Chapter the Thirty-Fifth
Malfoy sat by the Shrieking Shack, ostensibly watching out for his father. He kept being distracted, though, by a small group of trees at the bottom of the path towards Hogsmeade. Harry Potter's head had come for a visit without his body. He remembered being scared at the time, and then furious. He couldn't recall when he'd worked out the truth about the invisibility cloak, but he couldn't let the knowledge that he hadn't worked it out at the time go.
It made a good ghost story: the head of a boy who wasn't dead yet. Like the howls in the night, when nobody noticed what time of month it was, every month. It was all very, very obvious, when you thought about it. It made him glad it was, for the most part, after his father's time at Hogwarts. At least his father hadn't appeared stupid. And Snape had worked it out, so that was alright.
Draco sighed at the trees, and a gust of wind ruffled their leaves. A faint smile crossed his lips, but faded soon. He wouldn't be going home. He might as well give the mansion up as a loss. Sell it. Harry Potter could afford it, he bet. Harry Potter could buy it and give it to all of the millions of Weasleys, and Hermione, and they could live there together as one huge family. And the little Granger-Weasleys could run around, and discover the pathetic fallacy on the North Tower for themselves. It was a bit patchy - the spell was so old no one was sure what it was, now - but there was something so beautifully thrilling about uttering a threat of doom or domination and having the thunder crash behind you. Something comforting about climbing the stairs and leaning on the parapet, rain falling around you, when you wanted to feel sorry for yourself. Something to suit every dramatic mood he had ever had. When it worked, of course.
All those little Granger-Weasleys. Weasley himself working ever so hard to support them all, and Hermione having to give up her career to look after them all. It wouldn't be fair. Hermione could provide for them far better than Weasley. But she wouldn't be able to, because of all the pregnancies, and no one wanted to employ a Weasley woman, what with all the pregnancies.
She'd probably die in childbirth. She wasn't built to be a Weasley woman.
Draco tried to pretend he hadn't felt that clench of fear. He was being absurd anyway, deliberately absurd. She'd die long before she got a chance to marry Weasley. It didn't matter what anyone did, Voldemort was coming. Both a mudblood and close to Harry Potter? She was lucky to have survived this long.
Something stung at the back of his eyes, but there were no tears. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a piece of folded parchment and a pen. He started "Dear Hermione".
An hour later, the paper was filled with favourite spells, odd little pictures, some half remembered poetry and a few examples of "Hermione Malfoy", which looked far too good to Draco's eyes. There was no point writing a letter, since he had no intention of sending it to her, so he might as well entertain himself. Hermione Granger-Malfoy. Not so good, but bearable.
He heard a susurrus in the grass nearby, and incendio'd the page. As his father transformed before him, he was scowling disapprovingly.
"The flash of light could have drawn attention to our position."
"Sorry, father."
The word felt strange in his mouth. Father, noun, vocative. Not that it made much difference in English. Pater. Nominative or Vocative singular, third declension. Draco found he preferred Pater, actually, though he supposed it was a little late to change the form of address now.
He climbed to his feet and hefted the rucksack onto his shoulders. It felt ridiculous on his shoulders now, but he hadn't had the energy to repack, once he'd realised his father was actually coming in person.
"I have arranged transport," Draco said, hoping it did not sound too presumptuous. "I recalled how the Beauxbaton students made their way onto Hogwarts property, and have organised a boat."
"Where will we emerge?" his father asked, as Draco led him into the Shack, towards the secret passage Snape had told him about, several years ago.
"I left the spell open," Draco said. "I did not know where you wish to go. Father."
"Have you no guesses?"
Pater sounded... pleased. Almost amused. A lump began to form in Draco's throat. He remembered this voice, from a very long time ago. If he did something right, or rather, something outstanding, his father would show his pleasure by playing a brief game with him. Nothing physical.
Wire cage monkey, part of Draco's mind whispered, and he hated Kelp viciously for a moment. Stupid unhugged monkeys.
"Norway?" Draco chose.
"No, but it would not be a poor choice. Again." Pater was smiling slightly. Draco wanted to take that smile, to hold on to it, to keep it forever. His pater - no, his father, stop being an idiot - thought he was doing something right. He was being rewarded the only way his father knew how, with a test.
"Iceland?"
"Again, no. I preferred Norway."
"Am I on the right compass bearing?" Draco asked.
His father did not answer. They reached the Whomping Willow, and Draco used his wand to let them out. They started to walk down towards the lake.
