Notes: I find your reactions to the last chapter fascinating. I look forward to seeing how those initial thoughts evolve. Anyway, here we go! Part Three, which features a setting largely inspired by Wuthering Heights. Not that we're quite there yet. Also Tom's last name comes from the character of Arthur Devereux in April White's Immortal Descendants series. Arthur and Tom, despite very different origins, remind me of each other in certain ways (beyond the fact they're basically physical twins).
WARNINGS: Graphic description/recounting of rape and torture
Part III: The Sky
29. That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give
He knows less than half the people in the room and not a single one of them looks at him with anything but acidic derision.
Draco can't blame the Order members for their spite. He knows what his decisions cost him in the eyes of the Wizarding World. It was one thing to be an entitled prick at Hogwarts. It is entirely another to be a known Death Eater.
These are the parents, the ministry officials who tried to shelter the world from his family's particular brand of evil. He doubts he will ever find a form of atonement they would accept.
But he will try.
That's the most fundamental shift he's noticed. He no longer shies away from the agony of facing his choices. He no longer pretends he will be sheltered because of who his parents are—were—or the blood that runs in his veins. He knows such beliefs are childish, the reality of a boy who let his mother suffer for his offences. A boy who used fear as an excuse right up until he couldn't.
The coward he was died on the floor beside his father.
He is glad.
Beside him, Tom shifts. Draco angles his head until he can see the other boy. Tom's features are wan, his lips a tight line and his eyes brittle blue diamonds. He has the most to lose here.
Sometimes Draco thinks his newfound lack of fear stems from the fact that he's already lost everything.
His family is a mess, their name worse than dirt. His mother wastes away in a cell in Azkaban, awaiting trial. Draco isn't optimistic about her prospects. Narcissa Malfoy may not be the abomination her husband was, but she stood by and allowed her house to be used for the most profane acts of evil. He hasn't been to see her, but he knows he will have to deliver the news of his father's demise eventually.
Then there's Harry, resting on a plain slab of white marble until his funeral. Magic protects his body, but his soul is long gone. Draco only saw him once after they delivered him to Order headquarters. A thousand words bubbled up his throat, but he only managed a waterlogged I miss you so bloody much.
He still has no idea how to feel about Harry's death. It's a knife to his lungs every time, the sudden collapse of his chest upon itself. He tells himself he'll get used to it, that Harry isn't the first he's ever lost.
But he is. He's the only true friend Draco ever had and now he's nothing but cold flesh and silent bones. And Draco can't ask him what to do about Tom and Hermione and the pit in his stomach that just won't go away.
He can't look into brilliant emerald eyes and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that if Harry's there, they can figure it out.
The days of such guarantees are gone. Harry proved heroes aren't larger than life. That whatever certainties Draco once clung to are illusions, tricks of the mind to quiet the restless soul.
His family is gone. His only friend is gone. His faith is gone.
It makes sense his fear is gone.
And yet there is always more to lose.
That he stands in front of the Order and not a cell speaks to that. One wrong move and his liberty will be gone too.
Draco blinks, stares at the stark contrast of Tom's ebony bangs against his china-white skin.
And then there is Tom. Who Draco knows he never had, but who is slipping away nonetheless. It's a slow untangling, like seaweed lulled apart by the gentle sweep of the tide. One day, they will simply be separate pieces once more.
Draco isn't ready for that day, but he doesn't fear it either. He lost Tom the first moment their lips touched, when he agreed to let his desire outweigh his paralyzing fear. That they have made it this far is a testament to how much they've each grown. But their paths are diverging and Draco knows it's up to him to find a way to set them both free.
The looks on the faces of his former professors, his classmates' parents, his government ministers grow severe. Draco missed something important. Tom's shoulders are a rigid line. Draco doesn't fare much better as he tries to understand the conversation.
In this moment of confusion, Draco is horribly aware that he and Hermione have chosen to protect one of the foulest Dark Wizards who ever lived. It's not the step toward atonement he longs to make. But if Draco can find his way to a halfway clean slate, then Tom deserves a chance as well. They have to be more than the sum of their choices.
"I never agreed to—"
"Now, Molly, you have to consider—"
"He's a—"
The voices rise to turbulent cacophony and Draco fights to keep his expression blank. His ears ache with the heated acid that laces his name as it's volleyed about the room. It's not the first time they've met with Order members, but it's the first time the entire senior membership is present as well as the three of them.
"Enough," Severus doesn't raise his voice, but the room goes instantly quiet, the calm crackle of the fireplace replacing the din.
