Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Four

Disclaimer: I don't own them! Which is really probably a good thing, as it means JK Rowling can deal with Insane!Draco when all this is over. He's starting to worry me.

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A/N: Biology exam went fine, and thanks to all my well-wishers! Updates should speed up now, watch this space…

And considering I am both exhausted and rushed for time, I shall leave the AN there. it must be a record. Without further ado, onto the chapter! Enjoy!

It tasted like blood.

It always did. Always. Because however many times something bloodstained was washed, it was never clean, never. Draco pulled the hood over his face, over the mask, with fingers already shaking, swallowing down bile. All great Neptune's ocean couldn't wash the stench of blood clean from the fabric. He stepped out from the cluster of trees, secluded enough not to be seen, and forced himself to head for the gates, for the edge of the Apparition wards.

It wasn't usual to have a meeting in the middle of the day. Something was wrong. The Death Eaters met at night time, like the witches, in darkness, and that fitted, too, because they were the force of evil tempting him into doing evil, like the witches, like Macbeth. Only it wasn't evil, killing Muggles and Mudbloods, because they were only animals and evil with it, destroying wizarding life. Pests. Vermin. Destructive and dangerous and therefore it was right to destroy them.

Hermione?

No, no, no, he closed his eyes, his breath already coming in sharp gasps, as though he couldn't get enough oxygen behind the cloying, crowding mask, the shrouding cloak, heavy and thick and evil around his shoulders. There was a hole in the mask, like a gashed wound, for him to speak through, and it wasn't until his lip started catching on the edge of it that he realised he was whispering, muttering below his breath, no, no, please don't, no…

Draco clamped his lips together tightly, closed his eyes, tried to take a deep breath but ended up choking. He couldn't let himself slip. He had to be very careful. He couldn't let anyone see.

He was late already; fear of punishment – writhing on the dirt under Crucio, screaming, and please don't do this, please don't hurt me, anything but that, pain that no words had ever been invented to describe, pain he would kill, had killed, to avoid – fear of punishment drove him onwards, so that in all too brief seconds he was outside the gates, outside the wards, his breaths coming tight and ragged, hating himself.

It took only a moment of concentration, and then the familiar blur of Apparition took him away.

It was silent. That was the first thing he noticed, before he opened his eyes. Totally silent, and the silence was worse than the noise, because if there was noise at least he knew what was going to happen, at least he knew that the Dark Lord was angry, or pleased, or planning something; at least he knew that screams meant torture. Silence could mean anything.

He opened his eyes.

They – the Death Eaters – were standing in a circle, hooded and masked, a gap in the circle where Draco should be standing, unmoving and silent as stones. They didn't seem human in anonymous masks and cloaks and hoods, with the eerie floating balls of light weaving their way among them, casting sharp and unnatural shadows; but then what was human, anyway?

There were no Muggles in the circle, and he was pathetically, ridiculously thankful for that, because surely that meant he wouldn't have to torture anyone, but then, if there was no torture, no amusement for the assembled Death Eaters, that meant it was a more serious meeting. Something was going to happen, something was going to happen, and Draco clutched at his wand till his fingers hurt and then started walking, stumbling forwards, trying to look calm and smooth and poised but inwardly screaming as though being flung into Hell, walking forwards to take his place in the circle.

In the centre of the circle was a cauldron, and a table before it with ingredients laid out, and Voldemort, facing him, watching him through glimmering, snake-like red eyes as Draco's feet came to a final thudding halt.

Voldemort smiled, the slow and lazy smile of a monster, coiled or curled in a hidden place, a vantage point, spying his victim with anticipation, snake eyes gleaming like poison in the bloody red light of the fire which burned beneath the cauldron. Draco found his lips moving again, a silent plea, silent because there was no one to hear it, to take notice. Voldemort would torture him. Hermione would help, but she wasn't there.

'Draco,' stated Voldemort, his voice smooth and cold, stepping closer, facing him, and the world was freezing, frosting over, white-cold, or it felt that way, felt, as though all the warmth were gone to fear and cold terror. 'Why are you so late, Draco?'