"Poland?"
"Always an interesting choice, Poland. The muggles have done terrible things to it, but Voldemort thought we might prove our superiority by not using them."
And so the game went on.
"What's going on? Why is everybody running about?" Ron asked, hair wild from bed.
"I heard a snake," Harry said. "Remember, I told you?"
"Of course I remember, you prat." Ron snorted. "It was only a week ago."
"Most moon," said Hermione. "It's the full moon tonight, Ron, you twit." She was trying to tug a hairbrush through her hair, but only succeeded in getting it stuck. After a few yanks, she abandoned it entirely. It banged against her neck.
She wasn't thinking straight. She wasn't entirely sure she was thinking. Harry had seen something from the boy's dormitory window, people but no one was sure what was going on. And then Dean had seen the teachers heading down there, and suddenly all of Gryffindor was in an uproar. And it was full moon.
Something occurred to her, and she started to move towards the portrait hole.
"Where are you going?" Ron asked, grabbing her elbow.
She turned back towards him. "To Syltherin," she said, "to see if Malfoy's actually gone."
"Of course he has," Ron told her. "It's..." He sighed, air hissing between his teeth. He looked towards Ginny, who frowned. Hermione wondered what was going on. Harry looked baffled too.
"Look, let's all go... somewhere," Ron said. "I'm going to get in so much trouble for this."
They tried the boy's dormitory, but Dean, Seamus, and a couple of younger boys were still using it as their look out. The girls dorms were out of the question.
"Prefect's bathroom?" Hermione suggested. "I mean, at least two of us can justify being there." And then she realised what she had just said, and blushed furiously. Ginny giggled loudly, and Harry looked faintly amused. Ron didn't, at all. "Oh, come on," she snapped.
The bathroom was quiet. Hermione hung her dressing gown over the mermaid's painting, and Harry had a quick scout for Myrtle.
"She watches us?" Ron asked, staring at the draped painting.
"Yep," said Hermione. She found it hard to meet his eyes.
They sat in the bath tub, designed for it, though it was dry now. Hermione cast silencio, and they settled back to hear Ron talk.
"Look, before I say anything, Ginny knows because she's my sister. Because she's dad's daughter, alright? Dad didn't want it getting out of the family, and I know you two are practically family, maybe not even practically, but I told Ginny first and then I didn't get a chance to tell you, and then it stopped seeming so important. I'd actually forgotten when Harry told us about the snake." He slumped back with a sigh, and humphed ginger hair out of his eyes. "So here goes: Malfoy, the elder, is an animagus. A snake. That's how he escaped from Azkaban."
"I heard Lucius Malfoy himself," Harry said. "I heard... oh shit. Malfoy was there. I thought he seemed too interested, and too ready to dismiss it, but I never really thought..."
"He's come for his son."
Hermione barely heard the words coming from her own mouth. This was it. She'd thought it was, but somehow... He wasn't just running away. Draco was leaving with his father. He was lost. She'd done her best, it wasn't good enough, and...
They were all staring at her.
"I tried," she said, in a strained voice.
"We know, "Harry said. "We just... Well, maybe I just thought..."
"No," Ron said. "Look, why aren't you going after him?"
It was a strange and painful question. Hermione curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her body.
"Why should I?" she asked in an almost-whisper. "What's the point?"
There was an odd silence. Ron shuffled around the edge of the bath until he was sitting next to her, and put an arm across her shoulders. It felt right. It felt perfect. It was calming and comforting and strong.
Draco would have kissed her. In front of everybody, and despite the fact she probably wouldn't have wanted to be kissed. And then he'd have...
Draco had left with his father. If he was here to kiss her, she wouldn't have needed kissing.
Except she needed kissing, ever so much. And she needed Ron to initiate it. She turned her head to look at him. He smiled awkwardly, crookedly. He looked a little embarrassed.
Hermione sighed, and went back to staring at the plug hole.
"This is London," Lucius Malfoy observed. The anger in his voice wasn't all-consuming; he merely thought Draco was an idiot.
Well, it had been nice, and it had almost been tempting.
"Lucius Malfoy, you are under arrest. Again." And that voice carried a faint smile with it, and memories of four legs and a better sense of smell, and a beautiful pelt.
And then there was a sharp pain, starting just under his chin, and he tumbled backwards, into the cold, dark water.
That was the all-consuming anger of the betrayed, that was his father losing it so badly he had actually hit him, rather than hexed.
He didn't bother try to swim.