Ch. 16 Playing with Fire

Come down and waste away with me / Down with me / Slow, how you wanted it to be... / ...Breathe out / So I can breathe you in / Hold you in.../ ...The only thing I'll ever ask of you / You've got to promise not to stop when I say when.

Everlong, Foo Fighters

Hermione woke the morning after the Reconciliation Ball with her head pounding in what was becoming an ominously familiar occurrence. She wasn't as hungover as the day after the Lake Party, and didn't feel nearly as bad as she had on the come down from ecstasis. But her head felt like it was splitting in two and she could feel a nauseous sway of bile in her empty stomach. She'd gone to bed straight after that awful altercation with Malfoy and had downed her sleeping potion just before she'd slipped between her sheets. She was so she had because it meant that she'd managed to get some sleep at least.

By mid-morning, after she'd forced down some toast, she felt well enough to push herself up from the warm comfort of her bed, get dressed and make her way outside. At lunchtime, she found herself sitting alone in the main courtyard, wrapped tightly in her winter coat, with one of her trademark bluebell fires alight in a jar by her side.

The first day of November had brought with it bitingly chill winds and black, ominous clouds that were keeping most of her fellow students indoors. But Hermione had wanted to fill her lungs with the brisk, cold air, in the hope that it might banish the rest of her hangover and clear her head.

She was trying to focus on a particularly complex transfiguration law, which read more like Muggle physics, when she felt her Binding Book warm her right thigh, from where it lay in her pocket.

With trepidation, she retrieved it and flicked it open.

xxx

Your third task

Your third task is a little different from the previous two, as it doesn't actually involve you meeting with your partner.

Hermione felt her shoulders slump in relief.

It does, however, involve you having to think about your partner in some depth.

Hermione felt her muscles tense again.

Please write a letter to your partner, expressing what you wish for them in the future, and possibly, what you wish for your relationship with your partner. You can, of course, include other content and sentiment, but we'd really like it if you could write at least something about your hopes for the future for your partner, and possibly yourself in relation to them.

You must write this letter on Binding Book paper. This ensures that whatever you write will be the truth. The magic that enables your partner to see what you write in the book will be disabled until this task is complete. This is because we understand you may want to write several drafts of the letter before you settle on the final version.

The deadline for the task is 9pm on Sunday 15th November.

Remember, these tasks will work best if we are authentic and true to ourselves!

Happy writing!

xxx

Hermione's lips curled up in a disdainful grimace at the cliched sentiments of the last lines. She snapped the book shut in agitation and shoved it back into her pocket.

She wouldn't think about what on earth she would write in her letter now – her feelings towards Draco Malfoy were far too unsettled, far too confusing after what had happened last night.

After ten more minutes of trying to penetrate the logic behind the Transfiguration law, she sensed movement at the front of the school and looked up to see Malfoy and Nott coming out the huge oak doors of the school and into the courtyard.

She noted uncomfortably how their eyes fell on her, how both their expressions changed as they took her in, before they veered off to the side, coming to a stop against the walls of the castle, where they were somewhat sheltered from the harsh wind.

Over the following minutes, she kept peeking up from her book, noting how their conversation seemed to get increasingly animated, with Nott gesticulating enthusiastically with his hands. They kept sending furtive looks her way, which made her think, with sickening foreboding, that the subject of their heated discussion was her.

Then, suddenly, their voices rose into a crescendo, the climax of which was Nott storming away from Malfoy, as the latter shouted after him, "Don't you fucking dare!"

To Hermione's alarm, Nott was marching straight towards her, his expression steely. She watched, thinking – hoping – that surely he was going to stride past her. But to her consternation, he stopped just in front of her.

"Granger," he greeted formally, a stern edge to his voice. "We need to talk. Come with me. We're going to feed the thestrals."

And with that, he strode away from her, in the direction of the hillside and the Forbidden Forest beyond, clearly expecting her to follow. Somewhat stunned, Hermione dared a glance at Malfoy whose angry eyes were flitting between her and Nott's retreating back, his face contorted in anguish, as if he were fighting an internal dilemma with himself.