The voice wasn't angry. It was worse than angry; it was a light tone, a mocking tone, and the feeling of expectation in the circle was high. Something, something was happening, something bad, and it was all so cold, and Hermione wasn't there to help him, Hermione who he shouldn't need but did, and did Voldemort know this, did he know, could he know?

He had to answer the question, and the words were a long time in coming, forcing their way thickly up a tight throat, into a dry mouth and through lips that wouldn't work properly. 'There was a rehearsal, my Lord,' he heard himself saying, even and smooth, as if from a distance. 'I couldn't leave without being suspicious; I had to wait for the end.'

'Of course,' Voldemort replied, with another one of his predatory smiles, before turning his eyes to the other Death Eaters. 'I don't believe we've congratulated Draco on being cast in the lead role, have we?' he asked. The circle was silent; Draco had the wild thought, making so much sense, that they'd been frozen into stone, that he and the Dark Lord were the only two alive, maybe Voldemort had killed them, maybe this was a new punishment, being turned to stone, maybe it was already creeping its way up his legs, enchantment seeping into his skin…

No, no, that was his imagination, he was being silly to even think of the idea, no. He forced himself to shut his eyes, close out the slit of a world he could see through the mask and take a breath. He mustn't let his imagination run away with him, he knew where that led, he'd been there too many times, too many, he had to make himself stay very clear, he had to keep his mind here, and now, and not think about screaming or blood or death or the expressions on faces when…

'A shame, really, that it isn't a play more deserving of your acting abilities, Draco,' Voldemort added, and while part of his mind screamed he knows, he knows, he knows what I'm thinking, he knows this is an act, he knows, he very firmly clamped down on the thought, banished it, refused to consider it, because he couldn't be driven mad, not here, not now, no. He wouldn't let himself. No. 'A play by a Muggle can hardly be worthy of your attentions. Still, what more can be expected, at a school under the rule of…' A dark expression passed over the Dark Lord's face, a sour expression, and his slitted eyes narrowed.

Draco shivered, clutching at his wand, which once had felt like part of him, alive, but now was choked with so many tortures and deaths that it had suffocated on blood, dead and rotting in his palm, but he clutched at it nevertheless. What he wanted was Hermione, but she was a Mudblood, inhuman, repulsive. And then she was kind, she helped him, but she didn't understand how impossible it was for him to change sides, to leave the Dark Lord, how he'd be punished, how he'd be tortured; but somehow her skin felt like oxygen, felt like safety, and he needed that, and he wanted that.

'Are you nervous, Draco?' Voldemort was speaking again, the lightly mocking tone returned, terrifying for what it implied, what it promised, something he didn't know about, and the unknown was a shapeless shadow, thrown by the twin lights of the ruddy fire and floating globes of light, snaking and coiling around him, terrifying, nightmare. 'Half of Wizarding England is attending, if rumour cam believed. The parents of children at the school, their friends, relatives…' Stage fright seemed ridiculous, impossibly childish, something mythical to frighten children and amuse adults, compared to this, compared to standing here, silently, and waiting in the dark and the cold.

'Think of it,' Voldemort said, his tone far less light and less mocking now. 'So many wizards, gathered in one place. Some of them loyal to our cause, but so many blood-traitors, half-bloods, Mudbloods.' His face twisted into disgust, briefly, before clearing. 'If only the wards didn't prevent us from entering, what an opportunity this would be. To strike at our enemies while they are gathered in one place, unsuspecting, with children to protect, utterly unprepared…'

This wasn't happening. No, it wasn't happening, the Dark Lord wasn't implying what Draco thought, no, he couldn't be, it couldn't be happing, no. Beneath the darkness of his hood, under the cloying, choking heat of his mask, Draco could see it, see what would happen, if Voldemort managed to find a way past the wards, now, tonight; could see the Great Hall, the audience silent in their rows of chairs, in the darkness, could see black-robed figures descending suddenly, too suddenly, so that enjoyment turned to shock and then to nothing as green-lit death came for the first few, the lucky ones, could hear the screams and smell the blood, the terror, the fear, could see the stage in flames, the Hall, the school, burning, the smell of charring flesh and blacking bone.

