18
September 3rd - September 4th, 1999 (Friday/Saturday)
After she left Draco standing by the stables, she hurried to her room before anyone could see her crying. Thankfully, everyone seemed to already be in their rooms for the night, so she saw no one. She managed to keep the tears from spilling over until she made it to her room and locked the door behind her.
The moment the bolt slid into place, she sat down on the floor, her back resting against the wall, and sobbed. She hadn't cried like that since last Sunday when she visited Harry, but it hadn't been long enough. For the last few years of school, she thought she had finally gotten a handle on reining in her emotions, but now, to be perfectly honest, she was getting incredibly tired of crying all the damn time.
She was angry at herself for being so hurt by something that Draco said to her. After all these years, she thought he no longer had that power over her, but, of course, she allowed herself to think for just a moment that they were different people. In that small window of time, he had proven that maybe he no longer agreed that Mudbloods deserved to die, but he sure as hell hadn't changed much more beyond that.
She was even more angry with herself for allowing him that control over her again. She thought that she had grown so much over the years, particularly in that regard. She may be a wreck on most days, never being able to sleep without being bombarded with images of war or Bellatrix or Greyback, but at least she no longer allowed her self-confidence to hinge on what other people had to say about her…. or at least she thought she did. This, apparently, was proof that her perception was quite a bit off there as well. Still, she had thought that days of allowing people like him and Pansy fucking Parkinson to cause her to run for the safety of the curtains surrounding her four-poster were long gone. Now, here she was, sobbing like a child yet again, over something he had to say.
And to make matters worse, what had he even said? He didn't insult her appearance, as he'd done in the past. He hadn't called her an insufferable swot, as he'd done in the past. He hadn't even insulted her blood status, again, as he'd done oh so many times in the past. Instead, all that he'd said was that he didn't want to be her friend. How pathetic that something so arbitrary had the ability to push her to tears. Yet, here she sat, crying on her bedroom floor.
What began as innocuous tears about having been affronted by Draco turned into thoughts revolving around every bad thing in her life. Her thoughts immediately focused on her solitude, here and at home. She knew her friends cared about her, they told her constantly, but Harry and Ginny had one another now. That's what she wanted; she wanted them to be happy with one another. They both deserved that. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a little excluded, despite their obvious attempts to prevent that.
And her relationship with Ron was on the mend now that they'd determined they definitely were not cut out to be anything more than that. But for the past year, that had been incredibly strained. His attempts to further their "relationship" had done nothing but push her away and make her feel horrible for it. She knew he loved her, and if she had been able to love him in the way that he wanted her to, they could have been wonderful together. She knew he'd never hurt her, but every time he touched her, she was overwhelmed with images of Greyback's hands all over her. But Ron didn't know that. He tried to be patient with her, but even he had his limits. Every time she rejected him, it put another few feet in the chasm between them. She wanted to tell him the truth, but she was afraid of the results. She wasn't sure which would be worse, his inability to look at her knowing the things Greyback had said and done to her or the look of sympathy on his face. So, she kept it in, allowing it to come between them.
She got up from the floor and ran a bath, trying to take her mind off everything but knowing that she couldn't. She knew she should go see Alys but admitting to her that all of this started because her feelings were hurt seemed so juvenile and embarrassing, not to mention the fact that it was already close to midnight. So, she ran a bath as hot as she could stand and eased herself down into the water. She didn't bother with the scented candles and bubbles like she had done on her first night here; she was past the point of no return now. It was best to just ride it out. Thankfully, there was no worry of another explosion – the potion was doing its job beautifully.
She tried not to think about being utterly alone here. Nicola had spent the entire afternoon talking to her, and she had actually listened to the things Hermione said. Even that hadn't been enough. Hermione couldn't help but think Nicola had only done so as a means to an end. Hadn't she said so herself that the only reason she chose to spend the day with Hermione was because she couldn't stand being with the other two groups?
She sat in the bath, overcome with feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing, as the water continued to run in the tub. She hated herself for allowing anyone to hurt her again, especially over something to idiotic. She hated herself for caring at all that she didn't have a friend. What was she, twelve? She hated the fact that she was nineteen years old and still crying over something as trivial as feeling unwanted. Hadn't she survived far worse in the past few years?
She barely even registered picking up the razors she'd purchased after she decided to come to The Willows. She hadn't actually shaved her legs in years, but without magic here, she really had no other choice but to do it the Muggle way. Not that it really mattered, not like anyone was seeing her legs, but having some sense of normalcy she thought would help her to get back to feeling like herself again.
She carefully unscrewed the cap that held the razor into place and pulled the blade out of the shiny pink cartridge.
"Rose gold, 'Mi. It's not pink," she heard Ginny's voice in her head, remembering when she bought it. Ginny laughed at Hermione's disgust at the mountains of disposable razors in the store and then again at Hermione's frustration at finally finding one that wasn't disposable, but it only came in pink… or rose gold.
She laid the metal razor gently onto the edge of the tub, hearing the faint tink of metal on metal, and held the blade between her fingers. She knew she'd regret it later, particularly knowing that this was the first time she'd ever done this without the help of magic to heal herself afterward, but she knew from experience that it was the only way to shut up the thoughts inside her head.
