Hermione lay in her bed after she got back to Gryffindor Tower, the curtains drawn around her. She heard Lavender and Parvati come in shortly after she did, Lavender whispering excitedly about Ron and how brightly his hair shined by firelight. She threw up a silencing charm around her bed and lay still, staring at the ceiling. If this whole night hadn't have happened, she would be glowering with jealousy at the sound of that daft bimbo speaking of Ron. But she found in the present moment, she didn't care much.
Hermione tried to wrack her brain, attempting to conjure any memory of the night she could. In her hand was the full vial of Dreamless Draught that Malfoy had stolen for her, pressing harshly into her thigh under the blankets. Seeing no reason to hesitate taking it any longer, she opened the vial and pressed it to her lips, struggling to swallow it down as she was still pressed back into her pillow.
Malfoy. What was going on with him? He hadn't been at the Prefects' meeting on the Hogwarts Express and had thus far been keeping to himself for the most part. Hermione grimaced as she pictured Harry's face when he finally showed up to the Great Hall after Malfoy'd stomped on his nose. She'd tried repeatedly to tell Harry to mind his business or he'd be hurt, and that day she'd been right. Malfoy was still angry about his father's imprisonment at the beginning of summer and he blamed Harry—his resentment made him too dangerous to follow. She thought about when they'd followed him to Knockturn Alley over the summer, what they'd heard him say and threaten Borgin with.
Hermione tried to merge the two individuals—the Malfoy who'd threatened the shop owner and the Malfoy who'd tenderly washed her face as she cried. Had he taken the Mark? Were they wrong about him? Harry seemed adamant that he'd taken the Mark and was joining Voldemort to avenge his father. But if that were the case, why would he have bothered with the soiled, pathetic Mudblood rape victim?
She'd spent her seventeenth birthday alone with Draco Malfoy as he'd tended her wounds after a vicious attack. The night could not have been more confusing to her in her weakened state. The faint pain in her body throbbed as her eyes grew too heavy to concentrate on her thoughts any longer. She fell asleep with Malfoy's face swirling in her mind's eye, filled with concern and worry.
o-o-o
Draco lay in his bed after his bath, the curtains drawn tightly around his bed. He was exhausted and every bone in his body ached for the sweet relief sleep would bring. But his mind would not shut off long enough to fall asleep and he was tossing and turning hopelessly. He turned onto his left side and extended his arm out. In the eerie green light that filtered into the room by way of the Black Lake, he could see the harsh black outline marring his otherwise flawlessly pale skin.
He wished he could go back three months and refuse to take the Mark, run, hide. On his sixteenth birthday, the symbol had meant so much to him—the chance to avenge his father's incarceration, the responsibility to become the Head of the Malfoy House, the chance to prove himself worthy of the Dark Lord's praise. What a fool he'd been. The Dark Lord had given him this task in hopes that he would die—retribution for his father's inability to retrieve the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries. His mother had been right to worry, to sob as he received the brand.
"Draco, do not be a fool. You're only sixteen years old! At least wait until you've finished school!" Narcissa had begged her only son on his sixteenth birthday.
"Mother, if I succeed, our family will be honored above all others. The Malfoys will be able to hold their heads high once more! And if I die, at least I'll have died with purpose!" Draco had pulled from his mother's grasp, his statement causing her to collapse with grief.
"Do not speak of such things, Draco Lucius! You have no idea what you're doing!" she wailed, uncharacteristically for a woman of her status, he thought.
Too right she'd been. The only other person outside of the Dark Lord's inner circle to know he'd received the Mark was his longtime friend, Theodore Nott. Theo was fiercely loyal, the son of a Death Eater himself. He kept to himself in school, focusing on his studies and keeping out of trouble, never joining in on Malfoy's merry band of cronies. He was the one individual Malfoy trusted most in this world, raised together since birth. But even Nott had no idea the magnitude of the task that the Dark Lord had assigned him. Twenty days into the school year and Malfoy felt as though he were buckling under the pressure already. And to make matters worse, the ancient Headmaster had been scarcely seen around campus.
