The following is inspired heavily by the works of JK Rowling, Harper Lee, Craig Silvey, and Mark Twain. I do not own this material.
Draco Malfoy has come to my window.
I don't know why, but he has. Maybe he's in trouble. Maybe he wants to kill me. Maybe he doesn't have anywhere else to go.
Either way, he has frightened the living shit out of me. This is the hottest summer I can remember, and the thick heat seems to seep into my bedroom. It's like the earth's core in here. The only relief comes from the cooler air that slides in through the thin wooden slats of my window. It's impossible to sleep, and I've spent most of the night reading by the light of my wand. So when Draco Malfoy abruptly rapped on my louvres with his knuckle and hissed my name, I leapt from my bed, dropping my copy of Huckleberry Finn.
"Granger! Granger!"
I knelt like a sprinter, alert and fearful.
"Who is it?"
"Granger! Come out here!"
"Who is it?"
"It's Draco!"
"What? Who?"
"Draco! Draco Malfoy!" He pressed his face right up to the glass. His eyes were grey and wild. I squinted.
"What? Really? …What do you want?"
"I need your help. Just come out here and I'll explain. Please, Granger," he whispered.
"What? Why?"
"Heaven almighty, Granger. Just hurry up! Get out here!"
And so, he's there. Draco Malfoy is at my window. I haven't talked to him in years.
Shaken, I clamber onto the bed and remove the dusty slats of glass, piling them onto my pillow. I quickly kick into a pair of jeans and squeeze headfirst out of my window. Something invisible tugs at my legs. This is the first time I've ever tried to sneak out of my parents' house. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, nonetheless. The thrill of this, coupled with the fact that Draco Malfoy needs my help, already fills the moment with something portentous.
My exit from the window is something like a foal being born. It's a graceless and gangly drop, directly onto my mother's cherished hydrangea bush. I emerge quickly and pretend it didn't hurt.
It's a full moon tonight and my street is quiet. The neighbourhood dogs are probably too hot to bark their alarm. Draco Malfoy is standing in the middle of our backyard. He shifts his feet from right to left as though the ground beneath him were smouldering.
Malfoy is taller than I remember. He's barely a year older than I am, but looks a lot more. His body is wiry though defined. His shape and his muscles have clearly sorted themselves out. His hair is a silvery blonde scruff of rough tufts.
Malfoy looks like he's just crawled out of Dante's inferno. His white button-up shirt is filthy, and his short canvas pants are cut just past his knees. His face is covered in swatches of dirt. Sweat is glistening on every exposed part of skin. He's not wearing any shoes. He looks like an island castaway.
He takes a step towards me. I take one back.
"Okay. Are you ready?"
"What? Ready for what?"
"I told you. I need your help, Granger. Come on." His eyes are darting. His weight presses back.
I'm nervous and afraid but excited. I long to turn around and wedge myself back through the horse's arse from which I've just fallen, to sit in the safe hot womb of my bedroom. But this is Draco Malfoy, and he has come to me. Plus, it's been too long since I've been on an adventure of any kind. I miss feeling brave.
"Okay. Wait," I say, realising my feet are also bare. I quietly walk to the back porch where my sandals sit, scrubbed clean and perfectly dry. As I strap them on, I realise that this is my first display of girlishness and it hasn't even been five minutes. So I jog back to Malfoy with as much tomboyishness as I can muster, which even in the moonlight must resemble something of an arthritic chicken.
"You ready?" I ask.
Draco Malfoy doesn't respond. He just turns and sets off. I follow.
After climbing my garden fence, we head downhill into the streets of Wiltshire. Houses huddle and cluster closer together as we reach the middle of town. This late, the architecture is desolate and leeched of colour. It feels like we're running through a postcard. Towards the eastern fringe, past the train station, the houses bloom again and we pass quietly under streetlights which illuminate lawns and gardens. I have no idea where we're going. The further we move, the keener my apprehension grows. Still, there's something emboldening about being awake when the rest of the world is asleep. Like I know something they don't.
We walk for an age but I don't ask questions. Some way out of town, past the bridge and the broad part of the Severn River and the farmland, Malfoy pauses and feeds a cigarette into his mouth. Wordlessly, he shakes the battered pack my way. I've never smoked before. I've certainly never been offered one. I feel a surge of panic. Wanting to both decline and impress, for some reason I decide to press my palms to my stomach and puff my cheeks when I wag my head at his offer, as if I've smoked too many this evening and I'm simply too full to have another.
Draco Malfoy raises an eyebrow and shrugs, resting his hip on a gatepost. As he exhales a cloud of smoke, I look past him and realise where we are. I step back. Here, in the ghostly moonlight, slumps the weatherworn cottage of Mad Marius Stygian.
I quickly look back at Draco. I hope this isn't our destination. Mad Marius is, and always has been, a character of much speculation and intrigue for the kids of Wiltshire. No person has actually laid eyes on him. There are full-chested claimants of sightings and encounters but they're quickly exposed as liars. The tall tales and rumours all weave wispily around one fact: that long ago, Mad Marius killed a girl and hasn't been seen since. No one knows the real circumstances of the event, but fresh theories are regularly proposed. Of course, the extent and nature of his crimes have grown worse over time, which only adds more hay to the stack and buries the needle of truth deeper. But as the myth grows in girth, so too does Wiltshire's fear of the mad murderer hidden in his home.
A popular test of courage in Wiltshire is to steal something from Mad Marius's property. Rocks and flowers and assorted pieces of debris are all proudly rushed back from the high-grass sprawl of his front yard to be examined with wonder. But the rarest and most revered feat is to snatch a peach from the large tree that grows by the flank of the cottage like a zombie's hand bursting from a grave. To pilfer and eat a peach from the property of Mad Marius assures you instant social royalty. The stone of the peach is kept as a souvenir of heroics, and is universally admired and envied.
I wonder if we're here to steal a peach each. I hope not. As much as I like the idea of raising my station amongst Wiltshire's youth, I was born without speed or coordination, both of which are essential to the operation. Besides, even if I were to somehow acquire one, I'm certain that no one would believe me anyway. Not even Neville Longbottom.
Still, I notice Draco Malfoy staring at the house. He flicks and grinds his cigarette.
"Is this it? Is this where we're going?" I ask.
Draco turns.
"What? No. No, Granger, just stopping for a smoke."
I try to conceal my relief as we both survey the property.
"Do you think it's true?" I ask.
"Yeah. I think so. It's bullshit what people say, mostly, but I reckon he's mad alright."
"Completely."
"I've seen him, you know. A bunch of times." Draco states it so plainly that I believe him. I beam at him.
"Really? What does he look like? Is he tall? Does he really have a long scar down his face?"
But Malfoy just kicks dirt over his cigarette and swivels as though he doesn't hear me. We are moving again.
"Come on," he says.
I shuffle on.
We link back with the river. We walk east along its banks for some time. Neither of us says a word. The spruce trees that surround us look eerie and ethereal in the silver light and I find myself matching Draco's steps. I begin to recognise the landscape less and less. The banks become more leaf-littered and cluttered as the river thins, and small shrubs crowd its edge. Soon we're confined to following narrow deer tracks further away from the water.
Draco's stride is long and strong. I walk behind, watching his pale calves clench in the gloom. His sureness and presence make him easy to follow. I'm still afraid, of course, but being in his bubble is kind of reassuring. I trust him. I do. Even though I have no reason to, and it makes me one of few.
Draco Malfoy has a terrible reputation. I should know – he bullied me relentlessly in school. But in Wiltshire, he's a thief, a liar, a thug, a truant, a troublemaker. He's lazy and unreliable. He's feral and an orphan, or as good as one. His mother packed up and moved away after the Battle of Hogwarts, and his father is a good-for-nothing Death Eater. He's the rotten model that Hogwarts parents hold aloft as a warning: This is how you'll end up if you don't behave. Draco Malfoy is the example of where poor aptitude and attitude will get you.
In families throughout Wizarding Britain, he was the first name to be blamed for all manner of trouble. Whatever the misdemeanour, and no matter how evident their own child's guilt, parents would immediately ask: Were you with Draco Malfoy? And of course, more often than not, the kids will lie. They nod, because Draco's involvement immediately absolves them. It means they've been led astray. They've been corrupted by his serpentine nature. And so, as cases are closed, the message is clear. Stay away from Draco Malfoy.
