A/N: The response to the last chapter was amazing! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and welcome to all the new followers who came over from yet ANOTHER Delancey rec. If anybody knows Delancey654 in real life, would you please give her/him a hug for me?
Chapter Thirteen: To Reveal a Truth
April 2001
Lestrange Mansion
"Ms. Granger."
Hermione was floating in a lovely dark place when she heard her name. She pointedly ignored it.
"Hermione."
Who the hell was interrupting her peace? Didn't they know that this dark, quiet cocoon was all she wanted? She was surfacing, becoming more aware of her surroundings. It was cold. She could smell the familiar, yet terrifying scent of her prison cell.
"Hermione, wake up you stupid girl!"
Hermione blinked, the world coming into focus slowly. There was a person standing over her cot, covered in blood. It was a woman, hands on hips, clearly irritated that Hermione was taking so long to come completely to consciousness.
Memories rushed back of the room, the tantrum and the broken glass. The lightning quick pain followed by quiet, dizzy lassitude as the blood left her body. Then nothing.
The woman was talking. "I never thought you would take the cowardly way out."
The witch stood with poised grace as if the several pints of Muggle-Born blood decorating her expensive dress was a mere inconvenience. There was no guard. They assumed correctly that Hermione was no threat whatsoever. A cool pair of grey eyes watched her with as much regard as one might look upon a dog.
"Malfoy," Hermione croaked.
"That's right Ms. Granger." A single blonde eyebrow communicated her disdain. "I've saved your life. I do hope you'll take better care in the future."
"Fuck off." It was the best she could do to convey her utter hatred of the woman. The only chance at freedom in over four months, and Hermione had failed, thwarted by a blonde demon. It was too much. Her head was spinning and all she wanted to do was close her eyes.
"Keep that anger." It was said softly. "You'll need it in the near future."
The she was gone, and Hermione sank back into darkness.
The sun was setting when Hermione showed up to pester Pansy.
"He's avoiding me isn't he?" she demanded.
Pansy coughed a laugh and set down the stack of pots she had been moving with the aid of a weightless charm. The greenhouses were being consolidated. Neville had decided not to try and relocate the entirety of Hogwarts's greenhouses, only selecting a few very rare or very valuable species to be moved. They were to be taken to Sweden with the civilians who had already begun Portkeying away from Hogwarts grounds.
Hermione was sitting on an upside down pot, chin in her hand. "Two days with no contact?" she grumbled. "Not even in passing?"
"He's very adept at dodging things that make him uncomfortable." Pansy sighed inwardly and settled against the long potting table. She wasn't equipped to deal with people who whinged about their problems instead of taking action.
"He ran away before I could even process what he said!" Hermione complained.
"He's very good at that too," Pansy agreed. Running away while maintaining one's dignity was an art. Draco had botched it royally. It was proof of just how affected he had been. "He's practicing the worst sort of self-preservation."
"It might actually have been a good thing," Hermione conceded quietly. "I'm not sure what I would have said if he'd stayed."
"What did he tell you, exactly?" Pansy regretted the question as soon as it left her lips. She didn't want to get involved in this.
"He said he knew that his father was going to resurrect Bellatrix and didn't stop him."
Normally, Pansy would rather die than divulge information about someone who she considered to be family. It was a rule that had been ingrained upon her for years in Slytherin, and later as she navigated the dangerous waters of Bellatrix's Pureblood society. Now that she was being forced to listen to Draco whinge about how much Hermione hated him, and Hermione fuss about how Draco wouldn't talk to her, she was rapidly adjusting her ethical viewpoint.
"I'm sure he made it seem like he simply stood back and watched while his father performed necromancy, but it wasn't like that." Pansy crossed her arms. "He didn't know about his father's plan. When he found out, he fought with himself about it for days. Wouldn't come out of his rooms even to eat." She felt a shiver at the memory. "When he did emerge, it was nearly too late."
"Nearly too late?" Hermione asked. "So Draco could have stopped him?"
"Potter could have made sure the woman was burned to ashes instead of buried, but he didn't, did he?" Pansy returned.