And Granger. Of course she'd have to surface at the most inconvenient time, when even a rumor of his kindness towards her could get them both killed. He ran a hand over his Mark, his skin still raised and constantly burning. What would she do if she knew the truth? Probably run off to inform her two dunderheaded best friends and the three of them would probably skip into Professor Dumbledore's office faster than Potter could catch the snitch in a game against Hufflepuff.
Granger. He'd wished desperately to see her naked, figure out what she hid under those baggy school robes for the entirety of his teenaged life thus far. But the thought of someone taking advantage of her was despicable and he felt dirty all over again at the thought of her broken, battered body. He was a fool to help her like he had. He should have just retrieved Madam Pomfrey and then went to bed, kept himself distanced. Instead, he'd complied with Granger's wish to keep her attack secret. He only wanted to spare her from further humiliation and, in the process, had showed entirely too much kindness to her.
He knew she wouldn't say anything of his kindness to anyone—to do that would be to divulge why she'd been in a position to need his help in the first place. Something told him that she had no desire to tell Potter and Weasley. Draco suspected that Weasley was her current love interest and to tell him would be to admit she was soiled and defiled. She probably thought Weasley'd find her disgusting now, if he knew how she'd been used and tossed into dark corridor.
Malfoy felt inexplicably angry with Potter and Weasley. Why hadn't either of them been watching over her, protecting her? What was the point of having two male best friends if neither of them were worth a good goddamn? They couldn't even prevent her drink from being tainted. Unless one of them had done it… Malfoy frowned. No. Even he didn't hate them enough to believe either one of them could do that to their friend. Still…no one had been there to protect her, to make sure she wasn't led away into a dark room; no one heard her scream and fight and claw at her attacker; no one cared enough to go looking for her when she disappeared from the party. The thought made his blood boil—with anger at the other two idiotic members of the Golden Trio and with frustration that he couldn't be the protective force in her life, as he so desperately wished. Blood supremacy meant nothing to him and hadn't for years now.
The anger he felt at that thought transfigured into a strong malevolence at the thought of his father. It was his father's fault he was in this position to begin with. Who would follow the Dark Lord willingly? The man—monster—was clearly deranged. Draco knew that once you were in, there was no way out of the Death Eaters, except at the receiving end of a Killing Curse. Who would willingly spend the rest of his or her life looking over their shoulder, constantly in fear that they'd be murdered? Once the Dark Lord called for his father in Draco's fourth year, he should have collected Draco and his mother and ran. Instead, he answered the beckoning call, placing Voldemort before his family once again.
Then, he had to fail at retrieving the damn prophecy and got himself incarcerated in Azkaban. Draco had been pressured into taking his spot, initially willing to avenge the man who'd raised him, now reluctant to keep living another day. How quickly his life had gone to shit—less than three months in and he was ready to throw in the proverbial towel and Avada himself.
Draco sighed deeply, using his pristine fingernails to claw at the Mark, bright red lines running through black. He stopped only as the first satisfying drop of blood sprang forth, running in a thin line over his pallid wrist.
What a fucking fool he was.
o-o-o
Hermione awoke much later than she had hoped the next morning. She took a few moments to stretch her body, groaning miserably at the aching in her head, her ribs, between her thighs. Though the pain had subsided substantially in her face and ribs, Malfoy had carefully avoided her core and for that she was thankful. She felt around on her nightstand for her wand—nothing. She sat bolt upright, despite the protesting in her head and body, and peered around the bed curtains in the bright morning.
Hermione frowned as she failed to spot the hawthorn wood sticking out of her clothes and discarded robes. She scooted to the edge of her bed and dropped her feet to the floor, her ribs screaming as she lowered herself to her knees to check under the bed. Nothing. She checked in her trunk, rummaged through her school bag and her wand was nowhere to be found. Panic began to set in—what was she going to do in a magical school without a wand? How would she protect herself? Protect yourself? You did a smash up job of that last night! she thought bitterly.
Hermione decided to dress and head to a late breakfast, her mind racing with thoughts of how she was going to explain her lack of a wand. She pulled on a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized hooded jumper, the thought of her attacker seeing her curves bringing bile to the back of her throat. He would be out there and she would face him, unknowing as to who she was being forced to face. Every man in the Great Hall was a suspect. All except Draco Malfoy—who before last night, she would have suspected above all others.