When I was eleven, I heard the Malfoy family described as Pure Blooded, which I never really understood the meaning of until I mentioned it one night at the dinner table. My father is a serene and reasonable man, but those words had him snapping his cutlery down and glaring at me through his thick black-rimmed glasses. He asked if I understood what I'd just said. I didn't. Then he softened and explained.
Later that night, he came into my bedroom with a stack of books and quietly offered me the one thing I'd always wanted: permission to read whatever I wanted from his library. My father's collection of books had awed me since he taught me how to read, but he always chose the volumes he thought were appropriate. So it felt important, and it was clear to me that he thought it was significant, too. But I worried if it came about because he thought I was starting to grow up, or if he worried that Wiltshire and the affluence of certain residents might have been luring me towards something that troubled him.
Either way, something forbidden had been lifted. He gave me a leatherbound stack of Southern writers to start with. Harper Lee, Flannery O' Connor, Faulkner. But the stack largely consisted of novels by Mark Twain. There must've been a dozen of his books in there.
That was more than a decade ago. By now, I've read the bundle three times over. I understand why he chose them. I enjoyed the Harper Lee book the best. And there were a few books in there that I struggled to finish. To be honest, I had no idea what the hell some of those writers were on about at the time, and I refused to ask my father for clarification. I didn't want him to think I wasn't smart enough. Because that's all I had, really. I was lousy at sport, plain in appearance, but better than most at school. It garnered me only ire in the classroom and resentment when report cards were issued, but it was something, at least.
Of course, it also means that I was mostly ignored in school, and still am to this day. It's worse for Neville Longbottom, now my best and only friend. He is smaller and kinder and to be honest, smarter than me. Neville's parents were tortured to insanity by Death Eaters, and was ruthlessly bullied and belted around when we were in school. He probably had it worse than Draco Malfoy. He definitely did. But he always took it astonishingly well, which eased my guilt when I wasn't brave enough to intervene. Neville is unflappable. He has a smile you can't wipe or slap or goad off his face. And unlike me, he never stoops to sycophancy or spite. In a way, he's more assured than any of those vindictive little twats with peach pits in their pockets. But I'd never tell him that.
When Draco Malfoy stops and grabs my shoulder, I jolt like he's shot volts through my body. I push the hair out of my face and wait. Draco pushes through a bush and ushers me through. We are moving off the path. I hesitate.
"Where are we going, Malfoy? What do you need me for?" I ask for the millionth time.
"It's not far now. You'll find out."
I trust him. I have to. I've come too far. If he were to leave me here now, I would be utterly lost. I can't hear the river anymore, and the canopy overhead has stolen the moonlight. As we press further, I'm finding it harder to imagine what kind of help Draco needs. I don't understand what particular unique skill I bring to the table. It's a strange coalition, me and him. We've never even really spoken before and I'm surprised he remembered my name, let alone where I lived. I only ever caught glimpses of him from a distance after school finished, so I can't help but thrill in this sense of inclusion. In my head I'm already composing my recount to Neville.
We are in fairly thick forest by now. It's unearthly quiet. Draco still hasn't said a word without my prompting and his replies have been nothing but brusque bursts. Despite the absence of any landmarks, he seems to know exactly where he's going, and I'm grateful. I stick close behind like a loyal and leashless dog. My anticipation is growing. I wonder if my parents heard me leave. I'm not sure what they do if they found my room empty. Sheets bunched, bed bare, window ajar. They would have to assume that I've been kidnapped. They'd never believe I had slipped out of my own accord. And if I'm caught out, I'd probably be the only person in Wiltshire who could truthfully argue that they had been led astray by Draco Malfoy.
He's starting to walk faster. Branches and shrubs snap back at me with force. My arm has been scratched by bracken. I don't complain. I just adjust my speed to match. Our feet share the same crisp military rhythm. I'm sweating. Then Draco Malfoy stops. Right here. At the foot of an enormous old-growth oak tree. It has an astonishing girth. I can't help but stare straight up to see how far it reaches into the sky. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my temples. I'm panting. When I glance back down, I notice that Draco Malfoy is staring at me. I can't place his expression. It's as though he's about to leap from something very high up. I tilt my head to the side and I'm suddenly very fearful. My anticipation is usurped by a sense of dreadful foreboding. Something is wrong. Something has happened. My weight is on my heel. I don't want to be here anymore.
He motions towards a curtain of ivy the left of the giant oak tree.
"It's through here," he says.
"What is?"
"You'll see, Granger. Fuck. You'll have wish you hadn't… It's not too late though. Are you sure you're going to help me?"
"Can't you just tell me what it is? What's through there?"
"I can't. I can't. But I can trust you, Granger. I think I can trust you." It isn't a question but it seems like one.
And I believe if it were anyone else, I would choose to step back and turn away it right now. I would never bow my head and push through that ivy and its tiny leaves would never shake loose and nestle in my hair like confetti. I would never grab at the rough oak trunk to save myself from tripping. I would never part it locks of foliage. And I would never lift my head to see this neat clearing of land.
I would never look past Draco Malfoy to reveal his secret. But I don't turn back.
I stay.
I follow Draco Malfoy.
And I see it.
And everything changes.
The world breaks and spins and shakes.
I'm screaming, but they are muffled screams. I can't breathe in. I feel like I'm underwater. Deaf and drowning. Draco has a hand pressed over my mouth, another across my shoulder pulling me in towards him. My hips lurch back, back, back out of here, but my feet are rooted to the clearing. Blessedly, my eyes cloud over with tears and obscure all until they're blinked away. And it's there before me again. Draco covers my small frame easily. He's holding me tight. It's horrible. Too horrible for words.
It is a girl.
It is a girl and she is in a dirty cream lace nightdress. She is pale. In the silver light I can see she bears scratches down her arms. And her calves. And her face is smudged. And bruised and black and bloody. And she's hanging by the neck from a thick rope tied to the bough of a silver witch elm. She is still. She is limp. Her feet are bare and turned in. Her hair is long and trapped tightly under the noose. Her head is to the side, like a piece of biblical art. She looks disappointed and sad. Surrendered.
I can't look away. Draco can't look at all. He holds me like that, his back to the girl, absorbing my movements until I fall quiet. I'm breathing very quickly. And shaking. I don't understand. He knew this. He knew and he brought me here. To see a girl hanging from a tree. She's dead. She has died. Draco drops his arm from my shoulder as I speak. I can barely stand.
"Who is it?"
Draco takes some time to answer.
"It's Pansy Parkinson. It's Pansy."
It takes me a moment.
"Oh my god. Oh my god. It is. It is her."
"Yeah," he says softly. He's observing her now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head shake softly. He looks so skinny now. And slouched. Like a boy. I am completely lost. Everything seems slow and dreamlike. It really does. Like I'm not really here, and this isn't happening. It's all an apparition. I am removed from it. Spectating from beyond my body, watching it all on a screen.
"I'm sorry, Granger. I'm so sorry about this. I don't know what to do."
I am hugging my elbows. I turn and face Draco Malfoy.
"Why would you bring me here? I shouldn't be here. I have to go home. You have to tell someone about this."
"Wait, Granger. Not yet." It's a firm plea. We fall silent.
"Why did she do this? What is …? I mean, what? I don't understand. What happened?" I am barely whispering.
"She didn't do it. Herself, I mean. It wasn't her."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she couldn't have."
"What? Why?"
"There's no way. For starters, look. Look at that rope. See? That's mine. That's my rope. I use it to swing into the creek sometimes. See? But I always hide it after. I wrap it way up there on that branch so you can't see it." He speaks too fast. Too fast to absorb.
And for the first time I observe the surrounds. Behind the elm, which is broad and hollow at the base, like an open tent, there is a small water hole. In front of that, the space we are standing in, is perfectly clear and ringed by high shrubs and trees. It is strange little enclave. I imagine it might be something rare and amazing and beautiful during the day. A quiet forest oasis. But right now it just seems sinister and suffocating. I need to leave. I can't be here. Pansy Parkinson has died. And she's right here. I can't look.
The elm rises bare for over fifteen feet before it extends the thick arm the rope is tied to. Aside from a fat black burr about halfway between, there are no footholds or grips.
"And it's fucking hard to get up there," Malfoy continues. "You've got to almost shimmy up, like those coconut trees. See? No way Pansy could've got up there by herself. No way."
"What about with magic? Or a stick? Or maybe it just came loose because of the wind. I don't know."