Hermione bristled. "That's not fair! None of us thought-"
"None of you were thinking at all, clearly." Pansy was getting irritated. "I wasn't there when Draco tried to stop his father, but I found him later, curled up in a ball and inconsolable. From what I could understand through his sobs, Lucius had completed most of the ritual by the time Draco found him. Draco would have had to kill his own father in order to stop him. He couldn't."
Hermione sat back in frustration. "I understand that," she acceded, but there was still a glint of doubt in her eyes.
Pansy tried to remember that woman had experienced terrible things at the hands of the Legion. Things Pansy couldn't even fathom. She took a breath and continued, "No matter who Lucius is to you, or what evil he wreaks upon the world, he loves his son dearly. And Draco knew that. Lucius may not have been a good father, but he always did what he thought was best for his son.
"Draco may have failed to kill his father the first time around, but he won't make that mistake again." Pansy hesitated. "The necromancy changed Lucius irreparably, and his closeness with Bellatrix destroyed what was left of his soul. Draco didn't cast the spell, but his father died that night all the same."
The curly-haired witch was staring at nothing, biting her lip. Eventually, she nodded to herself. "Thank you, Pansy. I know that was hard for you."
Pansy sneered. "Let's not have a moment, alright?"
"Gods forbid," Hermione chuckled and waved over her shoulder. Neville entered the greenhouse at the same time Hermione was leaving. They stopped and spoke briefly before Hermione left.
"Ready to pack it in for the night?" he asked Pansy. She nodded in agreement.
Pansy watched Neville extinguish the witch lights one at a time, singing under his breath. He was completely tone deaf, but it was endearing all the same. The white collared shirt he wore was different than his usual old, short-sleeved rag. She watched his shoulders move underneath the white cotton fabric, watched the way his worn denims still managed to outline his bum perfectly. He had rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, showcasing the cords and veins on his forearms. It was probably the sexiest thing Pansy had ever seen, made more so by the fact that it was entirely unintentional.
He made his way back to the door and smiled down at her, his even white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. There was a smudge of dirt on his shirt near the collar. Pansy reached up to brush it away and their eyes caught and held. A warm tingle started in her belly and moved to her limbs. The constant state of arousal she felt in his presence was all tangled up with a strange sense of well-being and safety that only Neville could provoke. Well, she thought ruefully, there goes the last of my dignity, and probably my heart. She stretched up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
Neville considered himself an observant man. He had noticed Pansy's intellect, her enviable efficiency with a wand- or without, much to his surprise- and the way she loved the greenhouse, even though she complained incessantly. There was a grace in the way she moved that spoke to years of training. Even in hand me down clothes, sweating and dirty, she was elegant. She was poised and beautiful in the way of a glittering blade. There was nothing soft about Pansy Parkinson, except perhaps her body, about which he had strictly forbidden himself from fantasizing.
The flirting had come to his attention in an absentminded way. He had supposed it was a natural part of her personality, brought out as she became more comfortable around him. It had been odd to experience Pansy without the usual sarcasm and mean-spirited badgering. He had felt the rough side of her tongue on more than one occasion. Neville was utterly astonished, therefore, when that very tongue pulled a groan deep from his chest as it licked its way around his ear. Apparently, he hadn't been paying close enough attention.
He sucked on the skin of her neck, drawing deep to leave a mark. She gasped and curled her fingers against his scalp. Her mouth was already reddened and beautiful from the attentions of his lips and teeth and tongue. She stepped out of her trousers after pulling his shirt over his head. It took him only a moment to remove her shirt as well.
The feel of her skin against his was a revelation. How could anyone have skin so smooth? He worried that the callouses on his hands would mar the perfection of her body, but she never stopped to complain. Instead, she tugged on his neck, pulling him closer as she walked him over to the potting table, stumbling only a few times as they attempted to move without breaking their kiss. He lifted her under her arms and sat her on the table so they were eye to eye.
"Bloody hell, you're strong!" she laughed as she ran her fingers over his chest in admiration. Neville let the compliment pump up his pride a bit before he unhooked her lacy bra.
