Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Two

Disclaimer: 'How now, you secret, black and midnight hags! What is it you read?' 'A fic without a disclaimer!' Insert ominous rumble of thunder here.

(Oh, hell. For safety's sake: don't own it. JK does. Long live JK!)

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A/N: Important notice: I am going on study leave.

Yes, I have exams coming up. I have the coming week, and then one more week, and then a particularly horrible week in which I have three exams. All my examinations are three hours long. And do you have any idea how much I have to learn for Psychology? It's ten times worse than history. Seriously. Argh.

Anyway, the week after that is blessedly empty, and I shall resume writing then. The week after that I have my Biology exam, but heck, it's Biology. Which I'm probably dropping next year. So yes.

Incidentally, possibly the most amusing flame in the world is currently hovering around page 3 of my review list, or if you just look up all the chapter 1 reviews. I've never seen a flame like it. (YD, if you're reading this – are you alright?) Thanks also to those who wrote a review defending me against it! (i.e. Alyana Enders)

In addition: I have fanart! Drawn by my wonderful friend Syco, and really very fitted to this chapter. The link is on my profile!

With that, onto the fic. A longer-than-usual edition too, because, well, the muses kidnapped me. Enjoy!

Draco was avoiding her.

He hadn't replied to the letter she'd sent him at breakfast, or the one she'd sent him the next day, or the day after that. They'd had rehearsals together, of course – two of them – but he hadn't spoken a word apart from his lines to her, and his expression when he hadn't been acting was completely blank. Draco was very good at controlling his expressions – he had to be, really.

She had tried to waylay him afterwards, but he'd practically raced from the practice room both times, and she hadn't been able to catch up with him. She didn't even know what she'd say to him if she did catch up with him. They needed to arrange practices. That much she was sure of. But beyond the play, beyond the simple need to perfect their acting before their performance…

Beyond that she had no idea what to do. She'd gone over the problem so many times in her head, but still there was no way out of it, no way to balance the need to stop him breaking down, the need to break his prejudice, the need to persuade him to leave Voldemort, the need to comfort him.

And her own feelings, of course, but she told herself those weren't important. Draco was the most important; whatever her own feelings for him were, they came second. They had to.

But three days had passed with him avoiding her, not even looking at her, positioning himself so he couldn't see her whenever he could. And while she didn't know what action to take about Draco's various problems, she did know that more mundane and everyday matters – the play – were fast approaching, and they needed to practice.

That made things simpler, in a way; it gave her an easy solution, something uncomplicated and clear to do, even if it didn't answer any of the harder problems. Arranging a practice, persuading Draco that they needed to practice, was something she could do something about. Or could at least attempt to do something about, which was more than she could say for any of the other problems.

Letters hadn't worked; trying to catch up with him after one of their practices hadn't worked. Mainly because they'd started from the same point – the makeshift stage – and he'd been faster than she was. The answer was obvious: if she were sitting in the audience, where he'd have to pass her in order to get out of the room, it would be simple enough to block his escape and force him to speak to her. And then at least she could hope to arrange a practice.

Draco was in plenty of scenes that she wasn't in; all she had to do was find out when one of them was and go to watch the practice. With this in mind, she made her way down from the girls' dormitories in a cheerful mood on Saturday morning, four days after the kiss.

Some of the others were there already, chatting amiably in a loose circle. Probably waiting for their friends to get up before heading down to breakfast. Ginny and Parvati were deep in earnest conversation on a comfortable sofa, and Neville was listening to them with interest. Ron wasn't there – he must still be in bed – but Harry was, looking faintly crumpled and giving Hermione the distinct impression that he hadn't slept well. It would explain why he was up before she was.

After a moment's consideration, she resolved not to confront him about it. He didn't look too bad, chatting to Dean completely normally. She slipped into the seat beside Harry with a cheerful 'Morning,' and he gave her a smile.

'Morning,' he replied. 'Sleep well?'

She nodded, feeling a moment of tension rise up. Harry had gone slightly pink and was looking at the floor; obviously wondering what he'd say when she returned the question. He must have asked it automatically. Poor Harry. It had been like this last time he'd done Occlumency – she'd heard about it from Ron – broken sleep and nightmares from the resurfacing memories.