Hermione's interest had been kindling, and now it sparked alight into a blaze, a burning curiosity she hadn't felt in weeks, months possibly. What could Nott want to talk about, and why had he been arguing with Malfoy? And she'd always been interested in thestrals, it would be rather fascinating to be near enough to them to feed them. Making up her mind, she stuffed her book into her bag pocket and set off after Nott.

He was quite a bit taller than her – taller than Malfoy even – so she had to do a kind of half-jog to keep up with his loping strides.

"We're going to feed the thestrals?" she asked uncertainly as they made their way down the hillside.

"Yep."

For the whole of the fast-paced walk to the Forbidden Forest – and the detour to Hagrid's cooling shed to collect the feed – Nott didn't say another word to her, despite her occasional questions: "Did you want to speak to me about something?"..."Whereabouts is the thestral herd?"... "Is it far?"

She didn't push him too much though; she sensed an unpredictable volatility about him that she didn't want to provoke.

Finally, they got to a clearing in the forest where Nott stopped and placed down the feed bucket. Hermione spotted an adult and juvenile thestral on the far side of the clearing who slowly started walking over to them. As they did, more magical horses emerged from the trees, no doubt attracted to the smell of raw meat that emanated from the container at their feet.

Nott reached down and grabbed a bloodied steak, holding it out as the thestrals slowly plodded towards him.

"Luna first showed you the thestrals, didn't she?" Hermione asked quietly.

The lines of Nott's face softened, and he finally said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Yes." Then, after a moment, he spoke again, in a more matter-of-fact tone. "Did you hear about the DADA Boggart lesson last year, Granger?"

She was taken aback by the randomness of the question.

"No," she admitted. She was still avoiding hearing too many stories of what had happened in the castle last year.

Nott gave a curt nod in acknowledgement. "At the beginning of spring term, Amycus Carrow had us all face a Boggart again. I pointed out that Boggarts were OWL level, but he said that 'our fears change as we grow and it's always good to keep practicing'. As it turned out, the purpose of the exercise was for Carrow to record every students' individual fear. Because they were implementing a new punishment: students were to be locked in a dungeon with their actual worst fear...for as long as the Carrows deemed necessary."

A wash of terror rolled over Hermione. "But what if – what if it was impossible for them to recreate the fear? Like, if it were heights, or something metaphysical like – like loneliness?" Or failure, she finished silently to herself.

"Then they did make do with a Boggart. But anyway, my point is that when Draco faced his Boggart, it took the form of two coffins – adult sized – with Dumbledore standing in between them saying sadly, 'This is your fault boy, isn't it? Remember, it is our choices that define us, not our abilities...I knew a boy once who made all the wrong choices...'."

"Right…" Hermione said, unsettled by the image of Draco's Boggart, and uncertain where the conversation was going.

"The coffins housed the dead bodies of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Granger." Nott threw a piece of meat at a nearby thestral and turned to her.

"So his worst fear was his parents dying?"

"No. His worst fear was them dying and him being responsible for their deaths."

"Oh," Hermione let this information drift around his mind, waiting for it to settle, but for some reason it wouldn't. "Why – why would he have feared that?"

Nott raised his eyebrows, as if surprised – or unimpressed – that she didn't know the answer to the question already, before turning back to the winged horses. "Because, since Voldemort had risen again in the Little Hangleton graveyard the year we turned fifteen, there had been many occasions when Draco's parents' lives were threatened if Draco didn't do or say certain things...taking the Dark Mark being one of them."

Again, Hermione let this information flutter around her mind, remaining silent as it did so.

"Food for thought, Granger?"

"Yes," she admitted. Her curiosity that had been sparked back in the courtyard had been fuelled by what Nott had told her. She had so many questions, she wasn't sure where to begin, which meant that her next question took even her by surprise.

"What was your Boggart?"

There was pause, before Nott bit out gruffly, "My father. But my father alive and well."