Her breasts were soft and fit in his hands perfectly. She gasped when he pulled one pert nipple into his mouth, then swiftly retaliated by unzipping his trousers. His world narrowed to the sensation of her fingers around his cock and his mouth on her skin. The sounds of approval she was making only urged him on. His fingers slipped under the edge of her knickers, intent on pulling them off, but he paused. This couldn't really be happening. A beautiful, smart, and powerful woman wanted to sleep with him? He must have misunderstood her intentions.
"Is this okay?" he whispered between kisses. "Is this what you wanted?"
He needed to be sure. Because looking at her as she was now-nearly naked, her skin glowing in the moonlight, her tip-tilted eyes sparkling with fairy motes-he thought it might kill him to stop once this last barrier between them was removed. Her dark eyes went wide at the question and she smiled, the first full and real smile he had ever seen from her.
"I want you," she said simply.
The words incited a wave of heat that flowed through his body. She leaned forward and kissed him on the chin before lifting her bum off the table so he could easily slide the scrap of fabric to the floor. He stepped between her legs, pulling her gently towards him. She leaned back and supported herself on her hands, wrapping her legs around his hips.
Nestled between her thighs, he could feel her slick heat, the evidence of her desire so blatant it made his heart stutter. He started moving slowly, sliding through her folds without actually penetrating her, while he plundered her mouth. There was no rush, in his opinion. As good as it felt to have her naked and moaning, he knew it could only get better. He wanted to take his time and make this good for her.
"Neville," she panted, breaking away. "This feels amazing and I love everything you're doing, but I'm going to come soon, and I'd rather do it with you inside me."
She ended the request with a nip at his lower lip that made Neville rush to do exactly as she asked. They both sucked in great lungfuls of air when they were finally joined. Pansy threw back her head and arched her back, bringing her hips off the table and tight against his own. Her hair was a sheet of straight, glossy black silk behind her. Neville had never seen anything so beautiful.
Then there was nothing but Neville moving, grinding, sliding against Pansy, listening to her sounds of pleasure. She wrapped a hand around his shoulder and pulled herself forward until she was flush with him, her nipples grazing his chest with every thrust. He gripped her tight around her waist to steady her and picked up his pace. There were stars building behind his eyelids as he struggled to stave off his orgasm. Pansy was breathing in short, staccato gasps, letting out short cries of bliss when she suddenly stiffened and dug her nails into his skin.
"Neville!" she screamed as she tightened around him, ripping his own orgasm from his body like lightning.
Neville held her close to him with shaking arms as they both caught their breath. After only a few minutes, and long before Neville would have liked, Pansy pulled away. There was a sheen of sweat on her skin that Neville wanted to lick away. His pulse was still drumming in his ears when she smiled brightly at him. A fake smile.
"Well that was lovely," she said as she dropped her feet to the floor. She started to collect her clothes.
"Lovely," he repeated, not quite sure of himself. The word didn't encompass Neville's experience at all. He was confused. Had he done something to upset her? Why was she so eager to run off? Did she regret it?
Neville didn't want her to leave, but she seemed determined to get dressed as quickly as possible, all while avoiding eye contact with him. He pulled his trousers back on even as he watched her set herself apart from him with every move. Much of the softness was gone, and Neville missed it. He searched his mind for something to say that didn't sound like he was begging her to stay.
"I'll just be going then." The words were offhand, but Neville noticed the vulnerability in the way she hesitated at the door. A light went off in his head as he discovered something important about Pansy Parkinson. Neville considered himself an observant man, and he was finally seeing the right things.
"Are we going to my room or yours?" he asked casually.
Pansy stopped short. Her shoulders dropped with relief and she smiled at him, another real smile.
"Yours," she replied.
They walked slowly back to the castle hand in hand.
Draco had chosen a vegetable quiche with crusty bread and a fruit salad from the breakfast buffet set out by the castle elves. The Order soldiers were enamored with the sheer amount of food they were being offered as the castle attempted to ready itself for battle, but Draco found he had little appetite. He picked at the egg concoction, pushing bits of onion and tomato around his plate while he kept an eye on the dining hall doors. It was too late in the day for Granger to be breaking her fast, but he wanted to be sure he wasn't caught unawares. The damned woman could be sneaky when she so desired.