She wasn't really sure how to do it at all without magic. Typically, a small, intricate diffindo was enough to bring the slightest beads of blood pooling across her skin and with them an overflowing rush of calm and relief. Now, razor blade in hand, she wasn't entirely sure how to do it without actually hurting herself. The last thing she wanted was to have to go to Alys to staunch the blood flow when she inadvertently cut too deep.
She turned the water off and lifted her leg out of the water. She laid the blade against the soft skin on the inside of her thigh and pressed lightly, allowing it to sink a bit deeper and pushing the skin around the blade higher around the edges. She added the smallest amount of pressure and pulled her hand down slowly, cutting a fine line horizontally across her thigh.
She watched the blood well up and then run in a small trickle, dripping into the water beneath her. It was a little more than she was used to, but she was satisfied at having not accidentally mutilated herself in the process. Almost instantly, the slight pain she felt was replaced with a familiar and inexplicable calm, and she breathed in deeply a few times, never taking her eyes off the blood dripping into the water.
It was dripping steadily, yet slowly enough to allow the water to calm between each drop so that with each new one, the smallest splash could be heard. The crimson swirled in the water, creating beautiful coils of faint pink. After another moment, Hermione dipped her leg into the water, submerging it entirely and relishing in the feeble sting that came with it. She wiped her hand across her leg, clearing the evidence and sighing in relaxation.
After she finished her bath and dried off, she had to dab it a few times to make sure the bleeding had stopped completely before putting on her pyjamas.
As always happened once the high of endorphins was gone, she felt unadulterated shame. This time, it was even worse, given that it was still there, visible beneath the bottom hem of her cotton shorts. Normally, she was able to cast a healing charm right away to get rid of the evidence and the feel of the cut on her skin, but now without that small bit of resolution, she was left with the obvious remnants. She could still feel it, itching right beneath the surface. She shrugged it off, relieved to be focused on that instead of the onslaught of emotions and negative thoughts that had been at the center of her mind before.
She knew that without the benefit of magic this time, she likely wouldn't be able to prevent it from scarring. Hermione instantly began trying to think of excuses in the event that anyone ever saw it, before rolling her eyes at her own stupidity. It was on the inside of her thigh, visible only when she was wearing a swimsuit, but even then, it was pretty high up. Someone would have to really be inspecting her to catch a glimpse of it, and it wasn't like anyone was going to be seeing her naked any time soon either. She did make a mental note though to try and heal it Sunday when her magic was back; hopefully, that would keep it from scarring.
She pulled an old T-shirt of her father's over her head and towel-dried her hair as much as possible. She tried to tame it a bit by plaiting it to one side, hoping that would keep it from being too unmanageable in the morning. She rarely went to bed with wet hair, knowing she'd pay for it in the morning, but she wanted to take advantage of the little bit of anxiety relief she'd gotten in the bath before it all came back with a vengeance, preventing her from falling asleep. Thankfully, it seemed to help a bit; though the sleep was restless, it was blessedly free of nightmares.
The next day passed in similar solitude. It was the weekend, so at least she didn't have the normal daily counseling session to force her to relive every ounce of trauma during the war. Instead, they were supposed to spend their free days with one another, which obviously resulted in everyone spending their time completely secluded from one another.
Hermione spent most of the day outside, her scarf wrapped tightly around her, as she watched Equuleus running playfully in the pasture. She brought her journal out, to at least try to do some of the work Alys had her doing, but instead, she ended up sketching what was supposed to be the granians, though it looked much more like amoebas with legs.
When she made it back inside for lunch, she hastily grabbed a granola bar and a banana and went back to her room to eat. The thought of having to sit at the same table as everyone just seemed overwhelming, and she couldn't even muster the energy for any arbitrary conversation with Walt that would require her to plaster on a smile.
"Tonight," Walt began, "Nicola has agreed to share some of her memories with the group." They all glanced toward Nicola, but she was staring down at the floor intently, visibly avoiding their intrusive eyes and the pensieve that Susan had just brought into the room. "As I said during our first group meeting, we do hope that each of you will be comfortable enough to share your memories with the group at some point, whether that be verbally or through the pensieve," he said, pointing toward the large bowl of swirling liquid in the center of the circle. "If you'd like to go inside your own memories with the group, you can. If you'd like to stay outside of them and speak to the group afterward, that's fine as well."
"Nicola, which would you prefer?" Susan asked kindly, reaching over to take Nicola's hand in her own.
Nicola looked up finally, but only met Susan's eyes. "I'd like to stay out here, I think. Talking about it is one thing, but I'd rather not have to live it again."
"That's just fine. I'll stay out here with you," Susan said, scooting her chair closer to Nicola's.
Hermione's heart began to race. She remembered how Luna's memories had affected her, and she thought perhaps not knowing Nicola the way she knew Luna, she may be spared the heart wrenching pain at seeing someone she cared for deeply be hurt. But she knew that wasn't the truth. She may not have a history with Nicola the way she did with Luna, but Nicola was the one person who she felt she had at least a passing connection with, even if it was only occasionally present.
"I do want to forewarn you all," Walt said, looking around at each of them, "just like with Luna's memories, there will be graphic depictions of violence here. The goal with your ongoing cognitive behavioral therapy is that, not only will each of you be able to share your own story, but that seeing or hearing about events such as what we're about to see will not be a trigger to you all. That is, after all, the point of exposure therapy. If at any point, anyone needs to exit the memory, we can do so."