'I'm fine,' she said, and quickly changed the topic. 'Listen, Harry, do you have any rehearsals with Draco today? He's avoiding me again and I need to arrange to practice with him.'

'Is he being a pest?' Harry's expression was sympathetic. 'Sorry, Hermione, I don't have any rehearsals with him until Monday. Or possibly Tuesday, I can't quite remember…'

Hermione's heart sank. Monday was too far away; she had to speak to him as soon as possible. She was about to thank Harry foretelling her when Ginny cut into the conversation.

'Is that Malfoy you're asking about, Hermione?' she called, and Hermione nodded in reply. 'We're doing Act Four Scene One today – you know, the double double toil and trouble bit. Just after lunch.'

The comfortable, glowing warmth of a plan coming to fruition settled itself in Hermione's chest. 'Perfect,' she said. 'Thanks, Ginny.'

'Swelter'd venom sleeping got, boil thou first in the charmed pot!' Blaise finished her chant, her eyes wide and sinister.

'Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble!' the witches cried; and they must have been practicing, because they way they said it made Hermione shiver. It sounded as though their voices were echoing off the sides of some dark, dripping cave, stained green with moss and lichen; as though there were hundreds more witches lurking in the shadows, just out of sight – or perhaps in another world, brushing lightly against the fabric of reality. In the familiar classroom on a makeshift stage it was eerie; on a darkened stage, lit only by candlelight, it would be terrifying.

Ginny continued the chant, eyes glittering darkly as she made her way through 'eye of newt and toe of frog', and Hermione shivered again, this time with the sudden ominous feeling that she was being watched. She glanced sideways at Parvati, the only other person watching the rehearsal, but she was bent over her sketchpad, busily designing the costumes. Hermione glanced back to the stage, just in time for another 'Double, double, toil and trouble,' and immediately spotted who was watching her. Draco.

He was standing at the very back of the room, leaning against the wall in what was meant to be offstage, and watching her. He knew why she was there, of course. What other reason could she have to coming to watch a rehearsal? She'd seen his expression when she first walked into the practice room; he had looked afraid. Hunted.

Now his expression was blank; she met his eyes, but saw nothing in them. Was he even aware he was looking at her? He didn't seem to be. Hermione glanced around her, flushing slightly. She ought to try and get him to snap out of whatever private world he was in. What if he went insane in the middle of the rehearsal?

She opened her eyes wide and tried mouthing his name, 'Draco?'. He didn't move, and the witches' chant was ending. He couldn't miss his cue, after all. 'Draco' she mouthed again, and this time he blinked, realised what he'd been doing, and an array of expression battled over his face for a moment before he regained control enough to scowl darkly at her, a filthy look in his eyes. Hermione told herself that it didn't hurt, and sat back in her chair, glancing down to the floor.

'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!' Ginny shrieked, sending the momentarily quiet witches into a flurry of excitement. 'Open, locks, whoever knocks!' and that was Draco's cue.

He was composed as he strode onto the stage, his expression set into the perfect mask of darkness, amorality, lust for power, a glimmer of excitement and anticipation in his eyes. There was nothing left of the boy who had been staring blankly at her scant seconds before; Hermione marvelled at the change.

'How now, you secret, black and midnight hags!' He gave them a sweeping glance; they were still, silent, watching him. 'What is't you do?'

Their voices had the same darkly echoing quality, sinister and black as they spoke. 'A deed without a name.'

Hermione almost managed to lose herself in the acting; to forget that she was watching Draco and simply be watching Macbeth, charging the witches to answer what he would ask. But then she started noticing the way elegant, precise gestures of his hands, or the way his lips moved and smirked and curled, and that made her remember those hands and those lips, and she blinked hard and looked away. She couldn't think that. Not now.

'Hermione?'

Parvati's whisper, so close to her ear, made her jump. 'Sorry. What is it?' she asked, guiltily, glancing towards her roommate. Parvati was frowning; then she glanced up to the stage and her eyes widened.

'I was just wondering what you thought of these,' she whispered quickly, pushing a few pages of costume designs onto Hermione's lap. Hermione scooped up the parchment, thumbing through the designs as quietly as she could.

