October 19, 1998
I burned something today. It was an accident. I'd been looking, well, glaring at the stupid piece of crumpled parchment and it lit on fire. Professor Derwent had failed me on my History of Magic paper. Said I let my "bias bleed in'' and all that rubbish. She could have just called me a mudbl muggle-born and got it over with.
But it'd felt like the best thing I'd ever done, accident or not. Like a breaking of a dam. A push past a threshold. It's like for the briefest moment, I could somehow understand why people could be so evil and cruel. It's — gratifying. Satiating. This small act of rebellion, even though I don't know what it was against. Myself? The others? The others, perhaps. The others and their saccharine lies and their fake laughter pretending, pretending, pretending everything is normal. A month and it's still lasted. Nobody has crumbled. Maybe it's just me.
Regardless, I want to do it again. I want to feel that bitter madness again. I want to feel alive again. It felt like losing control in the best possible way because — because I wasn't the one losing.
- HG
October 20, 1998
He jolts backward as if a lightning bolt had zipped up his spine. The wand clatters to the floor, but he barely acknowledges it.
No. It couldn't be. It couldn't.
Draco rubs his eyes with the palm of his hand. They're still there.
He pinches himself, leaving two angry crescents on his left arm. They're still there.
The mirror ceases swirling and they're still there.
His father is clasping his shoulder and smiling as if Draco's finally made him proud, and his mum, his glowing, radiant mum, is waving. It's so normal and happy, it hurts. They're there like the war never happened, as if everything was alright and it's so peaceful and serene.
His lips wobble and his head whips around to see—
Thin air.
His stomach drops down to his shoes. Insides crack like a smashed vase.
He wants to crumble down but then a switch flicks on inside of him.
And it makes him panic. This isn't possible. This isn't earthly. This is an illusion. Something to fuck with your already fucked-up head.
Panic.
The calm that had drawn him in evaporates on the spot. He's forgotten why he came here in the first place.
It's impossible. His mind is only — only — what?
I'm tired. Yes. This is one of the negative side effects, this too-vivid hallucination, of sleepless nights and an irregular eating schedule that Professor Snape warned him about in sixth year.
And then like everything's clicked into place again, Draco scrambles to get his wand, and runs — tears — out of the alcove.
Yellow light slams into his vision. He immediately closes his eyes, expecting the lingering burnt crimson to be there but all he sees are them. His eyelids peel open even though nothing is there except yellow spots.
He's suffocating more and more with every inhale. His lungs are collapsing. Breathing's becoming louder.
It's a panic attack coming on.
A strangled sob wrenches its way out of Draco's throat.
He wants his mother. His mother who would cradle his head right now and get a cool washcloth and press it gently over his forehead.
But his mother's not here and he's lying down with no comfort except for cold, hard cobblestones that dig into his hips and shoulders.
After an eternity, the hammering subsides to a gentle thrum. His eyelashes flutter open and he can see the lone Jack-O'-Lantern that illuminates the otherwise drab hallway.
Draco's body goes still. How long had he been in there?
The torches typically alight at six during autumn, when it gets dark early. He can't recall if the Jack-O'-Lantern was lit or not when he came here. Is it past curfew?
He thinks it was a dream, the way it feels like no time has passed.
Carefully, Draco attempts to get up, trying to avoid using his trembling arms as support. After some awkward shuffling, he gives up with an irritated huff and tries scooting upward against the rough wall. It turns out to be more effective, though painful.
He closes his eyes, inhales, exhales, and pushes himself away from the wall. His head starts throbbing immediately and he leans back — collapses — to stop himself from toppling over.
Draco tucks his wand into the back pocket of his wrinkled trousers. He rubs his temples with a sigh. Once he's sure blood won't rush to his head again, he begins the walk to his dorms in the dark. Merlin knows what absurd rumor they would think of if he were caught out late at night.
o-o-o
Draco's on the third floor, two right-turns away from the moving staircases, when he hears it. Footsteps.
He thinks it's him at first, but his are measured, agile. These are different. The other person is slow and relaxed. Their shoes scuff occasionally like they don't have a care in the world.
A pang of regret hits him. He shouldn't have gone for a more complex route.
He thinks about disillusioning himself, or at the very least, pressing himself against the wall and hiding in the shadows. But it's all so tiring. He would have to disillusion himself wandlessly, or the beam would be too bright. It saps away what little energy Draco has just thinking about it.
Fuck it. How much worse can it be? Whatever clever rumor they'll think of won't make any difference to his already below-the-ground reputation. Plus, he doubts that they will run into each other if he goes fast enough.
He quickens his pace, holding his breath.
The footsteps are coming closer.
His fingers flex around his wand.
Left foot in front of the other. Right. Left.
He feels an odd sort of calm. Like when he faced Vol- the Dark Lord ready for his punishment, and closed his eyes. Acceptance. Defeat. He was ready to die.
But he hadn't died.
Instead—
Pain.
White. Searing. Spreading and choking like Devil's Snare.
And the fuck-it attitude abandons him — flits away like a dove — and fear, the same one that had made him fall and stumble into every hardship in his life, wraps around his mind.
Blind panic courses through his veins. He takes a left. Right. Left.
It's an endless maze. The footsteps are coming closer.
The corridor keeps on going. Going. Going. And then—
Dead end.
He frantically gropes around the wall in front of him, foolishly hoping that some sort of hidden charm will reveal itself to him and there'll be a secret corridor, room, anything to hide in. Another Room of Requirement.