"The thing you feared most in the world was your own father?" Hermione asked, not being able to hide the incredulity from her voice. She found the concept hard to conceive – she loved her own father deeply; her parents were where she sought – where she had sought safety – she couldn't imagine them being the source of fear.

Nott gave a short nod.

"Yep. I never believed any of it, you know. All the pureblood supremacy bullshit." He glanced at Hermione out the corner of his eyes, but then his gaze returned to the thestrals. "A lot of it never really made sense to me. And then, the summer after our fourth year, I snuck into my father's study and unearthed the old papers of my grandfather, Cantankerous Nott," Hermione knew the name – the man had drawn up the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. "I went through his old research papers, and could see how he'd twisted the facts – twisted them and moulded them to fit his own, bigoted narrative.

"That's when the ideology I'd grown up being told to believe totally fell apart. Like the waves crashing over a castle made of sand. If you go back far enough, you'll find Muggles in nearly every wizarding family of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight. Essentially, the concept of pureblooded-ness is itself a lie, fed by intolerance and prejudice.

"But Merlin knew what would have happened to me if I'd voiced any of that. For a long time, I had to pretend. Laughed along with Draco when he called you a mudblood." Nott turned to look directly at Hermione again. "I'm sorry I did that." His voice was grave and his eyes sincere.

For some reason, maybe due to the raw genuineness of the sentiment, she found she was able to accept the apology. "That's okay...you really never believed any of it?"

Nott shook his head. "But it was easy for me not to believe it. My father never gave me any reason to respect him." His voice went quiet. "He gave me a lot of reasons to fear him but not to love him, you see. Hence, it was easier to reject my father's beliefs. Unlike Draco."

Hermione's nerves prickled uncomfortably at the mention of Malfoy again. "What do you mean?"

Nott took a deep breath, as if he were about to start a difficult lecture, and threw some meat at the feet of a particularly ugly looking thestral. "What do you know about the Malfoy family, Granger?"

Hermione shrugged, and attempted to summarise what she knew. "Death Eaters. Or ex-Death Eaters," she corrected herself. "Father in Azkaban, mother and son currently have sentences with conditions. Big fuck-off house in Wiltshire." She said the words mechanically, refusing to actually think about Malfoy Manor in any detail. "Wealthy, ancient wizarding family… Do I pass?"

Nott gave a barely-there smile in acknowledgement.

"You know. They have their faults, the Malfoys. Like my father, they made a lot of the wrong choices. But they have something my father never had: the capacity to love. Say what you want about them, they always look out for their own."

Nott looked at Hermione again then, his eyes penetrating, as if what he was about to impart was the crux of the whole conversation. A shiver tingled at her spine. "But it's a unique kind of love. Some say it's something that runs in the Malfoy blood. They're selective with their love, but once their heart has invited someone in, whether willingly or not, their love is unconditional, and incredibly powerful. Like Fiendfyre, it will burn bright and everlasting, and will want to destroy anything that gets in its way.

"Why do you think Narcissa Malfoy lied to Voldemort about Potter being dead the night of the Battle? It wasn't because she wanted to save Potter, or for Voldemort to meet his downfall. She did it for Draco - she was desperate to know if he was still alive. She would have done whatever it took to save Draco."

"That's not so hard to believe. A mother's love for her son – Harry's mother died for him. Is that so unique?" Hermione protested, although her voice was weak.

Nott held out the last piece of feed at one of the smaller thestrals that seemed to have missed out on most of the communal meal, before continuing.

"My point is that, once someone manages to make their way into their heart, a Malfoy will accept and protect that person unconditionally. Some might say possessively and obsessively."

"Lots of long words Nott, but why are you telling me this?" Hermione asked, frustration growing in her.

Nott gave her an assessing look.

"Because it can be dangerous for the recipient if they unwittingly ignite that love without knowing what they're doing."

"Like Crabbe with the Fiendfyre last year?" Hermione couldn't help extending the metaphor. "Riiiiight. I'm still not getting why you're telling me this. So Malfoy's future girlfriends and potential wife are going to be smothered with his powerful love. Good. Great. Bully for them."