"Her wand isn't with her. Her parents confiscated it a while back. And I don't see any sticks around, Granger, do you? And it couldn't come loose. Because I always wrap it up and tie it tight. Because I don't want anyone to know about this place."
I nod. Too dazed to think properly. Everything falls silent again.
"So what are you saying? What does this mean?"
"Granger, listen. I'm saying she didn't do it."
"So who did?" I ask, before a cold feeling of terror and dread suddenly has me backing away from him. I gag on the word:
"You?"
He turns to me. He looks baffled and disdainful. He shakes his head impatiently. His chin kicks.
"What? Shit, Granger, I thought you were smart. You think this was me? You think I did this? Is that what you think?"
"I don't know. I don't know what to think." And it's true. I don't. I just feel ill and tired and I want to go home.
But Draco turns and shakes his head. He spits.
"Listen, Granger. I've got to explain. This spot here, this space, it's sort of mine. See, I'm not the only one who's been here, but I'm the only one who knows how to get here. No one has been here without me. Ever. Well, until now. Until tonight. But this is sort of where I stay sometimes. I sleep here and eat here when I'm not at home. It kind of is my home. Do you understand?"
He pauses his scratch the back of his hair and slide his arm across his forehead. He clears his throat.
"Anyway, I came here tonight. And this is the first thing," Draco pauses and shuffles, his voice gets thick. "Fucking hell, the first thing, I saw her up there. I saw that it was Pansy, and I ran over there and I grabbed her legs and I tried to hold her up. I tried to stop her. But she was gone already, Granger. I could feel that she was gone, alright?"
It is all coming at me in a dim rush. My mouth is ajar.
"So what did you do?" I ask.
Well, I didn't know what to do. I just sort of backed away and looked at her. But I couldn't stay here. I just couldn't. I got out. And that's when I came to your place."
"And do you think somebody did this? Somebody hanged her?"
"I do, Granger. Look at her face. It's all beaten up. She didn't do that to herself, did she? Someone's done this to her."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
At this point I shrink away and scan the trees. My knees actually tremble. This is a nightmare. It has to be. I'm not living it.
"Christ, Malfoy! What if they're still out there? What if he's watching us right now? What are you thinking? Why would you bring me here?" I keep scanning. It is as if the trees are closing in.
"Easy, easy. It's alright. Granger, it's alright. There's no one around now."
"How? How do you know that?" I'm shrieking. Like a little girl.
"I don't know. I just do. I can tell," he says calmly.
But my fear is itching. A sickly buzz on my skin. I feel as though someone is watching us. Listening intently. The body of Pansy Parkinson is haunting and surreal. It is so close. The reality of her death still hasn't entirely occurred to me. That isn't Pansy Parkinson anymore. It's an empty bag. Or wax doll. A slough shell. It is so strange. I can't muster any tenderness for it. It's as though there's a part of me up there too, limp and unfeeling.
It's clear that something very violent has happened here, in this quiet little clearing. And we stand here in its wake, in its passing. Buckled by its ripples. Pansy Parkinson is dead. Look. Dead. She's right there, hanging from that tree. Right there. In the centre of Draco Malfoy's part of the world. Hovering above his piece of earth.
There are drums in my head. It's so difficult to breathe. Something has shifted. A bubble has burst. I want out. I feel faint. I've got to be away from this. I want to be back at home, but that seems very far away. And I'm so threatened by the fact that even if I broke out of here, I couldn't get back there if I tried. No, it's too late. Like Draco Malfoy way, I have seen what I have seen. I am involved, whether I like it or not.
"Draco, I don't know what to do. I don't know why I'm here," I say, observing Pansy Parkinson's bare, grubby feet. "This is horrible. We've got to tell somebody."
Draco looks at me with unnerving intensity. "No, we can't. We can't tell anybody. We can't tell anybody, Granger," Draco presses his lips firm, his eyes wide and grey. "We have to find out."
"What do you mean find out?"
"We have to find out who did this. Who killed Pansy. We have to find out who came here and did this to her."
I shake my head briefly before I reply. "What are you talking about? No we don't! We go to the Ministry. That's what we do. We go to the Minister and we tell him what happened here and where she is and the aurors will find out. That's their job. We can't keep this a secret. Her family has to know. It's got nothing to do with us."
"Shit, Granger, you don't know, do you?"
"What?"
"Open your eyes."
"What does that mean? They are open! What are you saying?"
Draco sighs heavily.
"Bloody hell. Listen, Granger, we can't tell anyone. No way. Especially not the Ministry. Because they're going to say it was me. Do you understand? They're going to come here, see that it's my place, they'll see her face, they'll see she's been knocked around, and they'll see that that's my rope. And they're going to say that it was me who lynched her. They'll charge me and put me away. No questions asked."
"That's bullshit, Malfoy. That's not going to happen."
"Really?" Draco points at me now, rising like a snake. "Who was the first person you thought of?"
Add it happens like that. Like when you first realise there is no such thing as a coincidence. Or that nothing actually answers your prayers, or even really listens. That cold moment of dismay, when your feet are kicked from underneath you, and you're disarmed by a shard of knowing. He's right. Draco Malfoy is right. He's really in trouble. Of course this town will blame him. Of course Wiltshire and the Ministry is going to accuse him of this. And it doesn't matter what he says. His word isn't worth shit. All that matters is the fact that this girl is dead. He'll be cuffed and led away and sent to Azkaban. The outcast, the Death Eater who killed someone. He doesn't stand a chance.
"Then what do we do? And what about Pansy?" I ask. "They'll start looking as soon as they notice she's gone. They're going to find her here anyway."
He shakes his head shortly as he pinches out a cigarette. I notice he is quivering slightly. He doesn't answer my question. Instead, he pulls another thread of thought. "That's what I don't get, Granger. Why here? How did it happen here? Someone must have followed me. Someone else knows about this place. I don't think it's chance. It can't be."
"What, you think someone is trying to set you up?" I ask.
He offers me a cigarette, and again, for some reason, I gestured to suggest I'm too full to accept.
"Yeah. I reckon they might be, Granger."
I narrow my eyes. "But you said earlier that people had been here before. With you. Like me? Tonight."
"Sure. I know. But I can count on my hand the people who've been here."
"Did you ever bring Pansy here?"
He pockets his hands and looks at the ground.
"Yeah. Yeah, I did. A few times, Granger. A lot, actually. But I always took her a different way through the forest, so she'd never know how to get here on her own."
"Why would you do that?"
"Well, what do you think? I don't want anyone knowing how to get here. It's hard to explain. It's alright to share it sometimes, but I also want to keep it to myself."
I nod.
"But it wasn't like how you're thinking, with Pansy," he goes on quickly, though I have no idea what he's presuming. "She wasn't the same as the other girls I took here. She was smart, Granger. Not smart like you. Different. Sort of wise. We got on really well. She always wanted to come here. She was always asking me to bring her. You know how you meet someone and you feel like you've known them your whole life? That's how it was. So easy. It wasn't like those other girls who come here. We never fooled around. She was my best friend. Like my sister."
None of this clears my confusion. Malfoy's shoulders have eroded. He looks defeated and sad.
"Who would do this, then? Who? Who knew her, is there anyone who could do this? Who would want to?"
"I have a suspicion," he says, and lights another cigarette.
Despite the stillness of this place, he shields the tip with his curved palm. He doesn't offer me one, though this time I almost wish he had.
"I think I know who could have done it. It came to me straight away, and I can't shake it off. I keep thinking about it. I reckon I might be right."
"Who?" I lean forward.
He taps his cigarette, holds it by his thigh, and turns to me.
"Mad Marius. I reckon it with Mad Marius."
My eyes widen.
"See, Granger, when I say I've seen him a bunch of times, it's because he's got it in for me, more than anyone else. For sure. He's a bloody madman. Every time I pass his house on the way here, and I mean every single time, he comes out on his porch waving and yelling, calling out my name. Really strange. He knows my name, Granger. Reckon he's out to get me. He's got to be."
This is all too much. It's all too fast. I'm hopelessly lost. And afraid. I really feel like that cigarette now. I watch it's amber ember rise and fall with each toke. It looks comforting. I feel tired. I want to sit. And lay down on this soft bit of earth. But I can't. I'm involved. That's what I don't understand: that somehow I've become ensnared in this.
"But what has this got to do with Pansy? If Mad Marius is out for you, why would he do this?"