His mother sat across from him and ate with the same well-bred grace with which she did everything. If his silence bothered her, she gave no sign. It was a skill she had perfected long ago. If anyone were to look closely, they might see the signs of strain around her eyes. The coming battle was weighing heavily on Narcissa, as was her decision to leave for Sweden with the civilians. Draco had spent hour after exhausting hour convincing her that it was the right thing to do. He didn't need his mother around to watch him fight and die.
Draco shifted in his chair and rubbed at his burning Dark Mark. Bellatrix had resumed her torture of him sometime in the night. He was stifling in his long-sleeved shirt. It was warm at their table. Too warm. The sun was slanting through the large windows directly onto their heads, making Narcissa's hair glow like warm silver.
"You should stop charming your hair," Draco told her. "He's not around to care if you're blonde or brunette."
Narcissa sniffed and took a sip of tea. "I do it for myself. It makes me look younger." She sighed. "You father stopped noticing the color of my hair about the same time he moved into my sister's rooms."
Draco grunted and fingered his fork absently.
"She knows you're avoiding her," Narcissa said blandly.
"Does she?" Draco slouched back in his chair, separating the various vegetables on his plate into neat piles.
He had hoped nobody had noticed his childish behavior. The Dragon was miserable, grumbling at him constantly for the last three days. Normally, he would have strutted around arrogantly, maybe intentionally pushed Granger's buttons just to prove he was in no way afraid of her, but the horror he had seen in her eyes the day he had told her his darkest truth was far worse than any embarrassment he was now suffering.
Swallowing his pride, he had worked himself to the bone and attended every single meeting into which he could gain entry, all in an effort to keep away from Granger. In the end, it had been disappointingly easy. She hadn't sought him out or even objected when he passed by her in the hall with only a nod. Her Gryffindor nature would never allow her to back away from a challenge, so the fact that she had simply allowed him to avoid her was just more evidence that she hated him.
"While I applaud your plan to give her time to process your rather abrupt confession," Narcissa continued delicately. "It does neither of you any good to avoid the fallout."
It was an argument she had presented before. "Fallout?" he huffed. "Don't be so dramatic."
She smiled at him serenely. "I'm not the one putting on a performance."
Draco couldn't decide if flinging eggs at his mother would stop her lecture or add fuel to the flame. She would probably brush the food from her clothes and calmly point out his infantile gesture was useless. Then she would hex him into unconsciousness.
"The potion will mature tomorrow," she pointed out. "And you'll be forced to interact whether you like it or not."
"I know."
"So stop acting like a child," Narcissa demanded coolly. "Your dramatics are not impressing anyone, least of all Ms. Granger."
Draco tossed his fork down and stood, unable to take another moment of his mother's self-possessed perfection.
"Thank you for your advice," he gritted out.
"Don't forget that you're escorting me to tea with Andromeda this afternoon." Narcissa touched her lips with her napkin. "Since you are forcing me to leave with my sister, I should like to finalize our plans."
"Of course, Mother," Draco agreed with a bow and left.
It took a few hours of manual labor, but Draco eventually realized he had made a fool of himself. What did he care if Granger hated him? The best way to go forward was to pretend none of it had happened. He would go back to the snide banter they had exchanged before the Dragon had spotted her and before he had discovered the taste of her mouth and the texture of her skin. Swallowing forcibly, he decided he would approach her later. Granger was likely in council with Shacklebolt, Potter and Weasley anyway. Perhaps after tea.
Instead of attending tea later that day, Draco found himself accosted by the female Potter as he and his mother were climbing the steps of his Aunt's house.
"Oh good, I've caught you!" The redhead was all smiles. "I'm trying to pack up the last of Harry's things for the trip to Sweden and I'm afraid they're a bit too heavy. Do you think you could help?" The harpy had asked sweetly, but with a malicious sparkle in her eyes, that made Draco want to refuse flat out.
"You have a wand, don't you?" he sneered.
"Draco." His mother admonished him with a single word, and Draco found himself walking up the path to the Potter's house.
She-Potter-Formerly-Known-As-She-Weasel chatted incessantly as she led him up the stairs of her small home to a nearly empty bedroom. It contained a bed stripped bare, a small dresser, and Hermione Granger. For a moment, he wondered if this was some kind of ploy on Granger's part to get him to acknowledge her presence until he saw the look of utter surprise on her face.