"Potter left records of his meetings with Mr. Malfoy. He knew he might not survive and took the trouble to document Draco's involvement with the Order, including his service as a spy and his role in freeing Hermione from his family's dungeons. That Mr. Malfoy's choice to join the Death Eater ranks was the wrong decision, none of us dispute. But he made that choice under duress—Voldemort held his mother's life in the balance. Both Potter and I saw Draco lower his wand when it came time to kill Dumbledore—a task I completed, not him."
Molly Weasley goes to speak, but Severus puts up a hand. She reluctantly falls silent, lips pursed.
"I am not saying Mr. Malfoy is without reproach. He certainly is not. But he did see the error in his ways and corrected them as best he could." Severus crosses until he stands beside Draco. He lets his dark eyes scrape every corner of the room before he takes Draco's arm and unceremoniously yanks up the sleeve of Draco's navy jumper. He leaves Draco's blank forearm on display as he rolls up his own sleeve. The Dark Mark still curls against his skin, its ink dark and potent.
"Now tell me, which of us deserves to be locked up?"
There's an array of shocked murmurs and Draco is grateful he had Tom remove the mark. Nothing like proving your loyalty by eliminating an indestructible tattoo.
Kingsley Shacklebolt steps forward, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Just because Malfoy lacks the Dark Mark, doesn't mean his crimes should be excused."
"I don't particularly disagree," Severus replies. One dark brow arches as he continues. "But if you do, I must insist you lock me up with him. I have committed far more heinous crimes than Mr. Malfoy."
Remus Lupin shifts beside Molly Weasley, his gaze flickering between Draco and Severus. "I believe Mr. Malfoy wants to do better. He has already taken steps to prove that by helping to defeat Voldemort. Punishing him further serves no purpose. If we were all to be punished for our mistakes, not a single one of us would be free from Azkaban."
The room goes deathly silent. The members of the Order glance nervously at each other and Draco realizes his former professor speaks the truth. The war has made villains of them all.
Shacklebolt sighs. "So Malfoy remains free, as long as he agrees to remain with the Order until the ministry becomes functional once more and we can decided a more permanent course. It's nothing personal, Mr. Malfoy, but we'd simply be reassured knowing whatever you're doing, you're doing it under our roof."
Draco shrugs, his shoulders light as air. This is much more than he expected. "Of course, Sir."
"And you," Shacklebolt's attention snaps to the boy beside Draco. "Thomas Devereux, was it?"
"Just Tom is fine."
Tom appears nonchalant as he pushes his dark hair back from his eyes to properly meet Shacklebolt's stare, but Draco sees the fissures is his composure. His elegant fingers tangle together, tugging at his cuticles. The line of his jaw is calm, but the muscles at his temple clench with an unsteady rhythm.
This is the first time they've made him face the firing squad that is the Order.
Both Draco and Hermione have spoken of Tom—a helpful Wizard they found while in hiding in Germany—but the Order leadership has never been eye to eye with the last remnant of the Dark Lord.
Hermione shifts closer to Tom, her fingers trailing over the leather of his sleeve. He flicks his eyes to her, warmth chasing away the steel for half a second.
The exchange isn't lost on the Order. Molly Weasley tilts her head at Hermione and motherly kindness coats her tongue as she asks, "and who is Tom to you, dear?"
Hermione seizes up like Molly's conjured a boggart. Every person here must have known something about her relationship with Harry. To admit to being involved with Tom must seem blasphemous.
Tom clears his throat, batting his sooty lashes at Molly. The gesture has the intended effect, the woman's cheeks heat to an unflattering shade of scarlet. Draco just avoids scoffing aloud.
"There's no need to get personal, ma'am." Tom lets one of his deadliest smiles pull at his full lips. "Hermione and I are good friends." He lets his azure eyes slide to Draco. "Just as Draco and I are."
Draco chokes, just managing to disguise his reaction behind a cough. He stares at Tom with panic. What in Salazar's name is the other boy playing at?
A frantic glance around shows far more confusion than comprehension. Only Severus looks decidedly unimpressed. Of course, his godfather already knows just how twisted their web truly is.
At least Tom has managed to derail Molly Weasley entirely. Her cheeks continue to burn as she utterly fails to make eye contact with any of them.
Lupin lets out a cough that might be smothered laughter and says, "I think we've learned enough for tonight. We'll make arrangements to send you to an appropriate safe house."
Hermione nods, a tad overenthusiastically. "Thank you very much, Sir."
