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Draco groaned as he rolled over in his bed. His stomach felt wretched and he was certain a vice was clamped around his skull. He had drunk too much whiskey, even for him. He was grateful for his soft pillow, his cool sheets, being able to cling to the girl next to him for companionship…
With a jolt from that thought he lifted his head groggily. The memory of the previous hours came flooding back. Not quite sure how, they seemed to have made it back to the flat okay.
He looked about the room, seeing his jeans crumpled up next his wet boxers on the floor by the door. Hermione lay next to him sleeping soundly. The robe he had hurriedly given her was left hanging open, a thin sheet barely covering her. From the faint peppermint smell in the air he assumed they had at least managed to follow through with the IcyHot, which was impressive even if they had resorted to streaking across the street to get home.
He then tried to locate his clock, which wasn't in its usual location. Perhaps it was knocked to the floor off his nightstand when he… "When I screwed her so hard that the room shook and her arms almost broke…" he realized.
"Its fine," Draco told himself, "Its fine. It's just Granger. I was drunk. I didn't really force her… not really." He was shaking his head slightly, not sure how he felt, what to settle on.
He couldn't deny how much he enjoyed having sex with her. Or for that matter how nice it was to just not be alone in the bloody flat, no matter whose company it was.
"She started it," he thought again more confidently. "And she loved it," he added boastfully, "She wanted seconds."
And then he remembered. The change he had felt in her right after. How she slunk down in her seat, refusing to make eye contact with him. She was definitely ashamed of something. He was sure it was him. …Fraternizing with him, fucking him. If any of her people found out… what would they think?
Draco felt fiery, recalling his determination to rise back to the status he once had commanded. He would not be a joke. He would retaliate against anyone who dared questioned his superiority; prove to everyone he could do whatever he damned well pleased.
Yes, everything was fine. Sure it was a little controversial, but who cared? It was muggle-born Granger. Just a toy Snape had brought him to play with; a little doll to act out fantastic games; searching for her secrets, volunteering her for bank robberies, demanding her sex. So what if some would consider it rape? Who would know? She'd be dead in…
Draco never felt a rush of nausea come so quickly. He leaned over the side of his bed and vomited violently.
He didn't need a clock, not anymore. When he rolled back onto his bed he could tell from the light coming in from the dirty window. It was dawn. In exactly one day's time Hermione would be returning from Gringotts. Draco would be expected to perform Avada Kedavra.
And of course it would be that exact moment that he could hear her start to stir. He scrambled for his wand somewhere in the sheets and quickly cleaned up his puke.
"Scourgify," he whispered.
"What?" asked Hermione.
"Nothing," he snarled, raking his damp hair back with his fingers. And for the second time he caught her staring at his mark with that same blank expression as before.
That was it. He exited the bed so angrily the sheets were whipped into Hermione's face. With no sign of humility he jaunted across his room with no clothing and into the bathroom.
"Let her look," he thought cockily, his self-image evidently still intact despite whatever else the Dark Lord's return had demolished.
But even as he adjusted the temperature of his shower water, repeating thoughts of "of course the mudblood lusts for me," or "she should be honored to have such a tryst with a pureblood!" he didn't feel any better.
All he could think about was exactly how long it would be before nightfall, and the arrival of Snape and the other Death Eaters to come take her away; to use her up and cast her back down; to betray their agreement and send her back to him—to send her to die.
Draco put his face directly under the faucet flow, hoping the streaming water would miraculously wash away these pestering and sickening thoughts. Much to his dismay, he only felt he would vomit again.
"Just really hung over," he lied internally, rubbing his face. He grabbed a bar of soap.
"She did it to herself," he thought bitterly, trying to wash as though it would actually take his mind off things, "She should've stayed away from all of this…"
He turned the water off and stood there for a moment, his forehead pressed against the tile wall. He wanted a quick fix. Something reliable, something that made the time pass by without thinking much.
And very similar to the previous endless nights spent alone in the apartment, Draco plugged up the grimy sink to brew some more Draught of Peace.
He sprinkled in some powdered Moonstone with vague déjà vu of doing the exact same thing when he couldn't sleep because of his father's impending release. He had been so on edge during the early stages, so anxious for news; so lonely and bitter and restless. The dirty walls were closing in on him. Days would go by before he'd have any contact with another human being. If Death Eaters even counted as human beings… And barking orders or five second check-ins could hardly be called contact.
He came to rely on Draught of Peace. It stopped him from going stir crazy. Worries just seemed to drift away in a foggy haze.