"Draco?" She was frowning at him.
He swung around to Ginny. "What the fuck is this?"
"Pansy says the two of you are driving her batty, and I agree, so talk it out." The woman was standing in front of the door with her arms crossed, effectively blocking his exit.
"You spoke to Pansy?" Granger was astonished. "And everyone survived?"
"With limbs intact," Ginny confirmed. She winked and left the room, closing the door behind her.
The door was sealed shut. Damn that red headed witch! Bloody fucking hell. This was not what he had intended. He pasted a snide grin on his face and leaned casually against the wall, as far from Granger as possible.
"Is she always so nosey?" he asked her.
"When she thinks she's helping." Granger sighed and sat on the bed, the blanket she had been folding next to her. "Worse than I am, to be honest."
"That's saying something." It was mean, he knew, but he was desperate to distance himself.
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "At least we can talk now."
"What is there to talk about?" He did his best to sound dismissive. "I let my father resurrect a monster, who then destroyed the world. End of fucking story."
"What is there to talk about?" She started ticking points off on her fingers in the most obnoxious way possible. "I kissed you. You kissed me back. And then you freaked out-"
"I did not freak out!" he objected.
"- and then you tell me something huge and horrible and then just walk away. How could you do that?"
"Oh for fuck's sake," he snarled. "Don't make this into- into something."
"What does that mean?" she huffed in irritation. "This is obviously not nothing, so the only conclusion is that this is, in fact, something."
"Don't hurt yourself, Granger," he spat out.
"You're being ridiculous!" The bed creaked as she shifted, crossing her arms.
He was silent. A soft muffling charm settled onto the room, revealing her intentions to continue torturing him. It felt like shackles fastening around his wrists. Maybe he could wait her out. She would talk herself into unconsciousness at some point.
"I know you think you are to blame," Granger continued. "But none of what has happened is your fault."
He eyed her in disbelief. Was she really trying to make him feel better? Where was the rage? The horror? The hatred?
"Well," she amended in the face of his stare. "Not entirely your fault. You were presented with pretty shite choices, and you did what you could."
Was this a forgiveness speech? Fucking hell, he didn't want this. No matter what he had told her while standing knee-deep in mud, he had no interest in her forgiveness. He didn't want to bask in the light of her benevolent grace, he thought acidly. He deserved no such relief. It had not crossed his mind that she could find a way to forgive him. Again. Panic was crawling up his throat. He had to get out this room.
Oblivious to his rising hysteria, she continued, "I've imagined how life might have been if Bellatrix had stayed dead and I've always come to the conclusion that it may not have been better. She wasn't the only one who was willing to finish what Voldemort started. Your father is a prime example."
She stood and took a few steps toward him, sending a wave of citrus scented deliciousness his way. The Dragon uncoiled and demanded Draco move closer. Instead, Draco clenched his hands and breathed through his mouth, desperate to stifle the need to touch her. The woman was intolerable. Draco had made wrong decision after wrong decision, so many that even he was hard pressed to accept them all. What kind of person actively looked for ways to excuse such behavior?
"The blame for this war is not on your shoulders." The compassion in her voice was turning his stomach. "You can only hold yourself responsible for your own choices, and choosing not to kill your own father. . . well, that was a hard decision to make."
It was like she was thumbing through every thought and shining a light on the errors in his self-destructive logic. But she was wrong, so wrong it was almost laughable. He lashed out.
"Don't try to make this less my fault!" he nearly shouted. "You, more than any other, know what the world is like under Bellatrix!" She flinched and fingered her forearm. "She is a sickness brought upon us by my inaction. We are standing here right now, in the last safe place in England, because I failed to take action against the enemy."
Granger's curls bounced as she shook her head violently. "The Order failed, not you. We were arrogant. We thought we had won. We threw parties and congratulated each other and didn't think for one moment that the cowardly Death Eaters might have a backup plan. We allowed the Ministry take the reins of the cleanup instead of doing it ourselves. That steaming pile bureaucratic shite can't do anything right."