So many of them. So, so many, all dying, all tortured, all dead, and they might be vermin but they still screamed and bled and wept and cried for their children, for parents, for lovers, and no, no, no…

'Do you not agree, Draco?' came Voldemort's voice, and he snapped back to reality with a sudden sharp shock of breath, Voldemort standing behind him, now, voice soft and menacing, and his long, cold fingers curled talon-like around his shoulder.

Words. He had to speak, had to, and it was even harder because all he wanted was to scream. 'Of… of course, my lord,' he stammered, hardly knowing what he was saying, hardly able to hear his own voice.

Voldemort seemed amused, releasing his shoulder and coming to face him. 'Tell me, Draco,' he asked, his voice once more mocking, and even more horrible now, for Draco knew what that tone meant, what was going to happen, no, no, please… 'what do you know about the Hogwarts wards?'

He'd read something, somewhere, once, a book, but he didn't remember, couldn't remember, because he couldn't even focus on the present let alone remember that, not when it took so much of his concentration to keep from screaming, from crumpling to the floor, blind and deaf to anything but horror, fear. He had to die, because the play demanded it and he was trapped in the play, because he couldn't feel fear like this, not like this, not this much, couldn't feel this much fear and live.

Draco didn't trust himself enough to speak, because who knew what words his tongue and lips and teeth would form? So he shook his head instead, dumbly, mute. There was a pause; the fire beneath the cauldron crackled and burnt.

'You should pay more attention to these things, Draco,' Voldemort replied, and for the first time the standing stone circle of Death Eaters made a noise, a low murmur of laughter, a dark and sinister sound. That came from everywhere and nowhere, and cut back to the endless, aching silence almost immediately.

'I shall tell you, then. While the wards are neutral with respect to most wizards, they can be set to preserve or prevent the entry of certain groups. Merely residing at Hogwarts allows magic from the school to seep into your blood, marking you as a member of the school. Did you never wonder why you could enter the building even with my Mark on your arm, even as a Death Eater, when the wards should by rights have kept you out? Because the school's magic which resides within you takes precedence over this, allowing you in. But this lingering magic fades once you leave; were you to spend a few months away from the school it would be gone, and you would be subject to the same restrictions as the rest of us.'

He paused here, and even though Draco could tell what was coming, knew what was coming, he found himself shaking. The Dark Lord would find, or already knew, a way around the wards, a way to enter, a way in, and they would attack, tonight, during the play when no one was expecting danger, and the blood and the screaming…

He forced himself to block the thought from his mind, forced himself not to think about it, to think of something else, anything else, and the first thing that came to mind were his lines. Is this a dagger I see before me, the handle towards my hand? And that was ironic, because he was trapped in the story, and he wanted Hermione, because even though the world around her was unsafe and dangerous and made of cracks and chasms and breaks where everything he'd once thought was at war with her presence and her smile; even with that she was safer than this place.

'We have created a potion, Draco,' Voldemort was saying, very quiet, very light, and the simplicity of those words and the menace, the murder, the violence they implied almost made him gasp. 'A potion which, if made correctly, will allow that magic inherent in your blood to be extended to all of us. Aren't you pleased, Draco?'

Something must have happened to him then, because forever after that moment he couldn't properly remember what happened, couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried. Everything came back in patches, moments burnt too brightly into his brain that could never fade, with aching gaps of darkness between them.

He remembered the Dark Lord explaining that the potion created a link between Draco's blood and that of all who drink the potion. And adding, in a tone of mock reassurance, that the potion was designed so that only the properties of the maker's blood at the time the potion is made are included in the link, that no new additions to Draco's blood would be passed to the Death Eaters. In the unlikely event that plan was discovered, therefore, whatever the Order might do to him with potions or desperate poisons would have no effect on the blood-linked Death Eaters.

He remembered knowing, by the emphasis, the pauses, the tone of voice, that Voldemort didn't mean that at all, that he'd had the potion designed like this so that Draco couldn't stop it, from sheer terror or unexpected courage, by taking something himself. He remembered shuddering, because then he knew, he knew it was too late.