After reflecting on this bitter memory, he sprinkled in a little more Moonstone.
"Getting a bit tolerant," he thought, making excuses for his urge to escape completely as he stirred it clockwise with his toothbrush and threw in a dash of the next ingredient.
He ignored the fact that his hands were shaking as it grew nearer and nearer to being ready. But he was impatient to drink of it, the thought of having to perform murder felt like a cold dead hand around his throat, choking him ever so slowly. Sipping down his newest favorite potion would surely wave goodbye to all that.
"Malfoy!" shrieked a terrified voice from beyond the door.
Startled, Draco dropped his toothbrush. He dashed into fresh boxers and headed for the sound of her scream.
She was over at his desk, but it looked as though she had slipped out of his chair, and was now on her knees. Her hand was over her mouth and her eyes were wide in horror.
"What?" Draco demanded.
Then he saw a gilded handheld mirror in her other hand, sparkling with ensign of the Daily Prophet along the edges. His FlashReflector.
"Put that down!" he shouted, "You have no idea what my mother went through smuggling that to me."
Since Draco wasn't allowed a normal subscription to the Daily Prophet because the Owl would attract too much attention, his magical mirror that displayed the latest breaking news right from the Daily Prophet's main printing press was more than just a useful and sanity saving outlet, it was a sentimental symbol of his mother's care.
He wrestled it out of her grip and looked into it. It did have a new newsflash. Big, black and bold letters spelled out a grisly headline.
"Bombing in Hogsmeade: Joke Shop Destroyed."
Draco's stomach lurched with foreboding. He was pretty certain he could guess what had upset Hermione, but he read on anyway.
"An immense explosion took place early this morning inside of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, a novelty joke shop in Hogsmeade's historic shopping district. While the shop was not yet open for business, witnesses claim the shop owners, Fred and George Weasley were inside, along with speculations of possible others, most likely fellow family members Ronald and Ginerva Weasley, who Hogsmeade Station can confirm as arriving by train the previous night. Magical Law Enforcement Squad arrived on scene shortly after several Aurors. Officials explain the presence of Aurors is necessary because of the possibility—due to the entire Weasley Family's long standing association with Harry Potter and the late Albus Dumbledore—that the bombing may be related to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. No confirmation yet of the four allegedly inside, as search and rescue is still underway. FlashReflector subscribers should stayed tuned for updates, or paper editions will shortly be made available for purchase at your local…"
But Draco stopped reading the article in the glass. He looked down at Hermione, who was shaking and trying to hold back tears.
"Moody never mentioned a possible attack there," she choked.
Moved to act, Draco wanted to tell Hermione that he hadn't ever heard of any attack plans on the joke shop, to comfort her or hold her over until they heard more…
"Hermione," he began softly. But he was cut off. She interrupted him.
"Monsters," she whispered most hatefully, shaking her head. Then she looked up at him, "All of you."
Draco felt a stinging slice deeper then Sectumsempra. She included him in that statement.
Her disapproval of him, her rejection, became sparkling clear. His insides froze. He had never felt anything like it before. It hurt.
Urges to plead to her, to explain; to convince her he was different from them, all rushed through him. He would've fallen to his knees and done it too, if his pride didn't revolt at the very idea of pleading to anyone, no matter the circumstances.
His icy eyes flickered with stormy anger. How dare she—the compassion he had for her and her missing friends was pushed away. No one spoke to him like that. No one hurt him and got away with it.
If she was going to think he was a monster, it was going to be because he made her certain of it himself.
She had made him feel one way; he would make her feel one way too. He had succeeded in manipulating her to scream out in pleasure. Perhaps it was time to try pain.
"What did you expect?" he lied viciously, "They had it coming."
Hermione gasped in horror at his merciless confirmation, "Are they dead?"
Draco shrugged, "Maybe…" he answered maliciously, "Doesn't matter really, dead or captured."
Hermione rose to her feet; he watched horror, pain, anger, panic—everything that was terrible—ache on her face. He was winning his latest game. She submitted once again to what he directed. He expected immense satisfaction to come. It didn't.
"I've got to reach McGonagall!" she uttered frantically, "I've got to see if they had any warning-"
Draco just laughed, continuing the charade with empty hope of enjoying the sport, "Yes," he joked harshly, "My floo powder is over there, please help yourself. Then you can walk out the front door, right? Just like you said you were going to."
Hermione looked mortally wounded. She said nothing, but tried in vain to hold her quivering lips still, "Draco," she cried out desperately, "Please…" was her small ambiguous plea.