Walt looked around the circle again, waiting for objections from the group. Hermione's eyes followed his, and when they landed on Draco, she noticed he was white as a sheet. Even though he had hurt her, she didn't want to see him go through the pain of having to watch as he tortured Astoria in Nicola's memory. Not just that, but Seamus would obviously have something awful to say about it afterward as well.
Walt, taking in the pained expression on Draco's face, said, "Draco, if you'd like to stay out here as well, that's okay. We've put you into an unfortunate position, and for that I apologize." Walt seemed entirely sincere in his apology, but Draco sat silent for a moment, staring at him. For a moment, his eyes were terrified and wild, but he took a deep breath and pulled what little Occlumency walls he could manage back down.
"I'd like to not relive that either."
Walt nodded once and then stood. "If you all could take my hands, …"
The rest of the group stood. Even though they were about to experience Nicola's memories, every eye in the circle was on Draco, each likely wondering what he did in this one that would warrant his fear at having to relive it; but Hermione already knew, and it was the last thing she wanted to see. Knowing she couldn't back out, she took Alys' hand on one side and Walt's on the other as he dipped a finger into the swirling liquid and pulled them all into the pensieve again.
They landed roughly onto the floor of a room that Hermione had visited only once in real life but hundreds of times in her dreams. She had seen the same room in Luna's memories as well. Did they not torture people in different parts of this house? Why was it always this room? She felt the room sway for a moment around her, and she tried to keep her feet firmly on the ground, worried that she was about to faint. This time it was too much like her dreams. She could even hear herself screaming. Her chest began to tighten, and, knowing what was coming, she quickly began to recite the ingredients for Polyjuice Potion in her mind. When she made it to shredded boomslang skin, she realized the screaming wasn't coming from her own memories. It couldn't possibly be her. For one, why would she be in Nicola's memories, and, now taking her first real look at the girl writhing on the floor screaming at the same blood curdling pitch as she herself had done on this very same floor, she took notice of their obvious differences. This girl's hair was substantially darker, almost black even, and she was still wearing all of her clothes.
The screaming stopped just as Hermione remembered, after her momentary shock of being transported to this room, that this was Astoria Greengrass. She remembered her now, vaguely, from Hogwarts. She remembered passing her in the hallways or seeing her during meals in the Great Hall, but she'd never spoken to her. She felt a pang of regret at that. They would have never been friends, based solely on their house alliances, but knowing that this girl lost her life after being tortured in such a similar fashion as Hermione, it was sad that Hermione had never once taken the time to even say hello to her while she was alive.
She pushed the thought away, turning to see who was holding the wand, and she was relieved to see it wasn't Draco. Voldemort himself stood across from Astoria, his wand hand pointed lazily in her direction, as if he were actually bored with the task at hand.
Hermione looked around the room to take in the rest of the scene. Nicola was kneeling on the floor beside Astoria, who was still trembling and spasming slightly from the after-effects of the Cruciatus. Nicola was completely disheveled, in a way Hermione had never seen her before. Her typical coiffed hair was in disarray with loose hairs falling across her face and back, and her white blouse had come untucked on one side from beneath her slacks. She looked up with a rage that Hermione had never seen on her face before. She was visibly shaking, and tears were running down her face openly, as if she wasn't even aware that they were there.
Voldemort turned his back on them and asked, "Where is Lord Greengrass and the other daughter?"
"Rodolphus is retrieving them, my Lord." Hermione heard the rasp of the same voice she heard almost nightly in her dreams, and she snapped her head quickly to the side to find Bellatrix approaching Voldemort.
Just then the dining room door burst open with a raucous bang as a man Hermione assumed was Nicola's husband was forcibly pushed into the room by Rodolphus Lestrange. He went sprawling across the floor, landing beside his wife and Astoria. Astoria was now sitting up, curled protectively in her mother's arms and sobbing, her face toward Nicola's chest.
Hermione, being the closest to her, could hear Astoria's almost inaudible voice saying "I'm sorry" over and over. Nicola shushed Astoria soothingly and pulled her closer into her chest.
Mr. Greengrass was much shorter than Hermione had imagined. His hair was white along the sides and cropped shorter there than on top, and it was standing on end haphazardly across his head. His small mustache and beard quivered in fear as he looked down at his wife and daughter and up at Voldemort in front of them. Voldemort hadn't turned around yet.
Behind Mr. Greengrass, a pretty blonde girl was pulled into the room by Rabastan Lestrange. The girl stood transfixed with fear, taking in the scene at her feet. She tried to kneel down with the others, but Rabastan pulled her tightly to his chest, wrapping his arms around her waist. When Mr. Greengrass tried to stand, to pull his elder daughter to him, he was kicked back to the ground by the sneering man holding onto her.
Just as Voldemort turned to face them, the door opened again, and Hermione's breath hitched at seeing Draco and his father walk into the room. Knowing he was in the memory already did nothing to prepare her for what she knew was coming. He looked terrible. This must have taken place sometime between his attempt on Dumbledore's life and when she, Harry, and Ron were brought here. His skin was pallid, ghostly white, and heavy dark shadows circled both of his eyes. His clothes seemed to hang on him rather than fit him so perfectly in the way they had at school, and his cheekbones stood out harshly on either side of his face.