They were rather good; Parvati's sketches showed the witches dressed in detailed costumes, dark and tattered robes with random, bizarre things attached to them in places; stones, loops of wool and string, scraps of parchment, feathers, and what Hermione thought were leaves, among other things. She could picture the witches on opening night, prowling the stage in their weird costumes, and Hermione thought they'd look perfect.

'They're wonderful, Parvati,' she whispered back, shuffling the parchment to look at a blood-thirsty Ginny with the dangling threads of her costume swinging around her as she moved. 'They'll be perfect.'

'Thanks,' Parvati replied, blushing slightly as she took the papers back. 'I'm really glad they let me work on costumes.'

'Well, you're good at it,' Hermione replied with a smile. She'd had her costumes fitted just a few days ago; she needed three. Two dresses – one for when she was Queen, one for before – and a nightdress for her sleepwalking. All of them were incredibly beautiful; she felt like Lady Macbeth just wearing them.

'Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; come like shadows, so depart!' cried the witches in their eerie cacophony, and Hermione's attention was drawn back to the stage as Macbeth reacted in horror. He was really an impressive actor, and she wondered – not for the first time – whether that skill came from natural ability or from practice at hiding his feelings over Voldemort for so long. A bit of both, Hermione supposed. It struck her that she didn't even know how long Draco had been a Death Eater. How long had he been suffering like this, hiding it?

Draco was coming to the end of the scene. His tone was sharp, his eyes wide and glittering and just slightly mad, though whether that was acting or true madness Hermione didn't know. 'The castle of Macduff I will surprise;' he spat, 'seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword his wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line.'

Hermione couldn't help but shiver, closing her eyes as Draco finished his final lines and made his exit.

Megan was the first to speak, as usual. 'Excellent,' she said cheerfully, and nodded to the witches, who were loitering offstage. 'Especially you three, your speaking together was perfect. Much better than last time.'

'We practiced it for ages,' Ginny said with a grin.

'It shows,' Megan said with a rare smile. 'Does anyone have anything else to suggest?'

Ruth looked thoughtful. 'I thought the witches could have been a little more… I don't know…' She thought for a moment. 'Inhuman?'

'I thought they were scary enough already,' Stan chimed in The directors had their back to the audience, but Hermione could just see Stan's usual wide beaming smile, which was quite at odds with what he went on to say. 'You were terrifying. Any scarier and we'll be giving the poor little children nightmares.'

'It could be worth looking at,' Olivia offered from her seat beside Stan. 'It would fit well with the Elizabethan concept of the Great Chain of Being too. They believed that everything in existence had a place within a hierarchy or chain, with the King at the top, down to the lowest peasant. Witches were outside the Chain, making them…' She paused for a second, and Hermione could have sworn she shivered. 'Making them evil, inhuman… unnatural…'

She trailed off; Stan, who was sitting beside her, put a comforting hand on Olivia's arm; she breathed in – Hermione frowned, wishing she could see the directors' expressions – and seemed to pull herself together. 'I'm fine,' she said.

There was a very brief pause, before Megan took charge of the situation 'Alright,' she said, 'Would you care to try that? Just go up to the point where the witches vanish, we don't need to go further. Concentrate on being less human.'

Normally they'd have discussed it for longer, but Megan seemed to be attempting to distract attention from Olivia. Stan was giving her a friendly hug, and Ruth was leaning over; even Adrian was watching with a frown. The witches nodded quickly and got into position; Draco did the same, waiting offstage for his cue.

'Poor Olivia,' Parvati murmured as Blaise began, startling Hermione; she'd forgotten the other girl was there. Hermione frowned and leant closer, not wanting to disturb the actors, or the directors for that matter.

'What's wrong with her?' she asked.

Parvati looked bemused. 'Don't you know? Everyone was talking about it last year.'

Hermione thought, but couldn't remember anything more than a vague impression of having heard that someone had died. She never really paid much attention to gossip.

'Ah, well,' Parvati shrugged, 'it was near exam time, you were probably lost in your books.'