Draco lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding as they turn toward the chamber exit. He and Tom file out the door, but Mrs. Weasley catches Hermione's arm. Hermione goes stiff in an instant and the matron's hand drops away.
Draco thinks he sees something like hurt flash in the redhead's eyes. "I've been trying to contact you for days, Hermione dear. Wouldn't you please come for tea with Ginny and I tomorrow."
"Thank you," Hermione murmurs, but her eyes focus on a point beyond the woman's head. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling in the mood for tea these days."
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them. Tom shifts closer to Hermione, his shoulder gently bumping hers. Draco finds himself doing the same, until the two of them flank her on either side.
Mrs. Weasley takes a step back. "Can I at least visit you, dear?"
Hermione trembles between them. Her throat works furiously before she manages. "Fine. One hour. Tomorrow, at whatever safe house they send us. You can bring Ginny, but don't bring anyone else."
The woman worries her lip a long moment before nodding. "If that's what you need, dear."
"Don't expect things to be the same," is all Hermione says before turning away. Draco holds her hand tightly, Tom mirroring the gesture on her other side. The three of them walk out of Grimmauld Place, heads held high.
"Do you want me to stay?"
Hermione hears voices in the receiving room and the telltale shuffle of feet as visitors clear the fireplace. This safehouse has been reconnected to a limited floo network, the risk minimal now that Voldemort is dead and the remaining Death Eaters have fled.
Her stomach has been in knots all day; her veins slow with thick floes of icy dread. She would be anywhere else if she could, but Hermione knows such avoidance leads nowhere.
She doesn't move to sit up, despite the increasing volume of the new voices. Her head lies in Tom's lap, his lithe fingers threading through her unruly hair. She wants to ask him to stay, to hold her bloody hand through this impossible conversation.
"No. You should go." She sighs and pushes away from the safety of his warmth. "Find Draco. I haven't seen him all day."
Sapphire eyes become turbulent skies. She's not sure if it's her refusal or her observation that puts him on edge. The line of his jaw hardens.
"I don't want you to face this alone."
"Trust me," she murmurs as both of them rise to their feet.
Tom runs a finger down the slope of her jaw. Her skin sparks at the contact and Hermione has to draw a steadying breath.
"It's not you I don't trust." His gaze flickers to the hall, his implication clear.
Hermione doesn't trust Mrs. Weasley or Ginny not to make a mess out of this, but she also knows neither woman wishes her any harm. She will be physically safe. And the rest, well, that's been beyond her control for some time now.
"I've got this," she insists.
He opens his mouth to protest further, but she cuts him off with the press of her lips. For a moment they're both lost in the slide of skin and the wet heat of each other. He lets out a half groan that sends heat surging through her.
Tom pulls back, his breath a rapid canter. His hands are still buried in the depths of her hair as he looks down at her, pupils blown wide.
They've shared a handful of heart stopping kisses like this one, but neither of them has made the move to go further. Hermione still searches for Draco every time they pull apart. She doesn't even know if she's capable of more than this, but if she is, she won't go there with Tom while he's still entangled with Draco.
The illusion that she could be satisfied with Tom shared equally between the two of them has been well and truly shattered by the cold rush of envy whenever she imagines them together. She wishes she could be okay with that. She hates what she's doing to Draco. But she can't hide from her heart, not anymore.
If she will have Tom, it will be all of him.
It may not matter. She may be stuck in this sexually limited limbo for eternity, where she feels the pangs of desire, but has no will to act on them. No matter what she chooses, her life will be more bereft than she ever imagined.
She places a hand over her pelvis, feeling the emptiness within.
Hermione knows that biology doesn't work like that. She still has all the proper organs, but they might as well have vaporized for all the good they will do her.
Perhaps it would be better if she stopped this flirtation with him now. If she gave him no more false promises with her lips. Her heart might be all in, but she may never be.
She takes a step back from Tom and his hands tear painfully at her hair. Hermione mutters a quiet curse and his features harden in an instant. He's felt her retreat and knows it's more than their physical distance.
She can't bring herself to meet his gaze. She stares instead at the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. His voice is nothing like the gentle caress she knows so well when he says, "I'll go find Draco."
It's a particularly well aimed barb, but she refuses to let him see her flinch. She knows he doesn't mean it beyond an expression of his frustration. She doesn't blame him.
She's bloody frustrated too. Her body is undermining her heart and it's a new kind of agony. The kind where she wants—burns even—but cannot stand the heat of the fire. To desire him so fully, but to be unable to touch him in the necessary way.
Her anger burns stronger each day she's pulled part by these contradictory urges.