"You called for us, My Lord," Lucius said, in his characteristic drawl, as he bowed slightly toward Voldemort.
"No, I called for young Draco." He fixed his red eyes on Draco, who was looking toward the family at their feet in horror, his eyes taking them in wildly before he quickly reined his emotions in. He turned to face Voldemort, and his face was completely devoid of emotion and his eyes as dark as night.
"No matter. As this is your son's fiancé, Lucius, this concerns your whole family, I'm afraid. You may stay."
Voldemort walked casually behind Draco and Lucius as they looked down at Nicola and her family at their feet. "Rabastan, allow the poor child to join her family," Voldemort said, turning Hermione's blood to ice at the sight of his cold smile.
Rebastan let her go, and she immediately dropped to her knees between her mother and father.
"My Lord, what is the –" Mr. Greengrass began, but was cut off with a flick of Voldemort's wand. He let out a guttural scream as his back arched, and Daphne clutched at her mother's side.
"You'll speak when I permit you to," Voldemort said coolly, though still appearing to be only vaguely interested in the situation.
"Draco, it seems that your future father-in-law hasn't had the appropriate fervor that I would like of a pureblood man of his station. After professing interest in joining our elite society, he has since equivocated in showing his true devotion. Then, to make matters worse, I have heard that your future bride has spoken of her own misgivings about our great commission within the Wizarding World. Apparently, she is hoping that we fail. What do you make of this, Draco?"
Draco looked down at Astoria. She shifted from behind her mother's protective grasp to look up at him, her tear-stained cheeks still quivering slightly.
"My Lord, there must be some mistake. Astoria and I have spoken at length about our true purpose within your ranks." His dark, charcoal eyes never left Astoria's green ones. She never spoke but continued to search his face for help, in the same way Hermione had in this very same room.
"Then, I'm afraid the little vixen has you quite fooled, Draco." Voldemort laughed a merciless laugh that set Hermione's teeth on edge.
Draco looked up then, seemingly knowing that if Voldemort was laughing then the situation just got substantially worse.
"May I discipline her in private to ensure that her priorities align with yours, my Lord?"
Voldemort turned to face Draco fully now, shaking his snake-like head in derision. "I'm surprised at you, Draco. I thought your devotion was only to me, yet you still want this deceitful woman as your bride?"
Draco opened his mouth to speak and Lucius beat him to it. "My Lord, if I may, the Malfoy men have a history of commitment toward their wives… and future wives. My son meant no disrespect, I'm sure."
Voldemort seemed to actually contemplate this for a moment before he turned to sit at the head of the Malfoys' dining table. "I tire of this. Draco, I think you should punish her now. If you really mean to have her, she'll need to learn her proper place after all."
Draco cast a quick, wary glance toward his father, who gave the smallest nod, one infinitesimal shift of his chin that Hermione only saw from standing this close to him.
"My Lord, I… I…" Draco turned to look at Astoria, her eyes still glued on his. Hermione was looking down at the fear in Astoria's face when she heard Draco collapse to his knees. His hands grabbed either side of his head as he cried out in pain. His voice wasn't like Mr. Greengrass'; it was barely audible, just a groan as he tried desperately to hold it in.
Just as quickly as it had come, it was over. Draco stood back up, stumbling slightly as he rose to his feet. He wiped one hand across his mouth, clearing the blood from where he had bitten down fiercely onto his bottom lip. His hands shook as he turned his head to Voldemort behind him.
"Draco, I'm very disappointed. You've shown such promise lately. I thought you were going to make such a better disciple than your father has, yet here we are. Shall I bring your mother back in? I don't believe she's completely healed from the last mistake your father made. Do you really want to make her suffer again?"
Hermione watched as Draco swallowed, and she heard his teeth grind together as he shook his head.
Voldemort turned his head slightly to one side and said slowly, enunciating each word, "Then get on with it."
Draco's chest rose and fell a few times, and Hermione could hear his attempt to hold back a soft whimper. He turned back to face Astoria and blinked a few times before raising his wand. Hermione watched as Astoria's face contorted in fear and then pain as Draco said softly, "Crucio."
Daphne tried to place her hands over her sister, to shield her from the curse, but it was no use. The screams that came from her mouth were nothing at all like the false ones that Luna had made as she tried to spare Draco the punishment of refusing to punish her properly. These were real, and Astoria's pained cries and spasms were proof.
Voldemort made him curse her four more times, as her family watched helplessly in horror. Nicola was sobbing, holding onto her daughter and begging them to stop, but Voldemort simply watched, saying nothing. Draco kept his stoic expression throughout the entire ordeal, save one tear that rolled down his cheek. The Lestranges stood behind him with their master, so no one noticed the slight slip in his mask except for the family before him, who weren't paying him any attention, and those viewing Nicola's memory now. By the end of it, Mr. Greengrass was holding Daphne as she tried to pull away from him to shield her sister. Astoria, still in Nicola's arms, had long since stopped screaming. She now lay in her mother's arms, staring at the ceiling, spasming from the curses tremoring through her body and small trickles of blood seeping from the corners of both eyes.