"What is wrong with you?" He felt something black and viscous settle in his chest. Shame. "You should hate me!"
"Hate never accomplished much in my life." She looked suddenly exhausted. "It's futile, especially when it's misplaced."
"You're pathetic," he let the words slither out. Her head snapped up and glared at him with bright brown eyes. "I'm so sick of your misled fucking crusade to forgive all my sins. Sick to death of your gods-damned, self-righteous benevolence."
"I am not self-righteous, you arrogant arsehole!" Her cheeks were getting red with ire.
"That's right," he laughed without humor. "I'm arrogant. And prejudiced and entitled and a coward. When will you learn that your forgiveness means nothing! It doesn't change anything!"
A breeze picked up in the room, fluttering the curtains. "You want to paint yourself as some kind of monster, but your friends know better!"
"You don't know me!" he growled. "We're not friends, Granger. You are a means to an end. I would snap your neck if it served my purposes. I would sell you to Bellatrix and burn Hogwarts to the ground if it could get me what I want."
"I don't believe that!" she shouted at him, her hair sparking.
She really should have drawn her wand, he thought maliciously. Now it was time to teach her a lesson about misplaced trust. A wand was unnecessary to pull her across the floor and into his grasp. Then he had her backed against the wall. He loomed over her, pressing into her space. It was intentional. He braced himself on the wall behind her, arms bracketing her head. In the back of his mind, there was a voice that was screaming at him to stop, that he was crossing a line from which he couldn't return. He silenced it, shrugging on his Death Eater persona like an old cloak.
"You don't know anything," he told her coldly.
There was a flicker of fear in her eyes the moment before she moved. He was on the ground before he could blink, a woman half his size kneeling on top of him with her knee jabbed into his sternum. In addition to flipping him bodily to the ground, she had also immobilized him with a nonverbal hex. His wand was on the ground just out of reach of his frozen fingers. It was difficult to take a breath with her full weight centered on his chest. She leaned forward and planted her hands on the floor to either side of his face, a dangerous parody of their former position.
"I'll give you that one for free," she gritted out. "But just know that I could have broken every bone in your body." They were nose to nose, her ragged breath hitting his mouth. The scent of her was laced with a dangerous fury that smelled like embers and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. "You think this whole war hinges on a single choice that you made? Get over yourself, you're not that fucking important!"
Her face softened and sighed. "As for my forgiveness, you have it whether you want it or not. What you choose to do with it is up to you."
She pressed her lips to his briefly, but with enough pressure that he felt it in his belly. In her eyes, Draco saw compassion and a flare of vulnerability that made him want to wrap his arms around her. Then she was gone, and he was released from her spell. He gasped in a deep breath and lay on the floor, his mouth tingling and his ribs aching. He remained in this prone position as he licked the last of her presence from his lips.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" he heard Ginny screech from downstairs.
The red-headed woman was all apologies after she helped him off the floor and mended his bruised ribcage.
"Maybe that wasn't such a good idea," she murmured. "I forget just how dangerous she is sometimes. But," she continued brightly, "I'm sure you had it coming, so I don't feel that bad."
Draco had, in fact, had it coming. He was still reeling. It was a strange thing to be bludgeoned over the head with the truth by a tiny slip of a witch. It was a feat none of his friends or family had managed to accomplish, and they had tried repeatedly over the years.
You're not that fucking important.
He started to chuckle. It quickly turned into a full belly laugh. He doubled over as his eyes filled with tears of mirth. Ginny looked at him askance.
"You going to be alright, Malfoy?" she asked warily.
Draco didn't bother to answer. In the grand scheme of things, he very much doubted he would be alright, but in that moment, as he wiped the wetness from his eyes, he felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Bloody fucking Gryffindors, he mused as he left the house whistling under his breath.
A/N:
I'm currently making my way through Delancey654's "Better Off Forgotten." I know most of you came over from one of her/his fics, but if you haven't read this story DO IT. Oh my god it's addicting! Muggle-borns have been repatriated to the Muggle world with their memories obliviated, there's a fertility curse on former Death Eaters, and Hermione might just be the key to fixing all of it. Amazing!
And as always, I'd love to hear from you.