There isn't.
He forces himself to breathe. Forces himself to look at this objectively. The footsteps are still slow. Relaxed. Taunting. He clasps his wand and holds on to it like it's his life-source.
Then the footsteps stop.
He counts. One minute. Two.
His left arm itches, that stupid mark that will scar his life forever, and he absently scratches at it.
That's what gets their attention.
"Who's there?" they demand.
He startles backward.
But it's a small relief. It's not a professor. Sixth or seventh year. Maybe eighth.
The relief doesn't last long.
"Lumos." White light strikes across his vision and he hisses, looking away.
The words come out before Draco even intends for them to. "Turn down the fucking light, can you? Feels like a bloody interrogation." His heart's racing and his mind is whirring with excuses. He's in his trial and he's wide-eyed and praying to whoever is merciful enough to listen.
"Malfoy?"
His head jerks back up. And then his jaw slackens — clenches when he realizes how openly he's been gaping.
"Granger." He says it like a statement, as though he hadn't just felt his soul leave his body a moment ago.
This isn't how he remembered her.
This person he's known since they were eleven years old, she's sort of Granger. Granger, but not really.
Same messy brown curls but they're limp. Her lips are pale and anemic and she had never seemed so skinny. In the most unappealing way. As though she'd been starved for a century.
But the most startling part of it all — is what's resting delicately between her pointer and middle finger. The telltale brown stripe and the smoke curling upwards.
She notices him staring at it and drops the cigarette like it's suddenly become offensive, stubbing it with the heel of her Mary-Janes. He looks back at her face and sees her blushing.
Granger smoking.
Granger, golden girl, the brightest witch of their age smoking. Draco almost wants to laugh.
A tense silence envelops them.
But it's too late. His eyes glint, mask falling perfectly in place. The corner of his mouth curls up. "Smoking? I wouldn't have guessed it."
She stares with her innocent, or maybe not, brown eyes, and her lips part. "I…" And then, as if her senses had suddenly returned, her mouth clamps shut. She looks down her nose at Draco. "What are you doing here? It's almost two in the morning," she says, back in that haughty tone.
Lips purse and it makes her look even uglier than he had thought possible. He doesn't miss the lingering blush.
Good. "I could ask you the same," Draco drawls.
"I'm Head Girl—" she crosses her arms, "—and you, Malfoy?"
"Doing rounds this late? Yeah, I'll believe that—"
"I am interrogating you, Malfoy."
He rolls his eyes. "I was just taking a nightly stroll before you rudely interrupted. Happy, professor?"
Her eyes flash with anger. "Somehow, I don't believe you. You're hiding something."
Draco's finger twitches. He forces himself to maintain eye contact, then contorts his face into something ugly, something full of loathing. Something to deflect. "Why? Because I'm a Death Eater, is it?" he snaps.
She gives an undignified snort. "Well, it's true, isn't it?"
Draco wants to strangle her. But he doesn't. Just fists his hand.
Granger narrows her eyes and takes one step closer to him. He can smell the smoke on her. It's musky, like clove.
"Ever heard of personal space, Granger?"
"Scared?"
"Scared? Disgusted is a more appropriate term," he sneers. "Now bugger off, yeah?"
"You still haven't told me what you were doing."
Draco doesn't reply. Tries to think of something to deflect again.
She maintains her hard glare at him and waits for a beat. Then two.
"Fine. I'll just report it to McGonagall instead. That'll do it." She nods her head firmly and starts turning around.
Alarms blare in his mind — Do something! Do something! — and in a moment of desperation, he seizes her shoulder and yanks. Hard. Harder than he means to.
She topples over behind him, hitting her head on the wall, a loud thud.
What are you doing?" she shrieks — has her wand out in his face within a second.
"Bloody fuck — Put that away, you stupid cow!" he hisses. "I'm not trying to hurt you." Draco musters up the last minuscule amount of calm and patience he has left in his system. His jaw clenches. Runs his hand through his hair. "Look, we'll pretend this never happened. I won't—"
"You won't what? If you don't tell me right now—" her eyes widen — head whips around.
"Did you hear that?" she whispers.
"What now?" he snaps.
Hermione doesn't reply.
Draco's ears prick up. Then he hears it too — "Students out of bed, Ms. Norris?" — and the distinct ugly cackle of Mr. Filch.
His mouth opens to release a string of expletives but Granger's already shoving him back to move out of the way. "I'll leave first," she says, straightening her school shirt and tie.
"Going to just leave me here?" Draco spits out, inwardly cringing as soon as the words are out. Pathetic. Helpless.
She huffs a laugh. "Can't fend for yourself? Need your father's help?"
His nostrils flare.
She looks at him then, as though she's solving a puzzle. He wonders if Granger can occlude, then promptly dismisses it. Gryffindors and their fickle emotions. "And about this. I'll find out eventually, you know." She shrugs. "Whether you like it or not."
She smoothes out the creases on her pleated skirt and then swivels around to start striding away from him.
Her motions are mechanical. Rehearsed and refined. It's apparent that Granger's been doing it for years.
Right before she's about to round the bend to the moving staircases, the reason this interaction had ever happened at all, she pauses. Hesitates. Like she wants to say something but is unsure of it. She shakes her head and resumes, not looking back once.
And he watches.
He watches, jaw slackened, and he doesn't try hiding it this time.
Sort-of Granger.
Hermione, but not really.