She kicked the clothing she'd worn the night before into the fireplace, her once-favorite crimson sweater making her want to scream. Hermione couldn't remember a time in her life when she'd felt so angry, so out of control, so lost. She couldn't mention this to her two best friends—it was far too embarrassing and shameful. If she told her mother, she'd yank her out of Hogwarts faster than a portkey. She thought about Mrs. Weasley…but she had seven children of her own to worry about and Hermione couldn't bare the thought of her beloved Weasleys thinking less of her…or worse pitying her. Same with Ginny, with whom she was little more than acquaintances anyway. None of the females in her House could keep a secret and the teachers would make a huge deal out of it and drag all of the others into it anyway.
Hermione grimaced when she realized that she had a secret, a dirty little secret that only she, her attacker and Draco Malfoy knew about. She hated Malfoy knowing. She'd been grotesque when he found her—bloody, beaten, bruised. It was evident that the beating wasn't the extent of her injuries from the smears of blood over her inner thighs, the wincing as she'd lowered herself into the water, the way she'd limped as she was unable to move her legs from the pain between them. He knew. Knew that her virginity had been stolen from her unwillingly. As if her situation hadn't been humiliating enough to begin with.
She sat on the edge of her bed and began crying once more, her sobs turning into dry heaves. Her dorm mates were still sleeping, all hung over from the festivities the night before. The festivities that had continued despite her being tortured. Hermione wiped her face with her sleeves and willed herself to stop crying before she put a Glamour Charm over her now pale bruises. She made her way down the stairs and through the castle, trying to steady her breathing. The corridors were fairly empty on this Sunday morning and for that she was thankful. Hermione wasn't hungry, but she knew she needed to keep appearances if she didn't want to raise suspicions.
The plagued witch walked into the Great Hall with her face trained toward the floor, avoiding the eyes of everyone already enjoying their breakfast. She could see in her peripheral a shock of white blond hair, the light shining through the window behind him almost making it appear as though his head was on fire. She lifted her eyes toward the Slytherin table and caught Malfoy's gaze as his eyes followed her. He raised an eyebrow questioningly and she gave one nod—she was all right. He turned his attention to Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.
Hermione took her seat next to Ron, who was shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth with a ferocity that made her stomach roil. "You look like shit, 'Mione," he said through mouthfuls of food.
She forced a light laugh. "Thanks, Ron. You really know how to compliment a lady."
"Where did you go last night? One minute you were there, the next…it's almost as though you vanished into thin air!" Harry told her, eyeing Malfoy over her shoulder—his new favorite pastime.
"I drank quite a bit and headed up to bed…you were talking to Ginny and Ron to Lavender so I just slipped out," she lied.
"It looked like you were nursing the same butterbeer for an hour," Ron said skeptically, swallowing his food.
She shrugged and her friends, thankfully, dropped the subject. Harry decided to bring up his Draco Malfoy/Death Eater conspiracy theories, his favorite topic of conversation. Hermione wished he would shut up, Malfoy's name and memory leaving a bad taste in her mouth.
He knew.
Malfoy had questioned her status, even this morning. If he were a Death Eater, would he be treating her with this much concern? Doubtful. And though she couldn't explain his sudden soft kindness toward her, she felt certain he was not a follower of the Darkest wizard known to man. "Harry, will you just drop the Malfoy talk? He's not a damn Death Eater!" she exclaimed, her voice much higher in the second half of her outburst.
Hermione slammed her hands on the table before her as her hair frizzed around her head, taking on a mind of its own as she grew angrier. Her voice and actions drew the attention of a few students around her and they looked her way and gave her questioning expressions as she stood to leave. The Slytherins were all staring at her silently when she turned around on the bench to stand. "Where're you going?" Ron asked, bewildered.
"The library," she replied, stalking out of the Great Hall, her breakfast untouched.
She turned down the hall and headed into the girl's bathroom. When she entered, Moaning Myrtle screamed in delight. "Oh, it's you! Back to brew more Polyjuice, eh?"