"Because he was out on his veranda yelling every time I walked past with Pansy. So he's seen her. He knew we were together a lot. And she's seen him too. She got really afraid of him. He got her all worked up and tense. So maybe he followed us. He's the only one I can think of who might have. Or maybe he knew somehow where we were going. Maybe he knows about this place. Maybe it was him, Granger."
He anticipates my next question.
"Every night he sees me, he runs out and screams and yells and carries on. Every single night. Except tonight, Granger, remember that? Not even a light on. Nothing. And we were out there waiting. Not a word."
I frown. I don't feel so removed anymore. I bite at the inside of my cheeks. Sudden tears sting my eyes. I really don't want to cry, but I'm angry. And stunned. And I'm very afraid. I don't know. I feel betrayed. Or something. But mostly just scared. My voice cracks and breaks.
"Wait, so after you had a suspicion that Mad Marius had just killed someone, you came to get me, and then you took me straight to his house? Without telling me why? And then you bring me here, to see this! And then there's a chance that this crazy bastard is still around here, waiting for you, or for both of us? Why? Why would you do that to me? Piss off. …And fuck you. I'm leaving. I'm fucking leaving."
I grind my teeth to stop the tears from coming. My nostrils flare and my tongue grows fat and my mouth tastes sour. I've never really sworn at anyone like that before. Feels strange. Of course, I'm not going anywhere. I'm trapped here. There's no avenue for escape. From anything. This place, this mess. Draco Malfoy is my return fare. And he walks tall towards me, his smoke resting between his lips. He extends a hand to my shoulder and it is immediately calming.
"Don't go yet, Granger. Please? I don't know what to do. I really don't. I'm so sorry. I really am."
I blink hard. I sniff and spit and readjust my hair. His hand stays on my shoulder.
"Look, Granger. You're safe here. I promise. Trust me. You have to trust me. Like I trust you. I know you're a good person. And you and I are going to do the right thing. We are."
I shake my head.
"But what? What are we going to do? Don't you see how hopeless all of this is? We're not detectives. This isn't Sherlock Holmes. This is serious. We can't conduct interviews. We can't talk to people about it. We can't do anything."
"But we can still try. And that's more than the Ministry, more than Wiltshire, more than the aurors are gonna do if I walk in there right now and tell them what happened. It'll be case closed before it's even opened, Granger. There will be a fucking court date before there's a funeral. You know it. I don't have to do a fucking thing to get in trouble here. So we are going to find out who did this. You and I. We have to."
And as much as this is absurd and illogical, there is something in his reasoning that is irresistible. It's easy to accept that he really could be right. That he will go to prison for something he didn't do. That the Wizarding World is that crooked and low. That Mad Marius could really be responsible for this. That it is up to us. That the curse over Draco Malfoy's head is thick and evil. And maybe we can solve this and set things right. Maybe I'm the only person in Wiltshire, or even Britain, who would ever believe Draco Malfoy. Maybe that's why he came to me. Maybe that's why he sought me out. Which means that, for some reason, he trusted me from the moment he vaulted over our back fence and approached my window. He must have presumed me to be genuine and fair. Like Atticus Finch: dignified and reasonable and wise. Or the closest thing to it in this town. Or, maybe he just knows that I don't have it in me to ever betray his confidence. Maybe it was a mix of both. Safety and trust. Though I prefer the thought of me sitting up late at night, poring over Mark Twain, while Draco Malfoy rushes to me for my poise and wisdom. As though I were Solomon himself. The person you come to when it all goes horribly wrong. But it's far from the truth. I don't know what help I can possibly offer. I'm lost.
I can't look to my left. I've blocked Pansy's body from my sight. From my mind. But she keeps pressing, keeps insisting. She's so close. It is too much to think about. Too much for one sitting. It's too fast. Too fast. We seem to be wilfully ignoring Pansy Parkinson. Hanged. Hanging. Just metres away. Like if we don't look, if we talk around her, she will dissolve into the night. And this would never have happened. And I can go back home, sleep, and wake without the weight of knowing.
After a considerable science silence, I turned to Draco. I exhale a shaft of air through my nostrils. I speak quietly.
"Okay. What if I report? Just me. Without you. What if I go to the Ministry, right now, and tell them what I've seen. I never your name. Ever."
Draco Malfoy pinches his chin. Then abruptly shakes his head. "That will never work, Granger. First off, why would you be here, all by yourself? Makes no sense."
I shrug. "I could say I've been sneaking out all summer. Just exploring. Whatever. It's no big deal."
"With all due respect, Granger, I don't think anyone will believe that, least of all the Ministry. Not even Potter."
"They could," I say, indignant.
"And second, as soon as they find out where she is, half a dozen girls are going to recognise this place and come forward, telling all who brought them here. They'll see a pattern, right? And then they'll know you covered for me. They'll find out, don't you worry, and you'll be an accessory after the fact, Granger. And I won't stand a chance."
I wipe the sweat from my brow. Palm the back of my head.
"Well. Okay. Suppose we move her then. If it is mostly the fact that Pansy is here that will get you in trouble, suppose we move were someplace else, someplace closer to town so that someone else finds her. Discovers her. You know, for the first time. That way, we've got a chance, right? That way you're nowhere near her."
I can scarcely believe that this is what I'm saying. I can't honestly be proposing this. Surely. By the way Draco is rubbing his cheek, he seems to be considering it. My belly roils. I want to retract it immediately.
"I see what you're saying, Granger. But it's too risky. If someone sees us, if we caught, we're done then and there. No questions asked, we're as good as guilty. Even if we're not caught, aurors aren't idiots. They'll know. They'll know she's been moved. They might even trace our steps back here."
"Too risky," I agree readily.
"But I like your thinking. I hadn't thought of that."
I turn.
"Okay, Draco. So what if we find out who did do this. Suppose we somehow find evidence that can convict Mad Marius. What then? What do we do? Tell him to confess? Send an anonymous letter?"
"I guess we cross that bridge when we get to it. I mean, we don't know the circumstances or anything yet, right? Who knows? It might not even be a decision we have to make. But we've got to try, Grainger. We've got to do that. We owe her the truth, right?"
I owe Pansy Parkinson the truth. I owe this girl, who tormented me, who bullied me, who made me cry, the truth. Her ghost must be laughing at the irony. I shake my head softly and sigh. This makes no sense: to cover this with a mound of lies to uncover the truth. I try to reason with Draco Malfoy the way Atticus Finch might:
"Malfoy, there's still a chance they won't blame you for this. There's a chance, isn't there? Listen, we can still do this properly. Tell the right people. The authorities. Do it by the book. I mean you're still protected by law, by –"
"Christ, Granger! I'm not protected by shit. See, that's you being afraid. That's you washing your hands. You know that's not honest. You know what will happen. Those people, they think I'm a bloody animal. They think I belong in a cage, and this here is just an excuse to lock me up in one. They don't need anymore than what they see right here. And all that matters is how this looks. I'm in trouble, Granger. Real trouble. And I can't run, because they'll find Pansy, and then they'll find me. I've got to tough it out. We've got to do this."
I cradle my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes with my palm.
"Do? Do what? What the hell do we do?"
"There's only one thing I can think of. Only one thing that's going to save me for the time being."
I look up. Bleary and weary. "What?"
"We've got to bury her. Hide her. Here. Ourselves."
"What?" I look at him, horrified.
"It's the only way, Granger."
"It's not the only way! That's you being afraid!"
"Yeah, I know. But I've got something real to be afraid of. This is the only way I can keep myself out of trouble for now. Don't you see?"
I shake my head. Incredulous. I tried desperately to conceive of alternatives, ways of escape.
"Well, no. We can't. We can't bury her, here and now. Okay? I don't know. We don't have any shovels. Or anything. I can't risk using my wand because magic can be traced. Either way, it'll take hours. The sun will be up before we're finished. And it is going to look real bloody suspicious if I arrive home after sneaking out, dirty as hell from digging a grave, and then suddenly everyone realises that Pansy Parkinson is missing."
"Not in the ground, Granger. In there." And Draco Malfoy motions towards the creek, its surface still as a sheet.
My stomach is in knots.
We are going to drown the dead.
"The water?"
"Yeah."
I'm caught in a rip, being dragged out further and deeper against my will.
"But what about her family? Don't they have the right to bury their own daughter? To say goodbye? What about the rites and sacrament and all that? What about their beliefs?"
"Do you believe in that?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe! That's not the point."
