Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Five

Disclaimer: You know the person who died in HBP? If I owned Harry Potter, that person would still be very much alive. Thus you can tell I don't own HP. (I'm not sure you can say the same for Macbeth, though, but then if it isn't obvious I'm now William Shakespeare I'd be very worried.)

Thanks for 1407 reviews goes to: pat-nosferatu, Alexi Lupin,Sanic, Catelina, Marti Is So Cool, Hieiko, Diana Artemis Silvermoon, Daisy Miller, heavengurl899, Noubliz, sandiwandi, Alyana Enders, Janie Granger, AniDragon, aka Riona-chan, nuit (x2), Stoneage Woman, Jedi Knight Bus, Maibe Josie, Opalfire, Bella, Kou Shun'u, leafsfan4eva, Monday Mornings, sunflower18, Flavagurl, Debutante, Silvestria, Mashiara Sedai, charretier, Unspeakable May, AnneChristy, Langasiell, ali-lou katemary77, Jess, Fire-Pack, SugarQuillCandy, cuznhottie, Mjade-1, Amortentia, SilverMoonset, PlaidlyLush, sashlea (x2), Chaotic Happenings, sblomie, NotreDamegirlie, samhaincat, katy, the girl trapped in a dream, ms.understood, foxeran, La Suede, willowfairy, Madam Midnight (x2) Kiyoko, Tasha, Gina, Jeccia, Tayz (x2), Faery, .Aurorablu., KawaiiRyu, Dreaming One (x3) Linwe Falassion, ToOtHpIcK, Saotoshi (x19), SimplyChristine (x2), Cartoongurl, Sam (x2) FireBringer, Flexi Leci, heyjude23, r.3.d.3.d.m.p.t.i.0.n, astraeos, Beloved-Stranger, seghen (x3), elloodd (x3), D'quer Jyi-Weil, Angel-Wings-Forever, BouncingDelta88, Ptrst, yingnyang, tinkabell, sugar n spice 522, Mirwen Sunrider, Riko, Hogwartsstollaway, Lil-babes, Freesia, Trieste, Munching Munchkin Management, Laura, silverwisp, darkcherry, Silverwinged Blackbird, Mari, sarah, Dai (x2), Iridian, Juleczka, natyslacks, Gimmering Stars, SugarQuill Cutie, Freya, danapotter, Lady Mariel, True Slytherin Witch (x22), angeli1angeli, deathlykisses (x5), TiKiElf.

A/N: Um. Yes.

To address the shamefully, sickeningly long wait between updates; it was, simply put, my first proper, long-term case of writer's block. Wasn't nice, and wasn't well-timed either, for which I apologise. But I'm not letting this fic die without a fight, and so here it is, what happened after That Cliffhanger.

I'd also really like to think all my reviewers for not getting mad at me while I went on that rather unscheduled hiatus. I was worried that people would be angry with me, but everyone (for the most part) was really kind and cheerful and understanding. Really meant a lot to me. Thanks, all of you. You all get chocolate.

I've had the results of my AS exams, and I got what I'd hoped for in all of them except for one; my Eng Lang exam. But one of the papers for that looks like it's had seriously odd marking (the score on it is almost exactly half of the scores on the other two units, percentage wise) so that one's going for a remark. At least it's in my best subject and a paper that won't be too much hassle to resit if I have to.

In other news, this fic is obviously now AU for HBP.

Without further delay, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

Mostly, it felt surreal.

She knew she was on the stage, the letter clutched tightly in her hand, reading out Macbeth's letter to his wife even as her eyes couldn't stop scanning the letter that was really there: Draco's letter to 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.

She could see the audience from the corner of her eye, no longer individual people but merged by the darkness into one being, one consciousness, watching her. It wasn't as scary as it ought to have been. It was hard to imagine that out there were spies, watching in case the school was alerted, making sure Draco told no one. It was even harder to imagine that Voldemort was going to attack. That the entire watching, listening audience could be massacred in an hour or two's time; that every word she spoke could be the last they ever heard.

And still she was saying the right lines, acting the part, speaking exactly as she'd planned to with all the intent and feeling she'd managed in rehearsals. How was that? She should be terrified; she shouldn't be able to act properly.

But it hadn't sunk in yet. It wasn't quite real; as if even the terror of Voldemort was just a dream compared to the hyper-reality of the stage she walked on, the hardness of the floor under her feet, the disorienting slope downwards, or the flickering brightness given off by the magical candles.

It was as if a tiny, detached part of her mind was watching herself as she spoke to the messenger, called on the spirits to harden her heart and help her murder the king, and then, in either an eternity or a heartbeat, Draco was onstage. She ran to him, calling out 'My husband!' – and then this was real. He was real.