Nott looked askance at her again, frowning slightly, as if he wasn't sure if she were being deliberately obtuse.

"Brightest witch of her age but you can't see it, can you?"

Her thoughts slipped and slid together in her mind, trying to form a picture that made sense. She caught hold to something, but it seemed implausible. Ridiculous. "You're not saying that this love that Malfoy might hold is directed at me?" She barked out an incredulous laugh. "Malfoy hates me, Nott. That's the opposite of love."

"The opposite of love is indifference, Granger. And Draco being indifferent to you was definitely not what I saw last night."

As Hermione's mind reeled in protest at Nott's words, and what they could mean, he bent down and picked up the now empty bucket. He took a few steps out of the clearing, but before he reached the trees, he stopped and turned back to her.

"I said that kind of love can be dangerous for the recipient. It can also be painful for the bearer if misguided, misdirected or not reciprocated. And although I know you can't see it, Draco's had his fair share of pain already. So just watch what fires you're playing with, Granger. Even with your acclaimed talent, I'm not sure you'll be able to put out the flames."

Draco waited – or rather procrastinated – a whole two weeks, right until the evening of the deadline, before he attempted to face the epitome of bullshit that was his bollocksy third therapy task.

Two weeks in which he avoided Granger – avoided even meeting her eyes. Two weeks in which he interrogated Theo about what he'd talked to Granger about in the Forbidden Forest, and in which Theo vaguely replied something about 'warning her to be careful' and 'to watch out that she didn't hurt him'.

Hurt him, for fuck's sake, as if she could do that, as if he fucking cared about what she did.

And anyway, it was obvious that Granger still despised the living shit out of him. That had been evident from her great soliloquy the night of the Ball.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have suggested the salsa dancing. But dancing in such a way was one of the few times he felt more himself, when his cold exterior managed to melt away a little bit. And he thought that might have been good for them, he thought that that was in the spirit of this stupid therapy-matching-tasks. He hadn't predicted that his reserve would melt away that much… He'd managed to dance it countless times before without becoming so...intimate with his partners.

But anyway, he really needed to get this letter written – the deadline was in a few hours time, and he had Quidditch practice in half an hour. He himself hadn't received a letter from Granger. He supposed that maybe she was doing the same thing as him and holding out until the last minute. He still couldn't help hoping that maybe she'd dropped out of the task, but he'd heard nothing from Alethea and so had to assume the repulsive, dire thing was still continuing.

"What the fuck is wrong with this quill?" Draco exclaimed in frustration, as yet another attempt at the penning the letter resulted in his writing disappearing as soon as the ink touched the page.

Blaise, the only other person in their dorm, looked up at him with an expression of benign curiosity on his face.

"Remember, you have to write the truth or else the ink doesn't stick."

"I am writing the fucking truth," Draco grumbled, and proceeded to attempt what was probably his tenth try at the stupid missive.

Dear Hermione,

Urgh. No, that wasn't right. He ripped out the page and angrily scrunched it into a ball, throwing it as far away from him as possible.

Dear Granger,

Urgh. No, that wasn't right either. He scribbled out the words so fiercely the page tore.

Granger,

There. Right. Okay. That was better. Now, what did he 'wish' regarding him and the crazy-haired irritating-as-fuck know-it-all?

I wish this year at Hogwarts goes by as fast as possible so we never have to see each other ever again.

Draco watched with burgeoning irritation and incredulity as the words disappeared in front of him.

"How the fuck is that a lie?" Draco exclaimed, launching his Binding Book across the room. It clattered against the wooden mantelpiece and landed on the floor with a loud thump.

Blaise looked up once more, raising his eyes with a little more alarm on his face this time. "Writer's block is the worst," he said knowingly, as if he were a wizened novelist. "Maybe write anything at first. Close your eyes, zone into Granger and all you think and feel about her" – Blaise closed his own eyes in demonstration and sat cross-legged, his hands resting palm-up on his knees, looking like some kind of absurd Buddhist guru – "and then just write anything that comes into your head. You don't have to actually send that version. It's just to get you over the hump, give you something to work with."