A part of her wants nothing more than to rage, to scream the injustice of her fate until her throat is raw and her voice has ripped a hole in the heavens. Another part wants to burrow deep into the earth until the ground itself crushes her, until she no longer remembers the world exists and Tom is in it.
Most of her understands she has no choice but to put one foot in front of the other. To take one breath and then another. To watch the sun rise and fall each day.
There is no direction left to go but forward.
Her body is irrevocably broken and no amount of rage or sorrow will change that.
"It's so good to see you dear," Molly Weasley gushes from the doorway.
Tom is gone and Hermione stands alone in the safehouse's living room. It's simply furnished, a couch with upholstery from the seventies and a matching loveseat. The pictures on the walls are simple landscapes framed by plain white wood. It feels impersonal, as if the room imitates a home, but is not one.
Molly and Ginny stand before the paisley wallpaper, their red hair clashing horribly with the dull tones of avocado and burnt umber.
Hermione's gaze sweeps the length of Ginny's frame. She's taller than Hermione remembered, her features worn wan by the war. Her bright blue eyes simmer with repressed emotion, a mix Hermione doesn't attempt to identify. Ginny was never good at holding her tongue, Hermione will know how she feels soon enough.
"Hermione," Ginny manages through gritted teeth. Her mother directs a fierce scowl toward her daughter, but Ginny has eyes only for Hermione.
Hermione sweeps a hand toward the worn furniture. "Won't you have a seat?"
It's the closest she's going to get to proper manners. Mother and daughter share a charged stare before Ginny trails her mother to the couch. Hermione wonders why the girl is even here. She clearly wants nothing to do with Hermione.
It's not a surprise. Things between them broke when Harry chose Hermione. Just as Ron felt betrayed by their choice, so too did Ginny. But she'd had the sense not to storm off in the middle of a sensitive Horcrux search and get herself captured. Of course, Ginny knew the truth ages before her brother.
Mrs. Weasley looks at the empty coffee table, searching for tea or anything else to occupy her twitching fingers. But the table is empty and Hermione isn't about to offer them anything. This is already too much, but the Weasleys were good to her once upon a time and she owes them the courtesy of this visit.
"I was very sorry to hear about Harry," Mrs. Weasley manages. Her and everyone else who ever lived. "I know how much he meant to you."
Hermione's not about to explain her feelings evolved by the time Harry passed. There's no point dredging up the past.
"He meant a lot," she allows and that, at least, is the truth. She may no longer be in love with Harry, but she loves—loved—him still.
"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Ginny hisses.
Hermione's brows shoot upward. She looks to Mrs. Weasley. The woman's lips purse together in clear displeasure. "Ginny was not present at any of the Order briefings, so she doesn't know."
"Any you didn't think to fill in the blanks for her?" Hermione asks, incredulous.
The older woman swallows, her eyes laden with emotion. "It's not my story to tell, Hermione dear."
Hermione doesn't know whether to be thankful or irate. This is a story she does not relish telling. That she has never told in full on her own. When she comes to insurmountable obstacles, she relies on Tom and Draco to fill in the excruciating pieces.
But Draco is missing and she's pushed Tom away.
"I'd rather not."
"Of course," Mrs. Weasley expression pinches, but her eyes remain soft.
"No," Ginny grouses. "Not good enough. You've been away for years. I know part of it was spent with the Death Eaters, but we all got to think you were dead for months after that. So I think I deserve to know what you've been up to. How you bloody got Harry killed."
Ah, there it is. The sharp edge behind her sky-blue eyes.
Hermione supposes Ginny's right from a certain point of view. But she's wrong from all the ones that matter.
And she's not going to know that unless Hermione's honest. Or as honest as she can be while concealing the truth of Tom.
She thinks she'll meet fire with fire just this once.
"You want to know, Ginny? Fine." Hermione's smile is all teeth and cold fury. "Harry and I were trying to save your brother. And we did, but I got caught in the process. So really, we only exchanged one prisoner for another. But Voldemort knew I had more in my head than your brother, so to protect all of you, to protect Harry, I obliviated myself."
Both Mrs. Weasley and Ginny emit breathy noises of surprise. Hermione hasn't mentioned anything about the obliviate in her official reports. She hasn't mentioned many things, things that are too private to endure public scrutiny. She won't hold back this time.
"Then, you want to know what happened?"
Ginny's eyes flash, but she nods shortly.
