with a neatly placed selection of textbooks spread out around it. His inkwell was to his left, quill in his hand, resting idly between thumb and forefinger. He'd written the title, and then a sentence or two, and no more.

He hadn't seen her. Draco looked, in a word, distracted. His chin rested in his free hand; he was staring in an abstract kind of way at the row of books opposite him, his hair falling loosely around his face. Hermione wondered if he'd been running his hands though it, or playing with it absent-mindedly as he thought.

Glancing around her, Hermione came to a conclusion. She shouldn't disturb him; not for something unnecessary like homework, not when she could do it at another table just as easily. Not when she knew he… he felt something for her, and that would just make his problem worse. Better to leave him be except for when she had to speak to him; a rehearsal, or a moment of insanity when he needed her.

Quietly, she took a step backwards, but the movement must have alerted him. His head snapped around so suddenly she would almost swear she never saw it move. Hermione saw a brief flicker of something she didn't have long enough to identify pass over his face, before he frowned and his expression settles to one of wary curiosity. His eyes, which had been soft, abstracted grey a moment ago, were now sharp and intelligent and piercing, rooting her to the spot.

'I was just going to do some homework,' Hermione found herself saying, taking a further step backwards. 'I'll go find another table.'

Draco tilted his head on one side, regarding her thoughtfully, as though she were a puzzle that he couldn't quite work out. She'd seen that look before, she realised; in Arithmancy, when he was trying to solve particularly difficult problems.

'There's room for you here,' he said eventually, his voice slow and unusually clear, and he started to move yet another pile of textbooks off the seat beside him. There were three other chairs ringed around the table, but he was moving the books off the one beside him. Hermione hovered, nervously, at the alcove's entrance.

'I don't want to get in your way,' she said, experimentally – she didn't want to say the real reason why she thought she should go elsewhere, after all. 'There's plenty of other tables.'

Draco shook his head. 'Nonsense,' he said, and raised his chin in that aristocratic, authoritative manner he had. Hermione wondered if he knew how that position made the light angle off his cheek and jaw, and vowed not to tell him. He'd start doing it all the time, she thought with a fond smile. 'Sit down.'

She didn't want to argue; Hermione knew it would get her nowhere. And she couldn't sit in one of the other seats, now Draco had cleared that one for her. Tentatively, as if expecting it to explode, she slid into the seat beside Draco.

He leant back over his work, an air-light layer of hair falling down to hide his eyes, and she paused for a moment, unsure, before reaching into her bag and pulling out her things. Beside her, the quill started scribbling on the parchment, and she allowed herself to relax a little. If he got settled to his work, and she to hers, they could pass the hour together with little incident. It might even be pleasant, sitting beside someone and working, on their own but still with that amenable sense of fellowship.

She finished setting out her books and parchment – Hermione was mused to note that her system differed only slightly to Draco's: Harry and Ron, by comparison, tended to have their things all over the place, more or less haphazardly. Smiling, she set her quill to parchment and for a few minutes there was only the quiet, comforting sound of two quills scratching, in tandem, over the surface of the parchment, with very brief occasional pauses wile Draco looked up a fact or Hermione read the next question.

And then Hermione realised that one of Draco's pauses had lasted at least five minutes.

She stopped in the middle of a sum, considering. He could just be innocently daydreaming. It was possible. But in his state of mind? Unlikely. Any daydreaming he did would be more like a nightmare.

Or he could just have been looking a fact up and been caught by a fascinating paragraph or two. There was always that. Taking a breath, and telling herself not to be so silly, she tilted her head ever so slightly and glanced towards him.

He was looking at her.

Not just looking, but… It was his expression. Draco was a good actor, in life as well as in Shakespeare, and when he wasn't mad he could usually hide a lot of things. He wasn't hiding anything now – did he know she was looking? – and it seemed as though every feeling, every emotion was reflected in his eyes.

Most of all, he looked scared.

Scared didn't do it justice. He looked like someone facing down a legion of Boggarts; he was more than scared. And beneath the fear and apprehension there were other things. Confusion swirled sickeningly there for a moment, nausea, uncertainty. Love, very briefly, a warm cast to his eyes that made her stomach twist.

And then he must have realised she was watching, because his eyes widened suddenly in alarm. She saw his shoulders tense, and when she glanced back to his face his eyes were guarded and calm again.

Not entirely hidden, because there was still some emotion on his face. Curiosity mainly, and she felt inordinately irate to know that he was hiding from her. She wanted to see what he felt, to know exactly what he was thinking, to help. But of course she could never know those things anyway, not exactly. And he had a right to privacy.

'Do you want me to go?' she asked, feeling somewhat nervous under his steady gaze. He shook his head slowly, reached out as if to touch her, then thought better of it.

'I want…' he began, then frowned. 'I don't know what I want.'

His hand dropped, eyes moving away from her; it didn't seem to be a conscious action. 'I want…' he began again, and stopped, before shaking his head, trying t snap himself out of whatever assailed him. Hermione longed to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but didn't dare do so; she knew what that would set off.