Draco, at a loss for what else to do, decided to try what Blaise had advised. He closed his eyes and forced Blaise, the dorm, even the stupid task at hand, out of his mind and, much to his reluctance, focused on Hermione Granger.

A jumble of memories and emotions ricocheted around his mind: her irritating know-it-all voice when she'd corrected him countless times during their lessons in their earlier years...the first time he'd called her 'mudblood' and the way her face had crumpled as she'd turned away from him to hide her tears...how he'd kept doing it regardless, and how his friends had joined in...how he'd moaned about her to Pansy to such an extent that his girlfriend had snapped one day and retorted, 'You seem to spend more time thinking about Hermione Granger than me!'... How the spark in her eyes had dulled to nothing...except for when he goaded her, except for when he kissed her and touched her...the way their bodies felt like they'd fitted together when they'd danced...the feel of her lips and her skin –

He opened his eyes and, without thinking about what he was doing, scribbled into his Binding Book. The words flowed from him – he couldn't have stopped them if he'd wanted to. He wasn't even quite conscious of what he was writing, as if he was being controlled by some strange kind of Imperious Curse.

When he finished, he stared in surprise at what he'd written.

He was even more amazed at the fact that the ink stayed, determined and resolute, bold and dark on the page:

Granger,

I'll tell you what I fucking want.

I want to kiss your mouth until your lips are bruised and swollen.

I want to see how wet and dripping your cunt can get. Then I want to taste it. To lick it. To suck it.

I want you helpless and wanton under me whilst I fuck your prissy little cunt until you can't walk.

I want to see you shuddering and shaking when I make you come so hard you forget your own name.

And all the while, I want to hear you whimper and moan and gasp out my name, begging for more.

Because you will want more.

But the worst thing is that I hate myself for wanting any of this at all.

Malfoy.

For a moment, he felt a stillness and calmness descend over him, as if getting the words out of his mind and onto the page had been like some kind of release – a catharsis.

Then he barked out an incredulous laugh at the thought of sending that letter to Granger. He grasped the page he'd written on and ripped it violently out of his notebook. He was about to scrunch it up and Incendio it to ashes, but something stopped him. There was something about the rawness of the words – okay, maybe there was something about the raw honesty of them – that meant he didn't want to destroy them. Not just yet, anyway. So he waved the page gently in the air to dry the ink, folded it neatly and put it on his bedside table along with an assortment of other torn and scrunched up pages from his Book.

Fortunately, more words were flowing from him, so he retrieved his quill and kept writing before they disappeared from his mind:

Granger,

You asked me whether there's still blood stains on the floor of my drawing room. No, there aren't – despite the fact that there was so much blood spilt in that room, Granger. I had to kneel in front of him once and I remember it seeping through the knee of my trousers, sticky and luke-warm, because it was still bleeding from a body lying a few feet away.

None of that blood stains my floor anymore but that doesn't mean I don't remember the things that happened there.

So, what do I want for you? Here are a few things...

The words spilled from him again, but they were very different words this time, with a different sentiment.

When he finally finished his second version of the letter, he felt a strange kind of exhaustion, as if he'd reached inside himself, grabbed hold of his soul and twisted it into letters and words on the page.

He read over it, replaced some words with others, scribbled out whole phrases and re-arranged sentences until he finally felt happy with it. Well, as happy as he was probably ever going to be. And the Book seemed to be happy too because the words stayed on the page, seemingly prevailing and enduring, declaring their truthfulness.

Again, he ripped the page out, albeit more gently this time, and waved it lightly in the air before folding it in half, thinking of whether to send it in an envelope or roll it into a scroll and seal it. But before he could decide, Pucey burst into the dorm.

"Guys! I've just heard the Gryffindors are planning a practice session again this evening. Like – now! Say they've already booked the pitch – but I swear I did! We have to go now, or else those little fuckers are going to get there before us! They keep stealing our practice time this term – I feel as if they're doing it on purpose!"