Voldemort finally said, "Enough, Draco." Draco's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of what he had just done and then tensed again when Voldemort spoke. "However, I'm not convinced she's fully been converted. Rabastan, please finish the job."
Draco turned to Voldemort, his mouth hanging open, but before he could speak or even be noticed by Voldemort, Lucius had placed one hand around his wrist. Draco dropped his head and gripped his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Hermione couldn't watch. She heard Nicola's screaming, begging to trade places with her daughter. She heard Mr. Greengrass holding onto Daphne, who was kicking him and screaming, trying to reach her sister. Hermione never took her face off Draco. He continued to look down at the floor, his chest shaking slightly. Green light flashed behind him, and Nicola's voice broke as she screamed her daughter's name.
Mr. Greengrass finally let go of Daphne, and she sprang across the floor, crawling to collapse across her sister's chest. Mr. Greengrass pulled Nicola up from the floor, and the moment she was standing, she charged at the younger Lestrange brother, scratching and tearing at him. He laughed at first, but her fingernails scratched sharply across his face, and he yelled in rage, slapping her down to the floor with the back of his hand. He spit at her on the ground, the blood from his mouth landing directly on her chest.
The commotion stopped when Voldemort laughed again. "Rabastan, it seems like you have an admirer." Rabastan looked down at Nicola, blood dripping from the gashes across his face. Nicola turned her face toward Voldemort, her eye already beginning to swell. She jumped up again, attempting to run at Voldemort now, just as Rabastan caught her around the waist. Nicola's shoes hit the floor as she flailed in his grasp.
Voldemort laughed again and said, "Well, Leighton, it seems you have no control at all over the women in your family. As the supposed man of your house, I'll allow you to decide. I think the two who remain are in desperate need of some true manly leadership, wouldn't you agree, Rabastan?"
Rabastan laughed a spiteful laugh and said, "Oh, yes, My Lord. Particularly this one." He enunciated his words with a sharp slap across Nicola's face again, as she continued to fight against him from where he now had her pinned against the wall, one hand to her throat.
"So, Leighton, you decide. Should Rabastan here have your wife or your last remaining daughter in his charge?"
At that, Nicola stopped fighting and turned to glare at her husband. Her face softened slightly, tears rimming her eyes again, as she shook her head at him. "Don't you dare even think about –" Her words were cut off as Rabastan tightened his grip around her throat.
Daphne hadn't even looked up from where she lay crying across her sister's unmoving chest.
Mr. Greengrass looked once between his wife and his daughter and dropped his gaze to the floor. "Take my wife," he said, as he fell to the ground beside his daughters. He lay one hand across Daphne's back and looked up at Nicola. Hermione had never seen someone look as broken as he looked in that moment.
"You all may go. And Rabastan, see that she learns her place," Voldemort said, narrowing his eyes across the table toward Nicola, who was struggling once again beneath his grip.
"My pleasure." Rabastan started to pick her up, and he stopped, momentarily shocked as Nicola spit into his face. He slapped her again, knocking her to the floor before grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging her from the room, her hands grasping at his and her feet flailing wildly.
Hermione turned to see Draco, still staring at the floor, his father's hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist. He lifted his head and glanced with bloodshot eyes toward the door Nicola had been pulled through just as the room faded away around them.
The room swirled into focus, bringing them to a dark room, dimly lit by a few candles. Hermione squinted her eyes trying to focus on the scene around her, and she found Nicola lying on a dingy bed. When Hermione's eyes adjusted to the room enough to make out the person standing beside the bed, Rabastan was buttoning his trousers and staring down at Nicola, a pleased smirk across his face.
Nicola rolled away from him, pulling her slip down to cover her thighs. Hermione took a step toward her and put a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Nicola's face and arms were covered in bruises. They were mottled in blue and purple, and two across her neck and collarbones were faintly green. Hermione felt tears sting her eyes realizing that her fears, her worst nightmares at the hands of Greyback, Nicola had been living that hell for however much time had passed between this memory and the last.
Nicola's face, so angry and violent in the last memory, now looked like a shell. Her eyes were completely deadened, as if there was no light behind them whatsoever. She stared into the flame flickering in the darkness beside her bed, completely devoid of emotion. There were streaks across her face where tears had once been, but there was no sign of them in Nicola's eyes now.
They all jumped, those actually within the memory and those viewing it, as the fire burst into life in the fireplace and Rodolphus Lestrange's head emerged in the flames.
"Rab, it's time. We're all going to the castle now."
Rabastan looked down at the flames but didn't move yet.
Rodolphus roared, "Did you hear what I said? Put your fucking clothes on and get to Hogwarts." He paused and said more calmly, "The war ends tonight, brother." Then his head disappeared, and the flame went out as quickly as if it had never been there.
Rabastan began getting dressed, hurrying through grabbing his clothes off the floor. Hermione was so fixated on him, watching him pull his shirt and robes over his clothes that she hadn't even registered that Nicola had moved until she saw her move silently across the bed. Rabastan was sitting on the edge of it lacing up his boots, his back toward Nicola. In the haste of the situation, he had forgotten that the woman now at his back was his prisoner not his lover.