He looked the part, returning victorious to his wife, and no one would ever have spotted the signs if they hadn't been looking for them, if they hadn't known where to look. He was pale. Even under the candlelight his skin was colourless. And there was something in his expression, nothing she could define; a tight, drawn, tense look, as though he were holding himself in.

She took his hand as she spoke, feeling the coldness of it, the pulse beating fast under her fingertips, and felt the first stirrings of fear coming through.

'False face must hide what the false heart doth know,' she said, touching her hand to his face, and they stepped backwards together into the darkness of backstage.

The shadows closed around them, shrouding his face; for a moment, still dazzled by the stage light, she couldn't see. Than Draco was gripping her hand painfully; she blinked and his face started to become clear.

'Hermione?' he asked in a whisper. Somehow even the tone of his voice was frightening; the slight tremble, the catch in his voice as he said her name. She didn't even know what he was asking.

'Yes,' she replied anyway, pulling her wand from her pocket. It was too close to the stage to talk unless they used magic. 'Parmasoniti,' she muttered quickly. 'Draco? Are you alright?'

He clutched at her hand, shaking his head. 'Hermione, you have to listen to me, he's coming, it's tonight, he's going to attack, everyone's going to die, please, Hermione, you have to-'

'Hush,' she told him, squeezing his hand, trying to calm him even as she felt the cold trails of fear tracing their path across her flesh. 'Draco, it's alright. We're going to stop him. Together. I promise.'

It was a ludicrous promise to make, really. She didn't have a plan. She didn't even have the slightest idea of what could be done. But whatever happened she'd try. She'd known that since she'd read the letter; how could she not try to stop Voldemort? How could she refuse to help Draco, for that matter?

They'd come up with something. They always did.

But Draco was shaking his head. 'No, no, no, we can't, this play is cursed, there's nothing we can do to stop it. He's going to kill everyone, Hermione. They're all going to die.' His free hand reached up to her face, to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 'I didn't mean to kill you,' he said, and his voice was shivering. 'I didn't want to kill you. They made me do it, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…'

'I'm not dead,' she interrupted, surprised by the desperation in her voice, as if belief could make his imaginings true. 'Draco, I'm not dead, I'm not going to die for a very long time.'

He didn't reply, just shook his head silently with an expression that wavered between a smile and pain. From onstage, Hermione could hear Banquo speaking.

'I'm meant to be on in a minute,' Draco murmured, almost to himself, as though recalling a dream he'd half-forgotten. He turned his eyes on her; reflections of the deep blue candlelight flickering in them. They made his eyes look alive; Hermione knew, sickeningly, that if she blocked the candlelight they would look flat and empty and dead. 'Hermione, you mustn't let them see anything's wrong, you can't let them know, the Death Eaters are all there, they're just waiting, the minute they see something's wrong they'll attack, there won't be time to do anything…' He took a sharp, sudden breath. 'I can't let them see either, I can't let them know, I've got to hide it…'

'You can do it,' she whispered, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. 'Don't let any of it show. I've seen you do it, I know you can.' But he'd been close to cracking before, she knew. And how suspicious did something have to be before the spies in the audience called the Death Eaters forward?

If he cracked, if he started raving about Voldemort, or murders, or Death Eaters…

'False face must hide what the false heart doth know,' Draco agreed, the merest flicker of a smile crossing his face, before closing his eyes. She could almost feel him pulling the reserves of his sanity around him, like a soldier putting on battered and rusty armour for the greatest battle yet.

Without opening his eyes, he whispered, 'He's planning to attack in Act Five, I don't know when. I can tell you more in the Porter's speech.' And then there wasn't any time left; he turned and hurried to his entrance.

A moment later, she heard him step onto stage, no hint of what he truly felt in his voice, acting again.

She had nothing to do but wait.

It took her two minutes to change into her nightgown for the murder scene. The dressing rooms were empty; most characters didn't have to change costume during the play itself, and everyone else had congregated in the main props area.

Hermione didn't think she could face them. Not when they were laughing and cheerful, not when they were excited about the play. They didn't know. She couldn't tell them.

And now the more she thought about it the more real it became, the more frightening, and the more fear began to crawl in her stomach. She found herself crossing the room nervously, fiddling with something on the rickety table, smoothing her hand along the fabric walls, picking up the letter, playing with the edges and putting it down again without reading it.