'Did someone die?' Hermione asked. 'I remember that, but I haven't a clue what it has to do with her getting upset now…'

Parvati leant back in her hair, sucking in her cheeks and considering. 'Her father died,' she said, 'but that was just how the word got out, really. Do you know anything about her family? Well, she's half-blood – Muggle father, Pureblood mother. Anyway, her mother never told her father she was a witch – he was a bit, you know,' Parvati raised an eyebrow. 'Easily prejudiced. Didn't like odd things or unusual people, so her mother kept quiet about it,'

Hermione had a bad feeling about this story. 'What happened?' she asked.

'Olivia's accidental magic. Made their – what's that Muggle contraption? – their television levitate. So of course her mother had to tell him, and, well… you can imagine what happened.' Parvati shook her head sadly.

'He didn't take it well?' Hermione asked, glancing back to the directors with a painfully tight feeling in her chest. She was lucky; her parents, once they'd been convinced it wasn't some elaborate joke, had seen magic as a new and absolutely fascinating thing to learn about. If they'd reacted like Olivia's father…

'They got divorced when she was seven,' Parvati sighed beside her. 'Poor girl. And it's all so silly, too. Hating people just because they're different, I mean.'

Back on the stage, the witches were just finishing their potion, their ominous chanting making Hermione shiver. Draco was watching her again; she met his silvery gaze for less than a second before he tore his eyes away.

'Yes,' she said thoughtfully, 'it is.'

It was Draco's cue then, and he strode purposefully onto the stage. Hermione intended to watch him, certain that at some point he'd glance her way or falter in a movement, or something that would betray a little of what he was thinking. But the scene was too dramatic, and by the time he came to his last lines and exit Hermione realised she'd been completely absorbed in the play. She frowned, rubbing her arms, conscious of the eerie prickling cold that had seeped over her.

'I thought that was better,' Megan said, smiling and glancing sideways. Olivia seemed fine now, but Megan continued anyway. 'I think we can leave that there for now. Don't forget to practice, and we'll see you at the next rehearsals.'

The directors started packing their things away – lazy Adrian always, ironically, the fastest to get his things together – and Hermione immediately got to her feet, eyes fixed on Draco. She couldn't let him leave the room without speaking to her, and after positioning herself in the aisle, she was between him and the door.

The others slowly trickled past her, chatting in their groups, and left the room. Hermione was surprised; she'd expected Draco to try and escape her, she had been prepared to put up a fight. But he seemed to be hanging back deliberately. He wasn't meeting her eyes either; glancing sideways at her, quickly – almost nervous – before looking back down at his bag, or the floor, or the stage.

Hermione spoke first. 'Can we talk?' she asked. It was as awkward as she'd expected; the memory of what had happened was almost a tangible presence, curling thickly in the air, and she couldn't think of a single thing to say. She opened her mouth to speak, but a wave of memory passed over her, and she shivered and closed her mouth.

This would not do. She had to help him, and she couldn't do that if she went to pieces like a silly schoolgirl whenever she spoke to him. 'We need to practice,' she said confidently. 'When are you free?'

He shrugged, running his fingers along the top of one of the tables and not looking at her. 'Most of today,' he said, voice quiet. 'Except for just after dinner, I have another rehearsal. And I'm busy later than that, too.'

He said the last part casually, but Hermione was watching his hands and saw the way he gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as his fingers curled tightly around the wood.

'Busy with what?' she asked.

His eyes very nearly met hers; she had a fleeting impression of his dark grey eyes, clouded by conflict and fear, before he twisted himself sharply away from her. His shoulders sagged wearily, and Hermione realised that they had been tensed before, though she hadn't noticed at the time.

'You know what,' he said. 'You're intelligent. You can guess.'

'A Death Eater meeting,' she said carefully, and Draco flinched sharply, fingernails digging into the wood of the desk. Hermione felt her fingers twitch in response; the sudden, natural urge to reach out to him, to comfort him…

She mustn't.

At that moment it felt like the worst thing imaginable. There was nothing she could say to help him; no words could change what he had to face; no reassurances could ease his fear and guilt and confusion – and she knew he felt those things, because she could read them in the tight line of his jaw, in the set of his shoulders. And, words having failed her, she couldn't even reach out and touch him, couldn't even offer that meagre comfort, because touching him could only make things worse.