Nicola lifted onto her knees behind him and Hermione saw the light glint off a shard of glass as she raised it above her head and brought it down forcefully in the center of Rabastan's back.
He cried out once and stood up, lifting both arms behind him, trying to find the source of the pain between his shoulder blades. Nicola had yanked the glass from his back as soon as she stabbed him with it, and blood sprayed across her face when he stood and turned to face her. She jumped off the bed and leapt onto him, knocking them both to the floor. She lifted the blade again, the small section of it in Nicola's hands wrapped in a rag, and forced the blade into his chest.
The fury in her eyes now was enough to make Hermione question whether or not it was even the same face that moments ago had seemed so bereft. She stabbed him with such force that the glass broke at least once, leaving a large part of the blade protruding from his chest. Blood sputtered from his mouth as he tried to speak, and he lifted one hand attempting to push her off him. When the blade broke again, she threw the rest on the floor and wrapped her hands around his throat, pushing with as much strength as she could muster. His hand grasped at her neck, but he had no force left to do any damage. As his hand fell away, it left behind a trail of blood that ran across Nicola's throat and down her chest. His head rolled slightly to one side, and he gasped once, shooting one last spray of blood from his mouth.
Nicola screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear or anger. It was a scream of vengeful triumph, the final war cry of a woman who felt she'd never make it out of this situation alive. When Nicola realized she was still sitting on top of him, a knee on either side of his chest, she pushed herself away from him and slid across the floor to the wall behind her, her legs leaving streaks in the blood in her path. She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled her arms around them. Dropping her head to her chest, she sobbed, her shoulders heaving as she cried.
All at once, the fireplace was engulfed in green flames again, and Nicola looked up. There was surprisingly no terror in her face, yet she pulled herself further away from the flames. When Lucius Malfoy stepped through the flames, he looked around the room momentarily, showing no sign of surprise at the dead body of one of his comrades or the amount of blood covering the floor. When his eyes landed on Nicola, he walked to her, stepping around the pools of blood as best as could and reached his hand out for her to take it. She looked down at his hand once then back up to his face.
"We don't have time to play games," he said. It was the first time Hermione could ever remember hearing him speak when he didn't sound entirely calm and collected. He breathed the words out quickly, as if he was trying to rush her in making the decision to trust him or not.
She slowly lifted her hand and placed it in his, and he pulled her quickly to her feet. They disappeared into the flames as Lucius said, "Malfoy Manor."
Once again, the room morphed, and Hermione saw they were indeed within Malfoy Manor, but the scene was much different than before. The windows were shattered and glass from the large chandelier in the middle of the room had littered the floor around them.
As soon as the room finished materializing, Nicola was enveloped in the arms of Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa pulled back, holding Nicola at arms-length and looking her over.
"Is it done?" Narcissa asked, staring into Nicola's face intently.
Nicola only nodded, her eyes once again taking on the same empty stare they had while she had still been in the bed in the previous memory.
Lucius looked around quickly, as if he were surveying the room, waiting for an attack from any side.
"We have to go. Hide yourself in the kitchens with the elves. If we come back, we'll hide you. If –" Narcissa's voice broke off as she pulled her friend into an embrace again. "If we don't, stay here until the aurors come."
"Mippy," Lucius said, and a small elf appeared in the room with a faint pop. Her tea towel was immaculate white with gold trimmings that ran the length of it. She stood before Lucius dutifully awaiting instructions, and he said, "Take Mrs. Greengrass to the kitchens and hide her in your quarters. If we do not return, keep her there until the aurors arrive."
The elf looked between Lucius and Narcissa, her eyes large with fear. "Mistress, what does Master mean 'if you do not-"
"Mippy, do as I say now!" Lucius' voice rang throughout the room, and Mippy immediately took Nicola's hand and disappeared.
The room dissolved around them, and Hermione and the others found themselves once again standing in the group therapy room. Nicola sat in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, and stared out the window beside her. Hermione took her seat beside Nicola and glanced quickly over to Draco's seat. He was seated in the chair but had his elbows rested on his knees and his head in his hands between them.
He looked up when the rest of them shuffled to their seat and immediately his eyes fell on Hermione's. There was no sign of the Occluded Draco here. The man before her now looked terrified and awash with guilt as he searched her face for something, some sign of anger or blame perhaps. But he would find none. She refused to look at him with pity, knowing how awful that look was on the receiving end, but she had to forcefully will herself not to. If he thought she was going to fault him for protecting his mother or even himself, he was wrong.
Despite everything, his words to her earlier in the day, their history, and the fact that they clearly weren't friends, she had to fight the urge to go to him then. She didn't know what she'd do, and she knew he likely wouldn't let her even if she did know, but she felt an all-consuming desire to tell him it was okay, that he wasn't to blame.
Nicola's voice pulled Hermione's eyes from his, as she said, "You all can stop looking at me like I'm broken now." She scanned the room, meeting everyone's gaze head-on as she did. The same fire was in her eyes again, like she dared any of them to look at her with pity.
"I'm not broken." Nicola straightened her blouse and turned to look out the window again. "I spared you all the gory details for the three weeks that I was locked in that house, but whatever it is you think happened, it probably did." She turned back to face them all again, and her eyes were shining with tears that she refused to let fall.