"Listen, I know for a fact that her old man is no good. He's worthless, and he drinks worse than mine. And her mum is basically a zombie. Strangest woman I've ever seen. For sure. And I know that that doesn't come into it. But, at the end of the day, I reckon they'll be more concerned with the real truth than how she's been buried. And that's all we're doing, Granger. We are making time so we can find out who did this. And, I don't know, after all this is over, when Mad Marius is put away, we might still be able to do things right. We'll know where she'll be, right?"
I can't believe any of this. I'm being pulled further down. I glance across at Pansy Parkinson hanging from the tree and I feel a fresh sluice of sickness and fear. She's a gossamer ghost. She's not real. Neither is this place.
"I don't know, Malfoy. What if we don't find out? Ever? What if the Parkinsons never find out any part of the truth? What if you're wrong, what if we're wrong about Mad Marius? About everything?"
Draco Malfoy suddenly leaps to his feet, shaking his head and looming large. He swats the air, like he's trying to catch a passing insect.
"What would you rather, Granger? You want me to go to prison for nothing just so the Parkinsons can say goodbye properly? I didn't plan this, did I? I'm just trying to do the right thing without seeing myself strung up like that." And he points at Pansy, his eyes bearing in at me wildly. "Because that is what will happen. And you know that. And I swear to you, again, on everything. Then I knew nothing about this. I came here tonight and found her, and I don't know what to do except try to save my own arse and then maybe try work it all out. And that's why I need your help. Because you're smart, and you're different to the others, and I thought you'd understand, for sure. I mean, I took a big risk when I came to you, Granger."
I cast my eyes down and keep quiet.
"It's a big thing for me to trust you, Granger. It's dangerous. And I'm asking you to do the same. I can't force you to do anything. But I hoped you might see things from my end. That's what you do, right? When you're reading. You're seeing what it's like for other people."
I nod.
"Well, Granger, you think about this space here, and you think about what this means for me. And think about what I've got to do. What the right thing is."
I feel grimly resigned. How could things be so messy and complex outside of this quiet bubble of land? Pansy Parkinson, her hanging body …this shouldn't be our responsibility. It shouldn't be our hideous problem to solve. We should be able to pass this on to the right people. We should be able to run like frightened kids, to point and pant and cower someplace safe. The real truth shouldn't be for us to discover. Pansy Parkinson has been hanged, and Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. Somehow I am here among it.
Draco softens. He squats and roughly ruffles his pearlescent hair.
"But, Granger, just so you know. I mean it, if you stick around with me here, if you help me, nothing is going to happen to you. At all. I mean that. If something happens, I'll do everything it takes to keep you clear, alright? You don't have to worry about that. And that's a promise. You've got to get brave, Granger, it's all it is. I know you understand what I've been saying and why I'm in so much trouble. When I was little, I had to get brave in a hurry. I had to get brave when Voldemort said he'd kill my parents if I didn't do what he wanted. And I was just a kid. I had to do it all so fast, Granger. Some days I feel so old, you know?"
"Yeah, I know," I say.
"See, everyone here is afraid of something and nothing. These people, that's how they live, and they don't even know it. They stick to what they know, what they've been told. They don't understand that it's just a choice you make."
I raise my head and look Draco Malfoy the eye.
"I mean, I know people are afraid of me. Afraid of my family. Kids especially, but old people too. Wary. They think I'm just half an animal with half a chance. That I'm no good. And I always think, why? They don't even know me. Nobody does. Never made sense. But then I realised, that's exactly why. That all it is. All of this is so stupid, Granger. But it means I don't hate them anymore."
How eerie undistilled this night is. How strange and abandoned and unsettled I am. Like a snowdome paperweight that's been shaken. The blizzard in my bubble. Everything in my world that was steady and sure and sturdy has been shaken out of place, and it's now drifting and swelling back down in a confetti of debris. A book I knew by heart, torn up and thrown in the air. Everything has been rocked with such rigour and tumult. Everything has been uprooted and broken. A dozen disasters at once. I can't begin to collect the pieces and try to set them as they were. It's like I've got to crawl out of my own eggshell and emerge. And, a little like Draco Malfoy, I no longer have the luxury of choosing the right time. I can't come back when I'm good and ready. I've been pulled out early and left in the cold.
We nurse this strange, empty silence for a while. Our heads turned away from the tree. Draco finally suggests that we have one last look around. One final survey of the surrounds before we disrupt them forever. I don't object, but I stick right by him, shrinking when we approach Pansy's body.
I'm too distracted to really concentrate on the details. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for. Footprints, I suppose. Evidence. A scrawled confession. Anything. But everything is so unfamiliar anyway that I have no idea what's inconsistent. It just reaffirms how hopeless this mess is. How firm are the odds are stacked against us. Draco frowns and bends slightly as he walks. We scoured the whole area by moonlight. He doesn't take too long.
When he finished his inspecting the last of the surrounding shrubs, running his hands across their skeletal branches, he nods, satisfied.
"Well, they must have come in the same way I always do. The same way we came in before," he says finally, motioning towards the curtain of ivy, deep in thought. He points. "But look, there's some grass under that spruce that looks like it's been trampled. Not much though. I don't know. Could mean anything. Maybe she tried to escape. Maybe not. We don't know. We don't know anything. We don't even know if they hanged her. Properly I mean."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, anything could have happened here, Granger. They might have killed her and strung her up to make it look like she did it herself. We just don't know."
I nod absently, distantly. It's too much for me to think about. I wonder how Draco Malfoy remains so straight and level. How he can make these kinds of considerations, right here, right now. I just follow him in a muted daze. I glance up, and he's looking at me. Patiently. The world is spinning.
"You ready, Grainger?"
I stared back blankly. Draco Malfoy regards me for another moment. Then he tells me to wait where I'm standing, for which I'm relieved. My feet, my sandals, are rooted to the earth. I watch him walk towards the witch elm. He ducks into the cavernous hollow at its base. As soon as he is out of sight, I'm beset by anxiety. My arse tries to crawl into itself and my head is a white whorl. He emerges holding a broad knife by the handle.
I watched him fasten it to his long shorts through his belt loops. He is so close to Pansy's body, so close he could touch her, but he keeps his head bowed from it. Draco begins climbing. In spite of my proximity to this scene, in spite of the cloying press of this little plot and its stifling air, I feel almost completely detached as I spectate. Its as though I'm watching a spider crawl up a wall. Draco grips and pulls himself up onto the sturdy burr, and I'm thinking about Neville Longbottom. Tomorrow is the test debut of his favourite Quidditch team. He'll barely be able to sleep tonight with anticipation. I wonder if the Quidditch players are as breathless and nervous as I am at the moment. I wonder if they can sleep tonight. I wonder if they've ever seen a dead person.
Draco's climb has slowed as he nears the branch. He's shunting up by degrees. It's true: it looks like a hard climb. You would need to be strong and nimble. Looking at the stress and strain in Draco's arms and calves, I wonder how Mad Marius could have done the same. It seems an unlikely feat. I wouldn't ever make it anywhere near that branch, or even the burr, so how could an old man? But I don't ask Draco. I stand here and I wait.
Nearing the wrinkled elbow of the branch, Malfoy twists his body and hoist himself high, releasing his legs in an act of faith I could never summon. He looks fearless. Like a circus acrobat, practised and sure. He swings, levering himself up and straddling the limb. He scoots closer to the rope's knot.
My heart is rattling. And I'm suddenly a little less detached, unbearably anxious now as he reaches for that knife. I'm tired and on edge. I'm afraid and bestilled. I guess I feel everything at once, every bell is ringing. But I'm not thinking about Neville anymore. And I'm not thinking about the Parkinson's. My head is just that drumbeat pulse as I watched Draco carefully saw at the thick tie that suspends Pansy. I can hear my breathing. My fingers are in fists but I can't let them go.
And it is sudden when she falls. Fast. Like a white kite spearing the ground, its tail lolling lazily behind. She folds and crumples. Like a doll. Like a bag of wet bones. With a soft, horrible thud when she meets the earth. A sound that reminds me that she's just loose meat. And I guess I shouldn't be, but I'm shocked by her lifelessness. She looks so heavy. So helpless. My body is fizzing. It feels like there are ants crawling all over me. Draco drops the knife, and its blade slots easily into the ground. He starts to slip back down the trunk. When he alights, he crouches and approaches her very cautiously. I have not moved. I hope he doesn't want me to.