He was attacking tonight. Voldemort was attacking, while the Great Hall was packed full. The scene came all too easily to her mind, now; the doors slamming open in the middle of a speech, and there would be Voldemort, flanked by Death Eaters. Panic. The audience screaming, crying, shouting to get out; children wailing, parents snatching them up, clinging desperately together. How many would think to draw their wands in the chaos? How many would think they even stood a chance against Voldemort? Not enough.

A panicking, terrified mass of people, trapped in one room. It would be a massacre.

'Hermione?'

She jumped, as if expecting Voldemort to appear at that very instant, but almost immediately relaxed again; it was only Harry.

'Hermione? I know you're down here, Luna said you came this way… of course, this is Luna we're talking about…'

Normally she'd have laughed. 'I'm here,' she said, distractedly. 'Just been changing costume.'

'Oh,' came Harry's voice. 'I was just wondering where you got to.' There was a short, almost tense pause. 'Er, can I come in a minute? I mean, assuming you're decent.'

Hermione hesitated, unsure of what to do. She couldn't really think of an excuse to say no, but she didn't… she didn't feel she could talk to anyone at the moment. Not with Voldemort attacking, not knowing that somewhere out there, at this very moment, the Death Eaters were massing…

But there wasn't any excuse not to. 'Yeah, sure,' she heard herself call out, defeated, and she drew back the curtain to see Harry's grinning face. Hermione managed to produce some semblance of a smile, and moved back to let him in.

'I was listening from backstage,' he began cheerfully. 'You were really good out there, you know? The whole audience almost forgot to breathe.'

She forced a laugh, sitting down on the chair provided. 'Thanks.'

He gave her an odd look at that; Hermione glanced down to the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes. 'Is something wrong?' he asked, and Hermione stiffened.

She couldn't show something was wrong. If Harry could see it, then the spies in the audience could see it when she went onstage, and if they got suspicious…

'It's just stage fright,' she said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the very idea of it away. 'A little nervous. You know what I'm like.'

Harry looked suspicious. 'You weren't that nervous before you went on stage the first time,' he said. 'And you're meant to be more nervous then.' He paused a moment, Hermione desperately trying to think of an excuse, but before she managed it he asked, carefully, 'Is it Malfoy?'

'No!' she denied, instantly and instinctively, panic flaring through her. 'No, it's nothing to do with him, it's…'

He was giving her a gentle, friendly smile. 'We know it's him, you know,' he said. 'You said the person you were worried about wasn't in Gryffindor, wasn't someone we knew well. Who else could it be?'

Hermione closed her eyes, sighing as she felt all the resistance in her abruptly vanish. Voldemort was planning his attack at that very minute, just waiting for the most opportune moment, and there was only she and Draco who even knew it was going to happen. It had seemed so important for Harry and Ron not to find out, before, but now the entire discussion seemed surreal. The only thing that felt real anymore was the armies of Death Eaters massing somewhere in the darkness, and paradoxically, the practiced, brightly-lit reality of the stage.

She looked down at the floor, the rough, temporary floorboards under her feet, and then at Harry. Normally she wouldn't tell him anything, but now all the regular rules were out of the window. They needed, she knew, as much help as they could get.

'It's not Draco,' she said, sighing slightly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. 'Hermione, you don't have to deny it, we know,' he said. 'We're not… angry, or anything, we just-'

She interrupted him, shaking her head. 'I didn't mean that. It was him I've been worrying about, and I'm worried about him now, I guess, but…' Her glance fell on the letter, creased into quarters and lying innocently on the table. 'But I'm more worried about… about…'

Silently, she picked up the letter, turning it over and over in her hands, before mutely passing it to Harry. Frowning at her, he opened the parchment. Hermione watched his expression change as his eyes scanned the lines.

'He wrote it on the letter. The one I used in my first scene,' she explained when Harry didn't speak for a moment. Above their heads, a patch of the Great Hall's ceiling flickered briefly; lightning.

'We've got to go to Dumbledore,' Harry said, suddenly; his expression lined with something she couldn't name, and had taken a step towards the curtain before she could react.

'Dumbledore's in the audience,' Hermione pointed out.

Harry stopped, hovering at the entrance. 'So?' he asked sharply,

'So there's spies in the audience,' she said. 'The Death Eaters are ready to attack if they hear something suspicious is going on, if they think Draco told anyone. Don't you think they might find it a little suspicious if they-'

'How does he know all this?' Harry demanded. 'Malfoy. How does he know?' There was a moment's silence, the voices of the actors onstage trickling back to their ears. 'He's a Death Eater, isn't he?'

'Yes, but-'

'Then how do you know that what he's saying is true?' he asked. 'How do you know there's spies, how do you know the Death Eaters are ready to attack?' He waved the letter at her. 'How do you even know this is true? How do you know they're not just… just using it as a lure to make you do something stupid?'