"Nicola," Walt said, "do you want to explain those memories? What happened to bring you all in front of Voldemort to begin with?"
Nicola inhaled deeply and closed her eyes as she exhaled shakily. "Against my better judgment, my husband thought it was prudent to align our family with the wrong side, so he went to the Malfoys' home and gave his allegiance to that snake." She spat the words, as if they tasted vile leaving her mouth. "Then, when it became obvious that he was actually planning to dominate the Wizarding World, my husband tried to backtrack. Rather than flee, as I suggested, he decided to simply pretend it didn't happen. You-Know-Who didn't seem to care so much at first. The Greengrass family has always been in the lower tier of the Sacred 28. When –"
Nicola paused, closing her eyes again, and put both hands beneath her thighs. "When someone in Slytherin House told that Astoria had been speaking ill of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he had us brought in to make an example of us for those purebloods who were still undecided in their loyalty." She dropped her gaze to the floor and added softly, "You all saw how that turned out."
"What happened with your husband and your other daughter?" Walt questioned.
"My husband was recruited into You-Know-Who's circle then. He was never marked; he was always seen as beneath the others, not important enough to be blessed with the Dark Mark." She rolled her eyes at that and continued. "Daphne ran away. She never returned to Hogwarts." For the first time, the tears spilled over, and Nicola wiped them from her face like they offended her. "I didn't know any of this then. Obviously, I wasn't allowed to see her, and nobody told me anything. I was trapped there, confined to the Lestrange Manor, for two weeks before I saw someone that wasn't Rodolpus or Rabastan. They were gone and just as you saw in my memories, the fireplace roared and out of it stepped Lucius. He couldn't tell me anything about Daphne, but he gave me the glass I used to kill Rabastan. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from using it on myself the very first night I had it was the thought that I had to get back for her. Then, the night you saw, that was the first open chance Rabastan gave me to use it. I don't know how Lucius knew to come when he did, maybe he had it enchanted somehow, but once I made it back to their Manor, I was there for less than a day before the Malfoys returned. They told me about the battle at Hogwarts and about Daphne before they turned themselves over to the Ministry."
Nicola wiped her face and cleared her throat before continuing. "I have no desire to see my husband. I don't blame him for what happened to me, but I do blame him for what happened to Astoria. He put our family in harm's way, and I'll never forgive him for that. I've only seen Daphne once since then. She…" She turned from the group again, looking out the window as if she were speaking to herself and not to the rest of them. "She won't speak to me. She blames us both for Astoria's death, and she isn't wrong. I should have taken them both and ran when Leighton did what he did. But, I didn't. And the things Astoria was caught saying at school were all things she'd heard me saying. So, Daphne isn't wrong. It is our fault."
"None of that is your fault, Nicola," Walt said, kindly, shaking his head slightly as he spoke. "The only people to blame for her death are –"
"You're never going to convince me otherwise." Nicola turned back sharply to look at him and spoke the words without feeling, like there was no anger or sadness behind them, only truth. "And even if I believed that, I'd never convince Daphne to believe it. I'll take her anger. As long as she's safe and breathing, I'll take it."
Walt nodded, sadly. "I hope that one day you'll reconsider that." He paused and shifted in his seat. "How do you feel about Rabastan? Having taken his life, I mean?"
As she spoke, Nicola curled her lip in anger. "The only regret I have is that it took me three weeks to kill the bastard. Three weeks after he killed my daughter. Three weeks of his disgusting hands on me. If I could get into Azkaban, I'd kill Rodophus too."
Hermione looked at Nicola and felt that same anger and hatred. She hadn't ever considered herself capable of true hatred. Even toward Voldemort, she wanted him to die because she knew that was the only way it would ever be over, but she never truly hated him. He was vile and completely evil, but she had never stopped to consider whether she actually hated him or not. She would have killed him in a heartbeat to protect her friends if it had ever come to that, of course, but it wasn't a vengeful thing. It was simply something that needed to be done. She certainly didn't have the same drive toward revenge against Voldemort that Harry had.
But, when she saw Greyback at the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione wanted to make him bleed. The fact that he was ripping Lavender's chest open at the time truly didn't even register in that moment. She smelled his unmistakable stench of blood and sweat and decay over the entire battle raging around her. She knew before she even turned around that she'd find him there. She thought she'd turn, and he'd be bearing down on her. Despite the spells going off all around her and the walls coming down, smelling his rancid scent brought her to a complete standstill for a moment. She turned and saw him there, his mouth stained red from Lavender's blood, and Hermione's immediately ran cold. The whole battle seemed to cease around her as she focused her gaze on him, and without even stopping to think, she fired the most powerful spell she could manage and brought the wall down on top of him.
She agreed with Nicola. She didn't regret doing it; the only regret she had was that she didn't make him feel it first.
Hermione hadn't experienced all that Nicola had, thankfully, but she knew nonetheless what it felt like to truly hate someone for what they'd done to you. If she had it to do over, she would have relished the moment of slowly killing him. As much as she hated how much the war changed her, her malice and desire to watch him bleed wasn't a change that she regretted whatsoever.
Walt was speaking again but addressing the entire room now. "I know some of you have been forced to take a life as well. Would any of you like to share?"