'It… none of it makes sense anymore,' Draco began, his voice so low and quiet that Hermione didn't know if he was speaking to her or to himself. 'I always knew. I always knew what was right and what was wrong and who was good and who was bad, and I knew what I was meant to do, and what I mustn't ever do, and I knew what I loved and what I hated. And it was all easy,' When he spoke, the words came out in one long breath, without pauses. 'And now…

'It's all broken now, all gone, it just... it just disintegrated. Like dust.' He dragged his eyes round to face her. 'It just vanished, because what's right might not be right and what's wrong might not be wrong, and what was good is evil and what was evil is good, and I don't know it any more. I don't know which way's up and which way's down. It's all lost…'

'Draco?' she whispered, and somehow her hand found its way to his. 'Draco, I, I know…'

He tilted his head on one side, and that look silenced her. She felt for a moment like a specimen, something to be examined clinically and emotionlessly and understood, and then she felt like… like a human being, to be cared for and loved, and it was the same gaze that said both things, impossibly.

And then he lifted his hands, carefully and gently, and settled them around her throat. It looked like he was strangling her, and Hermione suddenly, wildly, wondered what would happen if someone walked in and saw this. They'd think murder was being committed.

Except he didn't squeeze, just let his hands lie around her neck. His skin felt warm against hers, and the palms of his hands were soft; she could herself tiling her head back to give him better access, and then wondered what she was doing. He could still kill her at any moment, kill her, squeeze the breath and the life out of her…

One hand moved softly against her skin, and – how had that happened? – his face was close enough to hers that she could feel his breath against her mouth as he spoke. 'Fair is foul and foul is fair,' he whispered. And for a moment she couldn't even think what he meant, because her mind was far more interested in how soft his skin looked, the way his lips were moving, so gently, the tickle of warm breath on her mouth…

And then somehow, inexplicably, she closed the meagre centimetre between them and kissed him.

She couldn't breathe, for reasons that had nothing to do with the hands at her neck and everything to do with the lips on hers, moving against hers. Hermione had kissed Krum before, but never, and nothing like… His hands were moving. Slipping down slightly, one finger tracing the lines of her collarbone, dipping to the base of her throat, and when had the library become quite so silent, or their breathing quite so loud?

It was tentative, because she wasn't thinking straight and she doubted he was either, but the first gentle brushes of lips on lips felt like nothing she could describe. It felt like madness, it felt like sanity, it felt like finding something safe in the middle of a storm, it felt like coming back to a forgotten but instinctively recognised home, Her hands rose of their own accord, slipping upwards to tangle in his hair – as soft as it looked – and…

And suddenly it was gone; Draco's hands ripped themselves from her skin, his lips were torn away, and Hermione's eyes flew open to see him staring at her in absolute shock, absolute horror. He looked as though he'd just murdered someone.

What had she been thinking? Why had she… no, she didn't want an answer to that question. She didn't let herself ask it. She had to focus on Draco.

He was as far away from her as he could get without falling off his chair. White fingers curled stiffly around the seat, clinging on. Hermione forced herself to look at them before slowly moving her eyes upwards, afraid of what she'd see in his face…

How had she not realised? How had she not known that she… no, she mustn't think that now, later, perhaps, but not now.

Hermione's eyes reached his face, nervously, allowing herself to take in his expression in increments, in small doses, so that it wasn't as hard to accept. First the mouth, still slightly open in horror, lips redder than usual – oh, she should have known, she should never have let herself – and his skin. She remembered the chapter in her Dark Arts textbook on vampires, the large coloured illustration of a vampire's victim, dead of course, all the blood sucked from his veins, all the colour leeched out of him, pure and impossible white.

Draco's skin looked like that.

And then she reached his eyes. She'd been imagining every emotion in the world in those eyes, and each one felt worse than the last – insanity, hatred, fear, disgust – but what was actually there was worse. His eyes themselves were empty, as blank as shards of slate. Not blank as though he were trying to hide what he felt, but blank in a different way; there was nothing there to hide because he couldn't think, couldn't begin to grasp…

The back of her neck felt cold where his hands had been. Blinking hard, she looked down, not knowing what to say, what to do to make it better. She couldn't do anything. It was her fault, too; she should have realised that she… she should have controlled herself better, she should have stopped herself, she should have thought…

'Draco?' Her voice came out as little more than a whisper. Draco made an odd choking noise, and then there was no sound but their breathing; his was too fast.

Hermione longed to reach out to him and help, just a simple hug would suffice, some physical warmth, some human contact. But how could she? It would only make things worse. It would only hurt him more. And how could she trust that impulse, anyway? In the light of… of what she'd just done, how did she know she didn't want to touch him for purely selfish reasons?

No. She wanted to help him, of that she was sure. But still…

There was a sudden hitch of breath, and Hermione glanced up to see Draco staring at her, all the emotions she'd feared before, and more, now in his eyes. Disgust fought desperation, fear fought need, hatred fought love, and what could she do to help? Turning away from him could hurt as much as toughing him, she knew, and what could she do? She had to help, but there was nothing, nothing…

'Hermione.' She shivered; just that one word sounded as though it had taken all his strength, all his will to produce, as though he was fighting too hard to have spare energy for things like speech. 'Just… just go. Please.'

She didn't need to be told twice; she didn't even pack her homework away. Grabbing her schoolbag hastily, she stumbled to her feet – knocking over a chair but not wasting time picking it up – and half-ran for Gryffindor Tower, fleeing something she didn't want to understand.

AN: Hehehe…

For this week's review topic: make me laugh. As mentioned above, I've had a hell of a time lately, so cheer me up! Tell me a joke, direct me to a good piece of comic fic, relate something hilarious that happened to you.

Review!