Hermione's breath caught in her throat; so that was what it was about. Sirius. 'Because I trust him,' she said quietly, even as she said it worrying that maybe Draco was lying, maybe it had all been a lie, maybe, maybe…

But it wasn't. She was convinced of that; she knew him, she'd seen his insanity, she'd washed the blood off his hands when he'd been forced to torture Snape. There was no doubt in her mind that he was truthful. And if it was a hoax, why pretend to be insane? Surely if it was a hoax, he'd have keep it simpler; he'd have told her he'd changed his mind, he hadn't understood what he was getting into, he wanted out. He would have pretended he'd changed his opinions on Muggleborns, too.

She trusted him; she knew that what he said was true. It was that simple.

'How can you trust him?' Harry asked, his voice rising, red spotting his face. 'He's Malfoy, Hermione, he's a slimy, disgusting, foul little-'

She was about to interrupt, but someone else did it for her: 'Will you be quiet in there!'

It took her an endless, terrified moment to realise it was Megan's voice. 'I don't care what the argument is, they'll hear you in the audience if you keep that up, so be quiet.'

'Sorry,' Hermione called out in a whisper, already feeling both guilty and terrified as she heard the footsteps fading. Guilty because their voices could have spoiled the play; terrified because if the audience had heard…

They waited in silence until they were sure they were alone; Hermione's eyes met Harry's and for the first time she could see his fear there. 'What's he been saying?' he asked. 'To make you trust him. What's he been telling you? That he's had a change of heart, that he didn't know what he was getting into?'

She shook her head feebly. 'He's going insane,' she said, the words seeming almost solid on her lips, in the air.

'He's what?' Harry asked incredulously, obviously surprised. 'You mean…?'

'It's killing people. Having to hurt them. A bit like the play, really,' Hermione admitted unwillingly. She didn't want to tell him too much. 'He keeps… seeing things, sometimes. Blood on his hands. Sometimes he thinks he killed me. He thinks the play's coming true. He doesn't…' She sighed, glancing up at him. 'That's why I didn't want to tell you. And that's how I know I can trust him.'

Harry was shaking his head, almost disbelievingly. 'Fine. Malfoy's a nutter and he doesn't want to be a Death Eater. But we've got to go to Dumbledore,' he whispered into the silent air. 'Even if he doesn't want to be a Death Eater, we can't trust what Malfoy says.'

'We can't gamble with people's lives, Harry,' she whispered back forcefully. 'If Draco is telling the truth, and I believe him, then as soon as we tell Dumbledore the Death Eaters will attack.'

Hermione could see the quick rise and fall of his shoulders in the half-light, tense with the thought of what would happen. She pressed on. 'Listen, Draco says they aren't attacking until Act Five. We have plenty of time. If it gets to the end of Act Four, and we still can't think of a way to stop him…' Hermione paused. 'Then we'll go tell Dumbledore and try to arrange some kind of defence before he gets here. But we can't do that until we've tried everything else we can do, alright?'

Harry frowned, seeming to consider this, then gave in. 'Alright. But I still don't trust Malfoy,' he added, quickly. 'I'm only agreeing because I trust you.'

She couldn't help but smile at that, even with the threat of Voldemort hanging over them in the darkness. 'Thanks,' she said. 'You're onstage in the Porter's bit, aren't you?'

'The second bit of it, yes,' he replied. 'Why?'

'It's the first time both me and Draco are offstage,' Hermione replied, 'so he can tell me how Voldemort's getting in.' She paused a moment, wondering what to say, when the distant voice of Draco filtered into the tiny room from the stage.

'Thou sure and firm-set earth, hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear the very stones prate of my whereabout…'

'I've got to be onstage in a moment,' she whispered, giving Harry's hand a brief squeeze. 'Are you okay?'

'Fine,' he replied, with a brief shrug. 'If anyone's going to defeat Voldemort…'

'You're the best,' she agreed, and reached over to give her friend an impulsive hug. She didn't see his expression; when she drew back, he was smiling softly, as if trying to reassure her he was alright.

'I'd better go,' she said. 'Meet you on the left side of the stage before the Porter's speech.' He nodded, and Hermione hurried away, leaving him alone in the dressing room.

'What hands are here?' Draco was saying, holding up his bloodstained hands and staring at them. The candles were beginning to burn red, reflecting off the water at the sides of the stage, making it look uncomfortably like blood. Hermione couldn't see Draco's face from where she waited, but she knew how he looked, or how he'd looked in rehearsal, anyway. Almost disbelieving sickened by his own skin. She didn't know how much of that was acting and how much was real; she'd seen the same expression cross his face in real situations, too.