He played with her till she cried out his name in pain. He should be happy. He wasn't.
"Please what?" he spat, "This is what it is Granger." He turned away and went back to the bathroom.
He walked more hurriedly than he wanted her to see, but he was frantic to get into the bathroom and out of her sight. He could hear her start to sob uncontrollably as he slammed the door.
Never before had he done anything so cruel and heartless. He was shaking with the most terrible feeling. He couldn't believe the contrast between the euphoric joy he felt just hours ago and the complete misery he felt now. His eyes fell on the sink where he had been brewing crudely.
Recklessly he grabbed for a cup and filled it repeatedly, drinking down cup after cup.
Finally he forced himself to stop somewhere after five. He knew in some extreme cases too much could make it impossible to wake up, especially if your Moonstone fermented. But Draco always kept his ingredients dry, and knew better than to drink a sixth cup. If he could just muster some patience, then these horrible feelings would be gone…
But the haunting vision of the ugly pain strewn about her beautiful face was burned into his eyes. Nothing could rid his memory of the suffering he saw coursing through someone so lovely and good. Someone who never wanted to hurt anyone was hurting so inexplicably herself.
And for the second time in his life, Draco felt that terrible sensation rising within him. His eyes were scorching hot, his throat felt like sandpaper and his lungs like frozen ice blocks. Something invisible was pushing down on him. He couldn't swallow, he couldn't breathe. He was fighting desperately not to blink, but the searing liquid forming between his lids was burning him.
Finally he gave in, and hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he turned up his face in disgust with himself.
…Crying in a bathroom again.
More tears came as his shoulders seized up and down in silent sobs. He kept attempting to gulp them down, but it felt like swallowing large stones. He was so furious at his display of weakness his nails were cutting into his palms his fists were balled so tight.
He didn't want to kill anyone.
Whatever she was, she didn't deserve this.
But what could he do—just not do it? Choke again? Let Snape step in at the last moment once more and do it for him?
What bloody good was that? She'd still end up dead, just like Dumbledore. And then he'd be dead too. Nothing Snape could come up with would spare him this time. Two dead was worse than one, especially if one was him.
And he'd be the only one dead if he let her go. Scheming ways to set up a convincing scene- making the living room look like she dueled him, held a wand to his head, forcing him to undo the binding charm and open the door for her -was pointless. Even though they knew how clever she was, his punishment for losing to her, for letting her get away, would still be death.
He slid down his cabinet and sat on the cold tile floor, crying harder. It was impossible. There was nothing he could do. But the tears came harder and flowed more freely still when he couldn't help but think how sick and unfair it was.
They promised her they would let her go. The plan he came up with and they abused. She was going to help them and they were going to take her life away. And her people… they would know she had been tricked. That she actually helped them for no reason. She would be a fool in her death, and that's how she would be remembered.
No one would know how strongly she had dueled Wizards twice her age and size. How bravely she held her ground against him as he held her captive, demanding breakfast and jacuzzi soaks…
Draco smiled sadly through his tears.
From outside the door he could hear clattering and rummaging, but he just did not care.
He couldn't get past it. Something was lodged in his heart and he wanted it pulled out. But he knew there was no way, how could anything make it better? Either way, one of them was going to die. He couldn't save her…
And then he realized… He couldn't save her, but he could spare her from some things; the worst things.
He could spare her the vain attempt to free herself. He could spare her the disrespect of an audience. He could spare her a painful death.
He could go out to her now, tell her everything.
Tell her he was sorry and he was going to make it as right as he possibly could. That he would kill her.
Kill her before they could use her and throw her away.
He knew she was sensible and brave. If he was honest with her, she would appreciate it for what it was worth. She would understand that if it was going to happen, this was the most logical, most respectable way. She could die without giving her enemies anything. She couldn't hope for anything better.
With a new determination Draco mustered up his courage and went to push himself up off the floor, but exclaimed in surprise when his arms turned to rubber and his head felt flooded with water, his butt slamming back down on the tiles. Suddenly he was struggling to even hold his head up; his vision was blurry and the room spinning. He was so tired. Once more he tried to get up again, but proved to be even weaker.
He felt weighed down by anchors. Domineering fatigue was spreading throughout his limbs rapidly.
Groggily, he thought of his potion, but he was far too skilled in the subject to make it too strong. There was no other explanation he could think of, except for the absurd notion that his potion ingredients had been tampered with.
As he heard more clattering sounds, coming this time from his bedroom, Draco's eyes closed and he fell over onto the floor, fast asleep.