He remembered reciting the instructions, written in a hand he didn't recognise, reciting ingredients and method over and over again because he couldn't escape, he couldn't get out of this, there was nothing he can do but follow Voldemort's orders, and he couldn't collapse or break down or scream as he wanted to, and perhaps, he thought, if he focussed very clearly and very firmly on the potion he could pretend he was at school, in Potions class or somewhere equally as mundane, he could pretend that he was anywhere but there.

He remembered dragging a dagger across his palm, watching the blood drop into the boiling, bubbling cauldron, and thinking this is it.

He remembered Voldemort saying, once more in a mockingly reassuring tone, that there would be watchers in the audience, people under Imperius, with no hint of suspicion upon them, who have the means to contact the Death Eaters immediately should anything go wrong. The merest disturbance of the play, and the attack would begin immediately.

Most clearly of all, he remembered Voldemort saying, 'Was it hard, Draco, with a Mudblood as Lady Macbeth? Having to pretend an animal was your wife, even if only in acting?' The look in Voldemort's eyes was dark, malicious, sadistic, and Draco couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stand with his mind seizing up and floating, white and blurred but growing no less painful, as Voldemort said, 'Perhaps I'll let you kill her. Would you like that, Draco?'

'This play's cursed, you know.'

Hermione was sitting backstage, in one of the dressing rooms - black fabric stretched on cheap wooden frames, squeezed in a wobbly row in between two storage areas for props. The first few audience members were already trickling into the Great Hall, and she could hear the distant murmur of voices, though it was masked by the closer conversations of her cast members in the cubicle next door.

'Don't be so ridiculous, Luna.' That was Blaise, her voice more amused than annoyed. 'How can a play be cursed? One of the actors, or the writer, yeah, but – Ginny, have you seen my hairbrush?'

'It's over there, under the stool,' Ginny replied. 'Are you any good at knots, I can't tie this blessed thing up…'

'I'll do it,' came Luna's voice. It was almost eerie, Hermione felt, to be able to hear them but not see them, as though she were removed from their world, separated and in a place of her own. It was such a normal conversation, which she was thankful for: it was distracting.

'I did mean it, though,' Luna continued. 'The Muggles are very superstitious about it, it's bad luck to even say the name.'

'Really? Well Muggles have always been a bit daft,' came Blaise's voice. 'What do they call it, then? The Play Which Must Not Be Named?'

'Don't make jokes-' Ginny began, but Luna interrupted.

'They call it the Scottish Play,' she said. 'And if anyone says its true name in a theatre, it brings terrible bad luck.'

Blaise snorted. 'Now that I don't believe,' she remarked. 'Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth.'

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, looking at her face in the mirror. Being Muggleborn, she couldn't help but feel the faintest twinge of anticipation, as though something were to happen, even though she knew superstitions were utter rubbish.

'See? Nothing happened. Here, pass me that hairpin, my hair's falling – thanks, Ginny.'

Hermione sighed, checking to make sure her own carefully braided hair wasn't slipping. It wasn't, thankfully, and she was already in costume, and her dress and crown for being Queen were already in place along with the nightgown for the sleepwalking and the murder. She really ought to be doing something more useful, like talking to people, or making sure she knew her lines, or waiting and watching for Draco to return.

But she didn't want to speak to him, couldn't let herself speak to him. She had tonight and tomorrow morning, and she knew there was no way she could stop him leaving, no way she cold keep him safe. Seeing him… seeing him would only make it worse. She would act her part alongside him, and then avoid him through whatever inevitable aftershow party sprang up, and then go to bed and try to forget about him. And tomorrow he would go home, and his madness would be discovered, and she didn't know what would happen to him but she knew that he would probably be lost to her forever.

'And did you know,' Luna continued from the next room, sounding as though she were imparting sacred knowledge, 'there hasn't been a single production of the play that hasn't led to someone having a major accident. Or a death.'

'Really?' Blaise asked. 'Here, I'll do the clasp for you, Ginny, hold still a second…'

'In the very first production, the person playing Lady Macbeth died,' Luna told her. She sounded more excited than afraid. 'And in the first production outside England, the actor playing Duncan was killed onstage by Macbeth in a love triangle over the woman playing Lady Macbeth, and no one even realised until…'

'Well, that won't be happening in this production,' Ginny remarked, and Hermione's hand curled tightly around the hem of her sleeve as they laughed. She couldn't have said why.