Draco kneels. And he straightens her limbs tenderly, aligns her body. It's as if she's just sleeping deeply and he's being careful not to wake her up. I think I see him brush her cheek with the back of his hand, but I can't be sure. His movements are slow and deliberate. Respectful. I feel awkward, as though I'm witnessing something very private. Like I've come creeping upto Draco Malfoy's bedroom window and I'm peering at something intimate inside. I should turn my face and look away. It's not for me to share. But I'm eerily adhered. Draco is carefully unpicking the knot around her neck. This is torrid to watch. My ears are pinned back. I think he is getting frustrated. He pulls at it, but it won't give.
Then my feet move. I don't know how. I find myself kneeling cautiously. Draco glances up briefly.
"Hey, Granger," he says, as though I were just passing by.
I don't respond. I am transfixed. And terrified. The colour of her face. The swell of it. The glaze in her gaze. I feel ill. Her right eye is dark and puffed. There is a small cut on her jaw, another on her eyebrow. She's been hit. She's been beaten badly. It's true. My stomach seizes. I am shaking as I push my hair out of my face.
"I don't want this around her neck," Draco says under his breath. "But I can't get this knot. It's not even a noose. Look. It's just a knot. Maybe she really wasn't hanged until after. Maybe she died before. I'm going to have to cut it, Granger. I've got to be careful."
I nod.
Draco rises to retrieve the knife. I immediately want him to come back.
He slices at the rope with a surgeon's care, as though he might hurt her. All I can hear are the straight slices. Shick. Shick. Shick. Eventually it comes away. I jump slightly. And it feels like we've accomplished something purposeful. He removes the rope slowly, like he's unclasping a precious necklace.
I don't think either of us are prepared for the dark ridges pressed into her neck. I feel a rush of goosebumps. My hands are going numb. We both take in a sharp breath and hold it. Draco makes a noise like he has something caught in his throat. He's clenching his jaw.
Draco lightly inspects Pansy's body. Touches the thin scratches on her cheekbone and her shoulder. Runs his fingers down her smooth alabaster arms. It's a strange and silent examination. I hope he's not expecting me to do the same. He looks at her legs, her ankles, her feet. He is frowning. And he lifts the hem of her nightdress. I immediately shy away. I turn and stare at the ground. I think I know what he is looking at. I think I know what he is looking for.
When I glance back up, Draco is gone. He's vanished. Of course, I panic. Frantic, I turn my head side to side, then behind. Another flash of goosebumps covers my back like a cape. I can't see him anywhere. I am alone in this clearing. The walls of leaves loom. They push in at me. I shrink into myself, crouching. Eyes wide. I hold out my hand for balance and I touch Pansy on the shoulder and she is warm and I flinch like I've touched something burning. I yell in fright. She is warm. I could faint again. Right here. Right next to her. That creep of fog is drifting down again.
I am dizzy and sick. And it's as though touching her has sealed my fate. I am in this story. She can't be ignored. She is real. I've touched her now. I've been privy to her last moments of heat, her last wisps of smoke. For some reason, I make myself look at her face. I looked deep into it. Her expression is strange. Kind of puzzled and surprised and sad and terrified, all at once. And I wonder if this was her expression when the life went out of her. Frozen in time. I wonder if this is what she was feeling. I think about how much she looks like her little sister, Primrose. And I think about the moment she finds out about this, and it twists me into.
I hear a rustle from the other side of the clearing. I don't know whether to feel afraid or relieved. I jump to my feet.
"Malfoy!" I hiss.
He emerges, carrying a sizable hunk of granite with both arms. Draco places it next to Pany's thigh. If I didn't know what the stone was for, if I weren't stunned by what we were about to do, I would be screaming at him for leaving me alone like that.
I shake my head slow and low. I'm so close to the edge. I really am. Draco pauses for a moment, and we both regard each other. There is nothing left to be said. After some time, he kneels. Bending, he rolls the rock towards Pansy's feet. I watch him take the rope and tightly coil it around the rock, then he threads it into a knot. He clears his throat and, delicately, lifts Pansy's bare feet.
They are small and thin and dirty. With the other end of the rope, he carefully binds her ankles together. It hurts him to do this. I think I hear him murmur an apology. Draco tugs hard to tighten the knots. Pansy's feet rise up as he does so. Like he's tying the shoelaces of a distracted child. His palms must be sweaty, because he keeps running them down his shirt. It is so stuffy and stifling in this place. The air is thick and hot. It is hard to breathe.
As her legs rise, her hand spills, and he pauses to adjust it, pulling her nightdress down to where it should rightfully sit. He smooths it over her knees. Even now, though it's just us here, even though we're preparing to discard her, he's trying to afford her some dignity. Trying to treat her with the same respect as he always might have. And it seems to me that maybe they were closer than he let on. Maybe they were in love. Maybe she was his girl.
Draco gives a couple of neat pulls to the rope, at each of the knotted ends. He runs his hands over the stone and seems grimly satisfied.
Pansy Parkinson is dead and anchored to a piece of granite. And Draco Malfoy is kneeling, watching over her quietly. His eyes slit and he breathes deep and he stays like that for a long time. Just looking. As though he has lullabied her gently to sleep, like he's just sitting at the edge of her bed for a moment before he leaves her bedroom. And I don't know what to feel, taking all of this in. It's sad and it's warm, but it's so chilling and surreal. I no longer have to remind myself that she is dead. I've seen her eyes. I've touched her. She is no longer here. Really. She might be warm, but she's not in this space anymore. I can tell, I can feel her absence. And whether she slipped through to someplace else, or if she has been switched off like a light, I don't know. But suddenly all of that doesn't seem so important anyway.
Draco Malfoy shifts, edging closer to her face. He runs the back of his hand down Pansy's cheek. It stings me. He runs his open hand straight down her face, a gentle brush, her expression changes. Her eyes are closed, but she doesn't look at ease. I want to rearrange it, sculpt it. She looks strained with a distant worry, but she is wincing as though she is in the midst of a horrible dream. And I don't want her to bear that forever. I don't want to do this. I don't want to send her sinking to the bottom of this water hole, to damn her to the dam. But I'm part of this. I am the ally of Draco Malfoy. I'm committing a crime. This is not honourable. Look at her! Look at what she's telling us with her brow, with her tight mouth! She doesn't want this! She doesn't want to go!
Draco stands up, and I step back. He turns.
"Alright, Granger," he says. And I don't know what that means until he points at her. He stands behind the rock. I am to grip her between the shoulders, under the arms. This is my task. I am to lift her. Heavy and yielding. I am to carry her towards the water.
And that is what I am doing. I am bending, grabbing, and struggling with her weight. I shuffle for balance. Oh, she is warm. Her head lolls to the side. I grit my teeth and push air through my nostrils. I look at Draco Malfoy, who holds the rocks to this chest. We're not moving anywhere. She is bowed in the middle. Like she's asleep in a hammock. She is slipping. And so is her hem, again, and I know it makes Draco uneasy because he frowns at it.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
"She's slipping," I say. "I'm going to drop her."
"Get your elbows under her arms and hold her across her chest. It'll be easier."
But I don't want to do that. At the moment, I am cupping her armpits and losing my grip. I don't want to hold anymore of her. I don't want to hug her chest. The more of her I touch, the more guilty I am for this. She is slipping. I shake my head.
"I'm going to drop her! Put her down! Put her down!" I say, panicked.
"Careful, careful!" Draco instructs, as though she's a piece of brittle furniture and we might break her easily. We bend together and I lay her down. I'm panting. My mouth is tight and dry. I breathe heavily. Draco waits patiently, though I sense that he wants this done.
I have got to get brave. I wipe my brow. I roll my shoulders and try to stiffen my back. Then I wiped my clammy palms on my shirt. I pop my cheeks. Draco bends and hoists the rock. I have Pansy Parkinson beneath the arms. Barely. She's slipping again. I shuffle to the side. We are taking her to the water. Just metres away. We are by the edge, which, even in summer, is sheer and full.
"Count of three, Granger?" Draco says softly.
And we swing her. We swing her like we are playing an innocent prank on a friend. Like we're tossing her into the river for a laugh.
One. Two. Three.
I'm not strong enough to throw her. And so the rock that Draco hurls high and hard simply snatches her body from my grasp. And it's a thick, deep splash. A plunk. And I almost hold on. I almost follow her in. It's a rough and thick jolt, having her torn away like that, but Draco steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. And we watch. For a moment, she floats. Then we watch her sink. It's messy and graceless. The bloated bubble of her nightdress. We, the undertakers, we watch her go. We can't save her. The water ripples at our feet and she is gone. She really is gone.