"Then I was a prisoner for nearly ten months. When they realized they couldn't crack my head using the Cruciatus Curse, they let me rot in my cell, bait for Harry. Most of them forgot about me, but not all of them. Not bloody Bellatrix Lestrange with her taste for pain or…" Hermione voice breaks and she hates it. She hates that the women across from her wear twin expressions of horror, as if they already know what she will say next.
She forces air across her tongue, the truth dragged with it. "It wasn't just torture. That would have been awful, but survivable. It was rape. Use your imagination. Create the ghastliest scenario you can imagine. I guarantee it happened to me."
The Weasley women flinch and Hermione presses further.
"Do you know what it feels like to be torn apart between your legs by one man? How about two? Or your mouth forced down until he's suffocating you with his cock? I'm sure you're thinking, why didn't you fight back? Why not bite him while he's in your mouth? Because if you fight back, whatever comes next is worse."
Hermione gives a grim smile of satisfaction when Ginny reels backward, her freckled hands digging into the upholstery.
"So, you see, I was a bit preoccupied having my body violated and losing my ability to have children. I'm sorry I missed out on your bloody war."
Ginny is ashen, her freckles standing out like leopard's spots. "I didn't know."
"Of course, you didn't." Some of the anger seeps out of Hermione. "How could you? I wouldn't have imagined anything as horrible as that unless I'd been forced to live through it."
Ginny's hands twist in her lap. She glances up at Hermione through her lashes. "How did you get your memories back?"
Hermione trembles. The ghost of agony crawls beneath her skin, but it is different than the others, drawing only relief, not anger. She knows the pain was incredible, unendurable, but she will never fault Tom for doing as she asked.
"I had help," is all she says.
The other girl waits a beat, but when Hermione says nothing, she looks away.
Hermione has no idea what Ginny endured in the two years since they sat face to face. She knows they both have changed beyond recognition.
"Did Harry know he was going to die?"
Unlike the other questions, this one weighs on Hermione, dragging her down to the depths of grief. She blinks away a handful of tears before her voice is level enough to respond.
"He knew the risks, but no, he didn't walk into the room expecting to die. There was something about the Horcruxes we didn't know. That Harry, maybe from when Voldemort attacked him the first time, was a Horcrux. To defeat Voldemort, we had to destroy all his Horcruxes."
She lets the implication hang between them. It's no less horrible now than it was in the Malfoys' summer parlor.
The elder Weasley has already heard this part of the story. Her eyes are worn with grief, but hold no surprise. Ginny, however, clearly puts the pieces to this tragic puzzle together for the first time.
Hermione levels an even stare at the girl. "No matter what you feel, no matter how angry with me or anyone else you are. This is the truth. Voldemort killed Harry Potter and no one else."
That Harry brought the soul cleaving knife into his own breast isn't something Ginny needs to know. Ginny has fractured enough already. Hermione wishes she had such luxuries.
Mrs. Weasley gives Ginny a patchwork handkerchief and the younger girl snivels softly into it.
The matriarch turns her attention to Hermione. "How are you doing?"
It's tempting to lie, but Hermione has told nothing but the brutal truth. She's not about to stop now. "Each day is a struggle. I'm angry more often than I'm sad. I want to line up the remaining Death Eaters and execute them one by one until my rage has been slaked." She shakes her head, ignoring the appalled pull of the woman's thin lips. "I won't, of course. I know it wouldn't do a bloody thing for me. But know that if it did, I wouldn't hesitate."
Ginny's curling further in on herself, her grief crashing through the shell of her anger. Hermione knows the feeling. There's nothing to do but let the dam break.
Her mother rubs soothing circles over Ginny's hunched back, but her focus remains on Hermione.
"Do you have anyone to… help? Who you can talk to?"
She thinks immediately of Tom or even Draco. She knows Mrs. Weasley imagines some sort of professional healer like the one Hermione saw when Harry brought her to the makeshift clinic. But there are secrets embedded within Hermione's trauma that she will never share with another soul. The truth of Tom. The cost of her memory.
So, she smiles and tells her first lie, "yes, I have a healer I'm working with."
The relief in Mrs. Weasley's expression sours Hermione's stomach. Is she truly so visibly damaged?
They speak of nothing important after that. Hermione loses track of the conversation as Mrs. Weasley goes into egregious detail about the well-being of each of her children, excepting Ginny and more notably Ron.
She barely notices when they leave, handkerchief still pressed to Ginny's swollen red eyes.
Hermione searches the safehouse—they are the only occupants save Tonks and Lupin, who are locked away in a far study—an apology on her tongue, but finds neither Tom nor Draco anywhere.
She settles onto the floor between their bedrooms and waits, the hours dripping by like warm wax.