And then she heard his voice, and her heart leapt despite herself; he was back, he was safe, he wasn't dead. 'Hermione? Hermione, where are you?'

He sounded afraid, almost frantic, but she bit her lip and glanced, sideways, to meet her gaze in the mirror. She wanted, more than anything, to speak to him, but she knew she couldn't. It would only make it worse for herself when she lost him if she let herself keep hoping, keep following him, keep trying to help. She'd already given him as much help as possible, tried to get him to turn away from Voldemort, and he had made it clear that he couldn't, or wouldn't.

'Hermione, please, I need your help!'

There was a whispered remark and a giggle from the witches; she bit her lip. Perhaps she should help, should go and see what he wanted; he sounded desperate. And it was only once more. She could help him once more without it hurting her so much more when she lost him, couldn't she?

But Hermione hadn't even had time to stand when another voice cut in.

'What do you want with Hermione?'

It was Harry's, defensive and curious. Hermione could picture the way he was standing, arms crossed defiantly, gaze fierce and intent. She twisted in her seat, frowning at the drawn curtain that served as a door as though she could see through it, wondering what Harry was doing.

'Potter.' Draco's tone was somehow resigned, as though he'd been through everything that could be thrown at him and Harry's presence was only something to be expected. 'Do you know where she is? I need to speak to her. Urgently. Please.'

He was pleading, Hermione realised. And his voice was shaking.

'What about?' Harry asked, suspicious. Hermione could hear Draco hesitating. The witches were also silent; she could imagine them listening, paused in their activities to eavesdrop.

'About…' Draco's voice faltered. 'I… Potter, I can't tell you! Just tell me where she is!'

'It's you she's been worrying about, isn't it?' Harry asked quietly, and Hermione saw her skin flush in the mirror. How much did they know? 'We worked it out. She said it wasn't someone either of us knew, or a Gryffindor, and she's been spending an awful lot of time rehearsing with you. What's going on?'

He had to be guessing, trying to find an answer, but there was silence and she knew Draco had frozen. 'We're the main characters, Potter,' he said at last, the sarcastic tone in his voice perfect. 'That tends to necessitate a lot of rehearsal time.'

'Not as much as you've been doing,' Harry replied. 'Besides, I've watched you two in rehearsal, you certainly haven't needed much practice. What's been going on?'

'Nothing,' was Draco's answer, immediate, snapped. 'Nothing's going on!'

'I was only asking, Malfoy.' Harry replied. 'And I bet I can guess. You're going to become a Death Eater, aren't you? And Hermione found out, and she's trying to persuade you not to. Am I right?'

Hermione had to wince at the irony; she heard Draco give a bitter laugh. It was the obvious, logical conclusion, but so completely wrong. Too late, too late.

'Completely wrong, Potter. Now tell me where she is. I need to speak to her.'

'Tell me what about.' Harry was steadfast. 'There's nothing you can say to her you can't say to me. Unless you really do have a secret. Something that Hermione knows about, something that's worrying her.'

There was silence, an achingly empty silence, and Hermione was just about to think that he'd cracked, that Harry had somehow sent him over the edge, when Draco spoke. 'I have nothing to say to you,' he said, voice very quiet and very low and full of menace. 'Now tell me where she is!'

'She's close enough to hear,' Harry said, almost flippantly, 'I'm sure if she wanted to speak to you she'd come out.'

'Where?' Draco spat, and she heard him wrench open the curtain of the empty cubicle next to her. 'Hermione, please listen to me, I have to tell you something, it's important, I need your help…' He tugged on the curtain to her cubicle, and she tensed, but the dressing areas were all charmed so that occupied rooms could not be entered. 'Hermione!'