'Ha! they pluck out mine eyes,' he continued, and Hermione forced herself to look away. The murder scene was almost at an end, but so many of his words or phrases, so many of his gestures, so many of those flickering expressions that passed over his face and made Hermione think that was it, he was going to crack, he'd crack and the spies would see and Voldemort would sweep down upon them…

But he hadn't, not yet.

'Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?' Draco asked, as Hermione reached for the bowl of blood that awaited her by the door she'd just left from. Fake blood, of course; it was somehow redder than the real thing, and stickier, clinging thickly to her arms as she smeared it over them. She glanced back up at the stage, feeling suddenly nauseous, before standing and focussing herself, trying to calm down. It was almost her cue.

'No,' Draco was saying, almost laughing, a horrible, painful kind of laugh, 'this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.' She stepped onto the stage, holding her head high and dignified, her bloodstained hands by her side.

'My hands are of your colour,' she said, 'but I shame to wear a heart so white.'

And then came the knocking, sudden and loud, a heavy pounding from backstage. She reacted as she was meant to, swivelling in sudden fear, while Draco stayed staring mutely at his hands.

'I hear a knocking at the south entry;' she said, crossing to Draco, whose skin would have been white except for the crimson light of the candles, a sudden twist of fear inside her. The knocking at the gate, people arriving at the castle, the impending fear of discovery… and Draco was staring at his hands. He was meant to be, but a slow and burning fear crept through her that his eyes were a little too wide and wild, his horror too real, the blood on his hands glowing and flickering like a living entity in the candlelight…

'Retire we to our chamber,' she said firmly, catching at his hands. She couldn't deviate from what she was meant to do; she could only say the words written centuries earlier, only make the actions they'd planned and practiced, only act as Lady Macbeth was meant to act, trapped in the story and the role and the words. 'A little water clears us of our deed; how easy is it, then!' Except she knew that no water could clear them, and it wouldn't be easy, not at all.

She waited a moment; he didn't react, wasn't meant to, and she frowned in displeasure. She wanted to catch him by the shoulders, to make him look at her instead of at those bloodstained hands, to shake him out of it, to help him. 'Your constancy has left you unattended,' she said, angrily.

And then the knocking again, three loud thumps, and they were going to be discovered if he didn't snap out of it. It might be alright if he stayed staring at his hands; that would look odd but not too suspicious – stage fright, or the spies would know he was afraid, but they wouldn't know he'd told. But if he started speaking, if he said something about Voldemort's attack…

She couldn't let that happen, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

'Hark! more knocking,' she said, heading for the door with his hand in hers, tugging to get him to come, hoping and hoping desperately that he'd snap back to normal in time, that he'd manage, that it would go unnoticed… 'Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us and show us to be watchers.' He was meant to speak in a moment, and if he didn't… if he couldn't…

She caught at him, pulling him impatiently towards the door, wishing she could do something other than annoyed, irate. 'Be not lost so poorly in your thoughts,' she spat, unable to help the edge of desperation that came into her voice, unable to help the fear, because he was meant to speak now, had to speak now, and the silence was unfilled…

A moment passed, and another, each one feeling like forever, a second too long, as she could do nothing but stare at him in ire, could do nothing to help.

And then he shivered, a long, twisting shiver, and blinked, and looked up at her. His hand tightened slightly on hers, and she couldn't help but return it. His lips parted, closed again, and all of this could be taken as part of the play, she knew it could, all he had to do was speak, say the right line…

He shook his head a little, as if shaking himself clear, and the look he gave her was genuine; fear and pain and desperation. 'To know my deed,' he said, and it was the right line, the right words, 't'were best not know myself.'

More knocking, but Hermione almost managed to breathe a sigh of relief; one more line, Draco could say one more line, that was all he needed. They wouldn't be discovered, not now, not yet.

He tipped his head upwards, anguish twisting his features. 'Wake Duncan with thy knocking!' he cried, and Hermione knew he meant it. 'I wish thou couldst!'

And then he was following her, hand still tight in hers, into the welcome darkness of backstage, where Harry was waiting for them.

AN: In my original planning, this was the first half of a chapter, but when I started writing new scenes appeared and it got longer than I thought it would be. So now what was once one chapter is now two chapters.

This means that you got this earlier than you would have otherwise and that you have two more chapters to look forward to instead of one. Rejoice!

There's only one question I can really ask, isn't there: what was your favourite bit of HBP? Least favourite?

Review!