We have drowned her.
We are monsters.
I stand motionless, my hands by my sides. I watch the last pulses of the water, the softening frill of the wake. I watch it right until it stills, and I am mesmerised by the plain and sombre surface, like glass. It is strange to think that this afternoon, Pansy Parkinson may have been walking around town, carefree and unaware. With her friends. With her sister. Now she's anchored to the bottom of this black pool by the rope she was lynched with. Pansy Parkinson has been swallowed by the earth. She will never return. And I helped her on her way. I fear I might stumble forward and follow her descent. I even feel a faint pull towards the water.
Until I hear Draco Malfoy. He is no longer by my side. I turn, sharp. His back is to me. One hand is leaning on the trunk of the tree for support. And my mouth falls open when I see his shoulders shaking, when I hear the shuddering of his breath.
There is a sting in my throat. I should stride on over there, and say something assured and comforting and wise. Look him in the eyes. But I don't. I just look. His other hand is to his face. This is real. His knees are bent and his muscles are taut. My lips begin to curl downwards at their edges.
I sit down and cry with my head between my thighs. Very quietly and measuredly. I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist. I don't understand what just happened. I need a shit. I need to bathe. I need to sleep. This night has pickpocketed me of something precious I can never get back. I feel robbed, but I don't feel cheated by Draco Malfoy. It's a curious emptiness. Like when you move to a new house and there's no furniture or pictures on the walls. The same sort of weird alloy of abandonment and upheaval. It's a lonely sensation.
When I look up, I notice Draco is sitting now, leaning against the curved base of the tree. He looks exhausted. There is a bottle in his lap. It doesn't have a label. His eyes are glassy. He looks up slowly and rolls his head side to side.
He takes a quick swig. Then glances down and tilts the bottle my way. I am sorely tempted but I shake my head and decline the offer.
Draco Malfoy runs his hand roughly down his face and tugs at the skin of his chin. He lights a cigarette and rests his arms on his knees.
"Could I have some of that?" I ask.
Draco smiles. He strips one from its pack and straightens it. I purse the cigarette hard between my lips as he offers me a light. I lean tentatively towards the flame, like I'm moving in to kiss a horse on the arse and bracing myself to be kicked.
"Waitwaitwait!" Draco interrupts, still smiling. "Other end, Granger. That's the filter, see?" He steals it from my mouth and lights it himself, then hands it back.
I expected to cough, but not this much. One breath of it wrings my lungs like a washcloth. I splutter and spit. I try to keep my composure but fail.
"It's the … humidity and all. All the … pollen. Yeah. Ususally I'm…" I squint down at the cigarette in my hand as though it has just said something confusing. I needlessly tap the ash from its hood, singe the tip of my finger, and drop the cigarette with a yelp. Of course, my instinct is to reach forward and catch it, which to my surprise I succeed in doing, but in doing so I burn the inside of my palm. I hate this cigarette. And now I have to smoke it.
I tear at the soft grass between my legs for a while. It feels like we've survived a hurricane and are sitting in the wreckage. We remain under the blanket of silence.
Draco keeps pulling at the bottle. I don't know what to say. It's so unearthly quiet that I can hear the crackling of paper as he smokes his cigarette. The slight puck of his lips. I discreetly allow my cigarette to fizzle out between my fingers.
"It feels like a dream. All of this," I say.
Draco raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, I know. This whole night. This whole, crazy night. Fuck. I wish it were a dream, Granger. I can't tell you. It feels like something's been ripped out of me."
He grinds his cigarette and pockets it. I take the opportunity to do the same. He lights another and continues.
"Pansy, she was the only person I ever felt like I knew. I didn't have to say or do anything, I just felt comfortable. She was like my mother and my sister and my best friend all in one. It was easy being around her. And sometimes, she would get in these moods where she just sat there and didn't say anything, but I understood that too. I get like that sometimes as well. But most of the time, she was just funny. And smart, like I said, Granger."
Draco is sucking down the contents of that bottle. I frown. I worry that should he drink too much, we might not make it out of here before sunrise. He reads my mind.
"It's alright, Granger. I can hold my liquor. Not like my old man, though, fuck. Want some? Here, go on."
I reach for the cold, wet bottle, more so to slow him down than to quench my own thirst. I sniff the neck and recoil.
"What is this?"
"I don't know. Tastes like piss and oil."
I take a small, incendiary pull. It attacks my mouth and burns the length of my throat. I gag immediately, wiping my lips, trying to keep my lungs at bay. I slant my head and pretend to read the non-existent label through my cloudy eyes. This shit is poison. And I realise I've been betrayed by the two vices that fiction promised me I'd adore. Sal Paradise held up bottles of booze like a housewife in a detergent commercial. Holden Caulfield reached for his cigarettes like an act of faith. Even Huckleberry Finn tapped on his pipe with relief and satisfaction. I can't trust anything. If sex turns out to be this bad, I'll never read again. At this rate it will probably burn my cervix and I'll end up with lesions.
I glance at my sandals and try to play down my disgust.
"Don't people rave about that… Firewhiskey stuff?"
"No idea, Granger. Beggars can't be choosers – I take what I can get."
"You mean you stole this?" I ask, handing it back to his outstretched fingers.
"Well, I didn't pay for it, if that's what you're asking. I lifted it from my old man, right out from underneath him. He was out of it, hugging an empty one, so I helped myself to the full bottle on the table."
I nod slowly as Draco pauses to swallow.
"But you've probably been told I'm a thief, right? That I steal stuff."
I pause. Trying to choose the right words.
"It's okay, Granger. You can't help what you hear. But it is what you heard, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I guess."
"Well, what you don't know, Granger, what no one will tell you except me, is that outside of my father's pocket, I haven't stolen a damn thing. And even then, it's never anything I don't need. Food, matches, clothes, whatever. Nothing big. Ever. And it's the same people who have pressed clothes and a mansion with manicured lawns and a job at the Ministry who look at me like I'm rubbish. Like I've got a choice. Like I'm some rotten Death-Eater runt who needs to lift his game. They're the ones telling their kids I'm no good. They don't know shit about what it's like to be me. They never stop and ask themselves, Why would Draco Malfoy need to steal anything? They just assume it's in my nature. That I don't know any better. And you know what, Granger? I've never once been caught. Not ever. They just suspect it. They expect it. Of course he stole that alcohol, of course he broke into that house, of course he hung that girl. That poor, poor, girl."
His lips are wet. His words are starting to merge together, and he's slurring.
"Your dad doesn't even buy food?" I ask, and regret by incredulity.
"You're joking, right?"
"Well, I don't know. What does he spend his money on?"
"Booze and whores, mostly. But it's slowed down since the Ministry made him redundant. Since they fined my family for being involved with Voldemort. He hasn't had a job in years. The useless old idiot should join the army or something. Go to Iraq or something and stay there. I'll sort myself out."
"So what do you steal from him?" I press.
"Whatever I want. Cigarettes, alcohol, money when it's there. Whatever's in his pockets. The trick is to do it when he's too drunk to stay conscious, that way he can't be sure if he lost it, smoked it, drank it or spent it. He never notices anyway, but sometimes when he suspects me, he'll let it slide out of guilt."
Draco itches his chest and offers the bottle to me. I scrunch my face.
"Do you ever feel guilty? For taking his things?"
"Fuck, not even a little bit, Granger. If I don't take it, it won't be offered. He ruined my life, my mum's life, before I was even born by pledging himself to Voldemort. He took everything from me. So I'm evening the ledger."
I nod, but he continues.
"But you can't think that way all the time. It's a poisonous way to think. There's no point sitting down and feeling sorry for yourself because your friends are getting Christmas presents from their dads, or they've got a mum who's a top cook or whatever."
"Yeah, but you're still entitled to…"
"No, fuck that, Granger. I told you, I don't want to think like that. There's nothing in it. I don't know. I don't want to have one of those bum lives where you just always expect your luck to be fucked because that's the way it's always been. No. We always thought things would be different once we got out of here, you know? That's when we thought it all turn itself around. We'd moved to some faraway city, marry a Muggle each, and forget about it."
"We?"
"Yeah. We." He looks down and thumbs the bottle neck. The heaviness drifts down again. I want to keep it at bay; it's easier when he's talking.