The room was deathly silent, each still in shock over Nicola's memories, many of them still staring at her with that same look of sadness. Hermione glanced to her left to see Nicola still wiping her eyes.
Hermione took a breath and said, "I've killed too. There may have been others that I'm not aware of, while Harry and I were on the run, but I know of two for certain."
They were all looking at her now. She could feel their eyes on her, but she wanted to take some of the attention off Nicola, knowing how it felt to have everyone looking at you like they were waiting on you to break down. "I killed Fenrir Greyback during the Battle of Hogwarts."
At that, Draco's head snapped up. Until then, he'd been looking at the floor for the entirety of Nicola's speech. Hermione went on. She could feel their eyes on her, but she stared at the wall across from her, trying to get it out before she could stop herself. "I only regret that I didn't do it slower. He didn't even know it was me. If I had it to do over, I'd make sure he felt every bit of it."
"Why do you want him to feel it, Hermione?" Walt asked.
Damnit.
"He…" She dropped her head, unable to meet anyone's face, and she felt her face grow hot. Deep down she knew what he had done to her was his wrongdoing, not her own, but still, talking about it seemed like admitting a crime herself. It wasn't a story she was ready to tell yet.
"I…" Her heart began to race again, and she just shook her head, biting back the tears stinging her eyes.
"We don't have to talk about anything that you aren't ready to talk about," Alys said, and Hermione looked up and nodded. "Would you like to talk about the other? You said there were two that you knew of."
Hermione cleared her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Draco still staring at her. Most of the others had looked away, likely trying to piece together the puzzle of what Greyback could have done to her.
Way to go, idiot, Hermione thought, feeling stupid for planting that seed in their minds. It was obvious they would all make the connection, with Nicola's painful memories still so fresh in their minds, and would assume the worst. None of them were looking at her, all feeling just as uncomfortable as she was, clearly reconfirming her beliefs that somehow the situation had been her own fault. All but Draco. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him still staring at her.
"The other I do regret actually. He was in Death Eater robes, so I didn't even know it was him until his mask fell off afterward. It was during the first part of the Battle of Hogwarts. There were curses flying everywhere, and I was just trying to keep my friends alive. It was my one and only Killing Curse."
She knew before she said it, that Draco would definitely not speak to her after hearing it. She remembered casting the curse without really thinking about it. She'd heard Lupin's voice in her mind as he told Harry, "The time for disarming is past!" The Death Eater had been shooting curses at them silently, so she wasn't even sure what they were at the time, but when one narrowly missed Ron, she didn't hesitate.
"When his mask fell off, I immediately wanted to take it back. I never spoke to him, but I knew him from school, and I knew he couldn't possibly have been there because he wanted to be." She looked down, refusing to see how he would react. "It was Theodore Nott. I found out afterward, when they tested his wand, that he had been casting stunners. From others' testimonies, it was determined that his father had forced him to be there."
"You couldn't have known that, Hermione," Walt said, causing her to look up. Thankfully, Draco wasn't looking at her anymore. She glanced toward him briefly, before meeting Walt's gaze.
"No, I couldn't have. I refused to use the Killing Curse afterward, and Nymphadora Tonks died because of it. It's strange, really. I regret having used it one day, and I regret not using it the very next. Honestly, I don't feel like I've saved any lives at all. I just feel like I've taken one." She blinked, pushing the tears back again, and added, " No matter what though, that one thing proved to me that not everything about the war was black and white." At that, Draco looked up, likely remembering those same words she spoke at his trial. His face was expressionless, and she quickly looked away, worried that he'd slip, and she'd see how he really felt.
"Bullshit." They all looked at Seamus, and Hermione was momentarily shocked that he was just now speaking up. He'd just watched Draco torture someone again and was surprisingly silent about it.
"You have something to add, Seamus?" Walt asked, his voice tight.
"Yeah, that's bullshit. Whether or not he was there because he wanted to be, he still had a choice. And he was still casting spells even if they weren't Killing Curses. He could've been hiding out somewhere if his heart wasn't in it."
"I disagree. He was doing what he thought he needed to do to survive. He -" Hermione began before Seamus cut her off again.
"Sure. That's what we were all doing, but ultimately, he made the decision to be there. Just turns out it was the wrong fucking decision."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Draco of all people spoke up first. He calmly said, "You blew up the bridge, right, Finnigan?"
Seamus looked at him, and he couldn't mask the look of contempt on his face. Hermione couldn't recall them speaking or even making eye contact with one another since Draco had "accidentally" attacked him last weekend. "Yeah, and I don't regret shit."
Draco leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Tracy Davis was on that bridge. You remember her?" When Seamus shrugged, Draco continued. "She was imperiused by her mother to fight in the war. She caught Tracy with a Muggleborn and, rather than admit that her daughter wasn't a blood purist too, she imperiused her. Stan Shunpike was on that bridge too. He was imperiused."
"What are you implying exactly?" Seamus was seething.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just giving you information that you weren't aware of. Still feel black and white to you?"
Seamus stood abruptly, and his chair was upended onto the floor with a loud clatter. Walt stood up quickly as well and pulled his wand. Draco never even flinched in his chair. Seamus looked once at Walt, his eyes flickering to the wand in Walt's hand, and then left the room, slamming the door behind him.