"Get out of here, Myrtle!" she shrieked, stalking over to the porcelain sink basin.
"Oooh, someone's awfully testy!" Myrtle teased, her shrill laugh piercing the air as she dove into the toilet.
Hermione gripped the edges of the sink until her knuckles turned white. She tried to steady her breathing, lest she start hyperventilating when she heard the door click open softly. Upon looking over her shoulder, the pale form of Draco Malfoy appeared in the mirror. He was wearing his Slytherin Quidditch jersey and a pair of jeans, his hands shoved into the pockets. "Are you okay, Granger?" his throaty whisper sounded, as loud as though he'd spoken at full volume in the quiet of the room.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked him, narrowing her eyes at him in the mirror.
He moved a few steps forward and she tensed up. He caught sight of the tension building in her body the closer he got and he stopped behind her about five feet. "Everyone heard your little outburst over breakfast," he shrugged.
She averted her eyes, looking down at the tarnished pewter of the sink faucet. "Harry has been harping on and on about how you're a Death Eater for a month now. I am so sick of hearing his conspiracy theories," she finished, refusing to meet his gaze.
Malfoy frowned behind her. "You don't think I'm a Death Eater?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head. "You're only sixteen. What would Voldemort want with children?" she asked, eyeing his face as he stared into her reflection, his mercurial eyes boring into her.
"Don't say his name," he said, his voice icy with an undertone of…what? Pleading.
Hermione was quiet as she stared back at him. He sighed. "How are you feeling?" he asked, maintaining his distance.
"Like I got into a fight with the Whomping Willow and the tree won," she replied, her tone clipped.
Malfoy's response was a deep hum and he was quiet a beat before asking, "What about mentally?"
Hermione looked into the dirty sink once more, her knuckles tightening so harshly she wondered if she could break porcelain with her bare hands. What was she going to say to him, her sworn enemy? He was asking her how she was coping after a trauma. Harry and Ron were loving and fiercely loyal, but they had never asked her about how she felt. So why was Malfoy? She looked into the mirror at him and he was standing casually, his hands still in his pants pockets as he stared at her, his face not expectant and not sneering, but oddly softened and genuine. "It could be anyone in that Hall," she whispered, her lip quivering.
He nodded, pursing his lips. "You still can't remember anything?" he asked, his tone almost hopeful.
She shook her head. "I have tried and tried. Whatever he slipped me, it must have been laced with a memory loss potion."
Malfoy nodded once again. "I agree."
Hermione leaned forward on her hands, sweaty against the smooth sink. "Would you like me to stay?" he asked uncertainly.
She thought about it a moment. The last thing she wanted was to unload her emotional baggage onto the strange Slytherin. She shook her head. Malfoy exhaled and turned to go. As he put a hand on the knob to open the door, he turned his head, not quite looking over his shoulder at her. "Oh, and Granger…I take my bath at ten each night," he said, so quietly she thought she'd misheard him at first.
He left the room and she was left alone once more. Malfoy's behavior was disconcerting and confusing. Her weary mind could hardly handle the thoughts swimming through it.
She splashed some water onto her face and took a deep breath. After countless minutes staring at her tired face, she left the bathroom and walked to the library. She weaved her way through the shelves of literature to the back table by the window—her usual haunt. Hermione stopped dead in her tracks when she rounded the corner.
There was a thin white box sitting on the table where she was usually bent over an ancient tome, quill scratching across parchment as she took notes. A thin box that was shaped suspiciously like a wand. Hermione went forward to retrieve the box, but withdrew her hand, hesitant. A note was attached to the top, the handwriting unrecognizable.
You'll be needing this, Princess.
Hermione rushed to the nearest trash can and retched openly into it, her heaves echoing in the empty library. Madam Pince came around the corner and looked startled at her state. "Are you okay, dear? Do you need me to fetch Madam Pomfrey?" she asked, placing a hand on Hermione's back.
"Go get Professor Snape," she pleaded before burying her head back down into the trash bin.
The librarian looked even more startled at her request but nodded once and scuttled away to retrieve the greasy-haired Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher.