The thought of their practice session getting hijacked by the Gryffindors yet again spurred Draco into action. He folded the letter in half and cast it onto his bedside table before jumping up from his bed and hurriedly pulling on his Quidditch gear. He'd get the letter to Granger after practice – there would still be time.

The practice session was a joke. The new team was still trying to work out how they played together, and the new beater and chaser just seemed to be at constant war with one another. When he returned from practice, Draco was so full of frustration, his mind full of ruminations about the weak coaching they were getting and the petty disagreements, that he forgot about the stupid letter task until after he'd finished an extra long shower and saw the folded letter on his bedside table.

His head snapped to the clock in alarm. The minute hand was at ten minutes to nine.

Fuck. Buggery fuckery fuckity fuck.

He really didn't want to miss the deadline for this task; he didn't want to give Alethea any reason to be critical of him in her end of term letter to the Wizengamot.

He still hadn't received a letter from Granger, though...but that was different – it was different for her. He grabbed the folded letter, shoved it into a nearby envelope and burst out into the common room with just a towel around his waist. Even in his panicked state, he still retained enough self-possession to know that he could not go hurtling through the halls of Hogwarts looking for Granger like that. Blaise was still in the shower himself and Theo was nowhere to be seen – probably somewhere with Lovegood, no doubt.

His eyes alighted on a first year, who was sitting at a nearby table scowling down at the pages of Potions for Beginners.

"Hey – you," Draco called to him authoritatively.

The boy looked up, "Yeah?"

"What's your name?"

"Selwyn. Eddie Selwyn."

"D'you know who Hermione Granger is?"

Eddie sneered. He was in the right house, it seemed. "'Course I know who Hermione Granger is."

Draco approached him. "Good. Because I want you to find her as quickly as possible – before nine o'clock – and give her this. Try the library first, and if she's not there then Gryffindor Tower. And if she's not there then search this castle until you find her, understand?" Draco held out the letter as Eddie rose to his feet

"And what do I get in return?" Eddie said, taking the envelope from him and eyeing it curiously.

Draco gave him an assessing look. Yes, he was definitely in the right house.

"I'll give you fifty sickles if you get it to her before nine."

Eddie looked disdainful. "I don't need your sickles."

Draco remembered the boy's surname – Selwyn – and realised that he probably didn't.

"Fine. Then I'll do whatever Potions homework you seem to be struggling with."

Eddie smiled slyly. "Deal."

"And don't you dare open it. You won't be able to read it anyway – it'll just look like a black page to you. Now hurry the fuck up. You've got eight minutes left."

The boy gave him a mock salute before hurrying from the room. With his heart rate slowing down in relief, Draco turned and walked back into his dorm.

It was a good twenty minutes later, after Draco had got dressed, and Eddie had reported back that he'd delivered the letter to Granger in the library, had even watched her open it, that Draco started to clear up the numerous bits of parchment that were the aftermath of his letter writing task. In doing so, he spotted another neatly folded page from his Binding Booking lying innocently on his bedside table.

His heart thumped in his chest as he realised what the folded page could possibly be. He abruptly reached for it, opening the paper so harshly it nearly tore in half.

No. NO.

His eyes skipped erratically over the words written there:

Granger,

You asked me whether there's still blood stains on the floor of my drawing room. No, there aren't – despite the fact that there was so much blood spilt in that room, Granger...

He grappled around his bed, pleading to God for his hand to alighten on another folded piece of paper from his Binding Book. But there was nothing.

No, no, no, NO, NO.

Because the letter in his hand now was the letter that had meant to be in the envelope that Eddie had taken, the envelope that Granger had now received. And if this letter was not in that envelope, that meant that the other letter - the explicit, obscene-to-the-point-of-fucking-illegal letter had been in the envelope.

Draco's knees suddenly felt like water. His legs buckled under him and he slumped onto his bed.

He sat, frozen in shock, wondering how long it would take for Granger to report him for sexual harassment and for the Aurors to come to take him away.

A/N - credit to Ian McEwan and his novel, also called 'Atonement', from which I stole the 'sending the wrong letter' idea! I recommend the film and the book!

As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.

Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!