She heard him tugging on the witches' curtain, and then wrenching the next one along open. Should she go out? Should he go and speak to him? He did sound desperate, but she was still unwilling to go. He'd hurt her, with his refusal to turn from Voldemort; he would only hurt her more. There was nothing she could do for him that she hadn't already done. And very deep down, a part of her wanted revenge, wanted him to feel what it was like to have your pleas ignored, refused. A small part, and a dark one, that she wouldn't have listened to alone, but with her other reasons…

'Hermione, please, please, I need your help, please…'

'Draco? There you are!' Another voice broke into the conversation – Megan's – and the choice was taken away from her. 'Where've you been? Come on, we need to get you ready, there's only fifteen minutes before the play starts, I've been absolutely frantic looking for you…'

'Megan? Where's Hermione?' she heard Draco ask, desperately, almost frantic.

'Oh, don't worry about here, she was ready ages ago. Come on, come on, you've been driving me mad with worry looking for you…'

She must have dragged Draco away, because her voice was getting fainter; Hermione released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. He was gone, and she had the whole play to decide whether to talk to him or not when next she saw him.

'You alright, Hermione?' came Harry's voice from outside the curtain. Hermione forced herself to reply.

'I'm fine. Thanks for that. I really… well, I was trying to avoid him,' she replied.

'Any chance you'll tell me the reason why?' Harry asked hopefully.

Hermione shook her head before remembering he couldn't hear her. 'Not now,' she replied. 'Maybe some other time.'

'Alright. Break a leg!' he called out, cheerfully, and then there was the sound of his receding footsteps.'

There was silence for a moment, giving Hermione a bare second to begin to worry over what she should have done before hearing Blaise's whisper from the witches' room. 'Break a leg?'

'Muggle phrase,' Luna whispered. 'Means good luck in the theatre. It's meant to be unlucky to say good luck.'

'Nuts,' Ginny said, and then there was a pause, and then a giggle. 'Perhaps we will have people killing each other over Lady Macbeth, only it'll be Harry killing Malfoy instead of Duncan.'

'Don't even joke about it,' Hermione mouthed under her breath, remembering the practice where that had come all too close to happening, and sank her head in her hands.

The remaining fifteen minutes flew by, and in no time at all the theatre was darkening, and the audience fell quiet as the curtain rose on the witches, high on the balcony that ran around the stage, the glowing balls of light weaving their way around the stage below them. It was an inspiring first scene, almost in total darkness; Hermione remembered seeing it in dress rehearsal. Then the lights came up proper, on the stage with streaming water down the sides and candlelight glowing warmly, for Duncan to receive news of the battle. Even listening from her hiding-space in the changing area, Hermione knew the audience would be hooked.

Then Macbeth and Banquo met the witches, the candlelight an eerie green and the glowing balls of light floating, casting unnatural lights and shadows on the water, then natural candlelight again for Duncan and the court, and that meant her opening scene was next.

She did feel nervous then, smoothing and re-smoothing her dress, waiting in the wings, mouthing the words to herself. Her first speech was awfully long, but one of her favourites, so satisfying to act. And she knew she could act it; it had been the audition piece. So long ago, it seemed now, but really no more than a few months.

'Stars, hide your fires,' Draco was saying, looking upwards as though truly speaking to the stars which hung above him in the Great Hall's ceiling, 'let not light see my black and deep desires.'

Shivering – remembering when he'd said that, before, speaking of black and deep desires other than those Shakespeare had intended – she reached for her prop, left ready there by a helpful backstage crew. A blank sheet of parchment, Macbeth's letter to her. Reciting her lines in her head, hear pounding nervously in her chest, she opened the paper.

It wasn't blank.

A few lines had been frantically scribbled on it in Draco's handwriting, though faster and more desperate than she'd ever seen it. It was only three sentences long, but the sheer impact of the words froze her.

The Dark Lord is going to attack during the play. Don't let the audience see that there's anything wrong: he has spies.

I need your help.

AN: Yes, I know, I'm evil. I have already been informed of this repeatedly by my irate beta.

But you love me for it. (Hopefully.)

This week's question: if you could change something, anything, about this story, what would you change? And don't say there's nothing to change, because I'm already building a sizeable list, so I'll know you're lying! More of a certain character, les of them, more of a particular theme, less of a theme, changing characterisation, a change to plot, changing the order of things… anything you can think of that you'd like to change.

Review!