Hermione couldn't remember being Petrified in second year – she remembered nothing between seeing the Basilisk's eyes reflected in the mirror and being revived by Madam Pomfrey – but she had tried to imagine it, and this was what it would be like. Mute, unable to speak or move or act, trapped in the prison of her mind with no way of affecting the outside world. Except that she wasn't trapped by a Basilisk's stare, but by the grim and certain knowledge that there was nothing she could do.

It was fortunate, then, that Draco broke the silence. 'Snape knows,' he remarked, and Hermione glanced up sharply. He couldn't know she'd told him, could he? He didn't look accusatory, or sound it, but she wouldn't trust that, now with Draco's mind in the state it was in.

'How did he find out?' she asked, as casually as she could muster.

He looked at her then, glancing over his shoulder and to Hermione surprise he appeared amused. Although his fingernails didn't stop digging into the table. 'I was expecting you to ask what he knew,' he remarked, and Hermione felt a guilty flush run through her.

'I, er…' she began, before pulling herself together. 'I thought I was supposed to have guessed. I was hoping to pick it up from what you said next,' she explained, trying to sound apologetic rather than lying. He seemed to accept it; at the least, he turned his face away again.

'He said he'd realised from watching me at meetings,' Draco said lightly, his fingertips skimming over the dents left in the wood of the tabletop. Hermione had to close her eyes hard and look away. 'You can guess what he realised. And you knew he was a spy for your side.' It was a statement, not a question. Hermione nodded before realising he couldn't see her.

'I knew,' she agreed. Her mouth was unusually dry, her tongue sticking to her teeth. 'What… what has he said to you about it?'

'We've met a few times,' Draco said, his voice empty. 'He tries to help.' He glanced at her again, over his shoulder, then warily turned and sat on the table's edge. His head was lowered, but he watched her for a moment, eyes darker than usual.

'Is he any help?' she asked, feeling a small bubble of hope rise in her heart. If Draco was at least getting help from someone, if her betrayal of his secret wasn't in vain…

'Sometimes,' Draco said, watching his feet. He was swinging them back and forth under the table like a five-year-old would. A tarnished, sullied five-year-old, with the blood of innocents on his hands and the weight of the Dark Mark on his arm.

'Sometimes he helps. I think he understands what it's like a little. He knows how… he knows how hard it is. Other times he just confuses things.' He sighed, curling his hands into fists and pressing them to his forehead. 'I wish things could just go back to normal. When everything was simple. We were right, and you were wrong, and things were that easy, but now…?' He raised his head, looked directly at her, his face a war between amusement and desperation. 'Look at me. I'm confiding in a Mudblood.'

Hermione winced at the slur. It felt as though he had stabbed a needle of ice into her heart, a cold, piercing pain. 'Does it really matter that I'm Muggleborn?' she asked sharply.

'Yes,' Draco replied honestly. He was meeting her gaze, though his shoulders were drooping, despairing; his eyes locked onto hers as though they were clinging to a lifeline, as though he would drown if he looked away. 'And no. I don't know if you're human. I don't… I don't…'

'Draco…' Hermione began, her fingers twitching again as she longed to touch him. 'Draco look at me. Of course I'm human. You know I am. You must know, somewhere, else you wouldn't lo-'

She cut herself off mid-word, the silence ringing around them, as though it had expected to be filled and now found itself inexplicably emptied.

'Or I could be some kind of freak,' Draco pointed out quite calmly. 'Twisted, somehow. Maybe there's something wrong with me.'

'There's nothing wrong with you,' she said desperately. 'Nothing at all.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'I'm going insane.'

'You know what I meant. Apart from that.' Hermione replied. 'I mean there's nothing wrong with… well, feeling something. For me.' Her throat was tight; she swallowed nervously. 'Draco…'

'But how do I know that?' he asked, raising his head, eyes searching hers. 'How do I know that there's nothing wrong with me? How am I meant to know that you're human, that anyone's human, how am I meant to know what human really means? Because no one seems to know! Everyone just… just says that whatever they approve of is human, and whatever they disapprove of is inhuman, and no one agrees, no one can agree and I don't know who's right…'

He broke off with a ragged gasp, his eyes wide and pleading, despair etched into every line of his face, and in that second Hermione's self-control snapped. She couldn't not touch him, not when he looked like that, not when he needed her, and before she could so much as think out how he would react, she was beside him, kneeling on the floor by his side, with one of her hands on his back and the other gently cupping his cheek.