"What's your plan? When you get out, I mean."
"Well, I haven't thought it all through as of yet, but I'll think of something. I've got some irons in the fire. I'll pick up some sort Muggle profession. Anything but a shoe-shiner. What about you? Probably something in the Ministry, right?"
I squirm a bit. It suddenly feels disrespectful to be talking about this right now, talking about the future when Pansy Parkinson has just been robbed of hers. It doesn't seem like it matters. But maybe this is the point. Maybe all this talk is for Draco. Maybe it's doing the same thing as that horrible bottle. Trying to slow our minds down, sandbag some of the panic.
"I don't know," I say. "I've always loved reading. Books, poems. So maybe a writer. I always thought that would be the thing. To write books. Make up stories. I can't really… pursue anything magical, yet. My parents are Muggles, and they're getting old. I need to be around to take care of them."
I try to catch it with an ambivalent shrug, like it's a fleeting thought, like it's not a single thing I've had my heart set on since I first learned how to read. To my surprise, Draco nods his approval.
"Yeah. I reckon that's you for sure, Grainger."
"You think?"
"No doubt. You would be great. You could move to some big city with a typewriter. Meeting people, telling their stories. Shit, maybe you could write about me one day. You'd make a killing out of it, for sure. Imagine that."
And I do imagine it. Malfoy makes it sound so possible and plausible, that I might leave Wiltshire to be a writer. To tell tall stories for a living. Real, important literature. When the mood strikes me, I sometimes like to imagine myself as a famous author in some extravagant ballroom, where I am bantering with beat poets and novelists like Harper Lee and Truman Capote.
But Draco Malfoy interrupts my musing. He's up and lurching, huddled over like he's been shot in the stomach. Before I can panic, he starts evicting that noxious liquid in a thick sheet that seems to almost glow. He grips the empty bottle. It smells sour, his sick. It's bursting out of him. He locks up violently, like he's being held and punched in the stomach by invisible assailants. Draco retches and coughs, breathing heavily on his haunches. He spits and groans softly before retching again. Then he finally stands up straight.
"I thought you said you could hold your liquor?" I ask.
Draco spits again, wipes his mouth and smiles. "Yeah, I can. Just not for long."
He turns and stumbles towards the dam. Kneeling, he fills the bottle with water. He looks precarious. And he collapses back against the tree before he can drink any. The bottle spills. He's out. Oblivious and gone. Maybe that's all he wanted. I notice it suddenly seems lighter in this space. First, I wonder if I just grown accustomed to the dark, if I've adapted. Then I shoot from my feet like a firecracker and shake him awake.
"Shit, Malfoy! It's almost dawn. We have to go back! Now! If my parents know I've been out, I am right in it."
He squints and slowly glances up. "What?" He seems to ponder it. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, Granger. Just a second." His words are slurred. Now I really fear getting lost on our return. But not nearly as much as I fear my parents finding my bed empty. I can't even imagine.
"No, we've got to go now!"
Draco stands unsteadily in treads heavily. He slaps a hand on my shoulder. Looks at me, intent yet vacant. Full of sorrow. His breath is like acid.
"Alright. Let's go." He pauses. And swaying slightly, he lingers and looks up at the ghostly elm. In spite of my worried hurry, I don't rush him. He takes it in one last time before we turn to go. The walk back feels much faster than when we first set out. Perhaps it's because I'm aware of where we're headed, or because I am almost treading on his heels in my haste.
His shoulders have fallen slightly forward. He doesn't walk with that straight-backed poise or intensity he had earlier. He shakes his pack of cigarettes. Empty. So he shoves his hands into his pockets. He walks silently and quickly. Overhead, birds start to warble their morning song. The sun is coming up like a harbinger of doom. Strangely, the easier it is to see and navigate, the more afraid and apprehensive I am. But at least the night is over. There is some relief in that. I don't have to bury anybody else. I can sleep soon. Maybe. For a couple of hours at least.
We track back onto the narrow path. And when we walk along it, I feel a weird sense of kinship, like we're old friends. It's not without its share of comfort. I know where we are. There is nothing but familiarity in front of me. It's the same as when he pushed through the forest and onto the road. It is as though I've been away for a long time, and I've finally arrived home. With a horrible secret that I've got to cauterise and keep down.
The light is grey and grim, but strengthening quickly. We might make it before the world wakes. We just might.
Now I walk side by side with Draco Malfoy. I ponder whether or not we should split up, whether it's dangerous to be seen together. Or, more to the point, I understand that if I'm seen with Draco Malfoy, it might arouse suspicion. I breathe in quickly, about to broach it, but I check myself. I suddenly don't wish to. And it's not a question of bravery. I don't know. It seems that because we've ridden through something serious and substantial, I feel a real sense of loyalty. I feel as though if we were to separate here it would sullyy some kind of tacit pact. We are comrades in some private war. Suddenly it feels important to stay together, side by side.
And so as we reach the centre of Wiltshire, I realise I am in this. Right in it. To whatever end. Of course, I'm afraid. But, walking in his shadow, I'm also buffeted a sort of anticipation. Me and Draco Malfoy, sleuthes and partners. Thick as thieves. In spite of everything, it excites me a little to know that I'll certainly be seeing him again. That he needs my help. I don't feel so ridiculous walking next to him anymore. I don't feel like an incongruous sidekick. While the rest of the town looks at Draco Malfoy like he's no good, it thrills me that he treats me like I'm an equal. Like a friend. As we turn, finally, into my street and we stride quickly before broad front yards, skirting to the side of my house, I'm afforded some slim relief. It seems that my parents are yet to stir. I haven't been caught by anybody. Yet. I don't imagine I'll hold this sense of fortune for long. Tonight's events still lurk in me, cold and uneasy. Anchored in and stuck, like that poor girl we tethered to a stone. When I'm less tired and stunned, it's going to hurt. It's going to bubble up and burst in me, I know it.
It is dawn. It is light. But it feels still like the night. I turn to Draco. He looks exhausted. And it occurs to me that there is no break in this for him, there's no comfort, there's nowhere he can go and lie down and be looked after. Not anymore. If he had anywhere in this world, it's the place we have just come from, the place that has broken his heart and put him at risk.
He's right. Things have been taken from him his whole life. He looks done in and drunk, but he arches his back with a jolt, projecting that toughness again. I wonder where he's going to go now. If he's going to go sit someplace quiet and wait for the riot, or if he's going to go home. If that's what you would call it.
It makes me feel rotten for what I have. For what I've always had. I feel stupid and petty for ever having complained about anything. I feel like a spoiled little brat, about to crawl into my safety net, while Draco Malfoy shoulders his burden alone. It isn't fair. It isn't fair at all. I want to invite him in, to give him my bed, and I hate myself because I can't and I won't. I feel sick that I'm going to wake up and have my breakfast made for me. That my mother is loving and protective and my dad is kind and sober and patient. It isn't right it. It just isn't right that I have so many things that he doesn't. I'm so overdone and overwhelmed.
I wipe my forehead. I was right, my relief was short-lived. Draco Malfoy it gives a weak, quick grin and claps my arm. He pockets his hands. We don't say a word. We just look and nod and shift our feet. There's nothing to say. I kick off my sandals, and move quietly up to the window. I hoist myself up and hold, like I'm on a pommel horse, but I'm stuck.
I turned my head and hiss, "Give me a hand?"
And Draco Malfoy strides over and lifts me easily. I'm through. I made it. I'm back on my bed.
"Thank you," I whisper through the window.
"Yeah, same to you," he says. "I'll see you, Granger."
He lingers, as though he has more to say, but just offers a brief wave. And he's gone. It feels like I've broken into my room. It doesn't feel like the same place I left. It doesn't feel like home, but it feels safe. I can feel the heat of the day threatening already, and the light is still blue hued. I notice how dirty I am, how sweaty and scratched, how urgently my heart bangs at my ribs. Pansy Parkinson is gone. She really is. She was killed, in a strange clearing known only to Draco Malfoy. And I saw her, hanging by a thread. Already dead. Helped carry her to a waterhole and I dropped her down and she sank with the stone. That's irrefutable. That's the truth. That's what we know. I'm thirsty. I'm in trouble. I feel sick and I can't still this tremor.
For some reason, I just know that if I'm in Draco Malfoy's corner, it's going to be okay. That there is some kind of protection and rightness at work.
I lie down. And it's over, for now.