'Draco, please…' she managed to say, before reality caught up with her and she froze. 'Draco?'

His eyes were closed, tightly shut as though trying to block out the world, and his breathing was too shallow. The contact between him – the softness of his cheek under her hand, the warmth of his back, of his skin – the places where they touched seemed to be the most important things in the world: the centre, for a short time, of a dizzy, wild universe as it span sickeningly out of control.

Without opening his eyes, Draco reached up, groping blindly at her hand on his cheek. She let him remove it without protest, but the cold air seemed to burn against her skin with the warmth of his body removed. She found herself gulping in a deep breath of air, suddenly dizzy with lack of oxygen. Draco's eyes remained closed.

'Stars, hide your fires,' he whispered, so quietly she could hardly hear him, 'let not light see my black and deep desires.'

That jolted her back into reality, and she tore her hand from his back, staggered to her feet. 'I should go,' she whispered, feeling nothing but a dark blankness in the pit of her heart; she turned to the leave.

'Wait.'

The word was spoken in the same soft whisper, so quietly she half-believed it was her imagination, wishing so hard for him to call her back that it had transformed the merest breath or draught of wind into that word. But when she glanced over her shoulder, he was standing behind her, eyes open and watching her uncertainly. There was fear in his expression, in the way he stood, in the tense twisting of the edge of one sleeve.

She waited.

He moved towards her, and before she could react he had stepped close to her – so close! – and tentatively wrapped his arms around her, his fists clutching the fabric at the back of her robes. She gasped in surprise and breathed in the smell of his skin, dizzying, unexpected. Her own arms went around him as much to keep herself from falling as for any other reason.

There could be any number of reasons, but she didn't question. She didn't want to question. Hermione closed her eyes, skin tingling where it met the warmth from his body, conscious of the curve of his arms about her, the light tickle of his breath, the hard lumps that were his fists at the base of her neck.

'I'm afraid,' he whispered, and it was all she could do not to shiver at the sound. 'Of the meeting. I don't want… I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to kill again. I don't… the screaming, Hermione…'

'Don't go,' she replied, hr voice a whisper because she could raise it no further. 'You could stay here. Dumbledore would help you…'

He drew back at that, and her skin cried out, bereft but for where his hands remained on her shoulders. 'You know I can't,' he replied. 'You know what he would do to me if I… You know what he did to Snape. He would do the same to me. I don't want to… I am afraid…' He closed his eyes, breathing. 'I've tortured too many people, Hermione; I don't want to be tortured myself. And he will torture me, he will hurt me. I can't…'

'We could protect you,' she said again. 'Dumbledore would. And isn't it better to risk being hurt yourself than to keep on hurting so many other people?'

He flinched. 'Don't ask me that,' he said roughly, taking a step back; the contact between them was broken. 'I can't… I'm not brave, Hermione. And for all I know it's right to torture them. They're Mudbloods, after all…'

'So am I,' Hermione said. He didn't react; merely closed his eyes, sharply, then glanced back up at her. She sighed. 'Think about it,' she said. 'You know where Dumbledore's office is. Or you can go to Snape. Or me, if you want to. We can help you, Draco.'

'I know, he whispered, and turned to go, leaving Hermione alone in the empty room.

Hermione awoke the next morning with a memory in her mind, unable to tell whether it was a vivid dream or reality.

The forsaken hours of the early morning. Being awoken by a warm arm around her waist, the not-quite-there pressure of a body barely inches from her, lying parallel to her, almost pressed against her back.

Draco's whisper in her ear, desperate, despairing, 'He made me kill two tonight.'

And turning over, wrapping an arm around him in return, falling back asleep again in warm blankets and pillows and sheets and skin.

By the time she had showered and dressed, the memory had completely slipped her mind.

AN: And now I am going to go study like mad.

Because I've been a little introspective lately, here's a question to all my fellow writers: why do we write? What motivates you to write, what inspires you, where do you get your ideas from? Do you find it easy or hard to get ideas? Do you find certain parts easier then others – like I find characters easier to form than plots? What does writing mean to you?

Yes, open-ended, I know. Ramble at me. Review!