Disclaimer: Am I J.K. Rowling? If I were, I would have called the seventh book, Draco Malfoy and his Mudblood Lover. Does that answer your question?
Full Circle
Nothing stops. Nothing ever truly stops.
The wind will always blow. The seasons will always change. Gravity will always pull.
The world will never stop. It spins, because nothing stops. It can't.
So spin it must.
And all that spins eventually comes right back to the start.
Everything, everyone is brought full circle.
Always back to the beginning.
Back to the same place.
The same place that is so incredibly different.
He is there now. He finds it funny that he is here again, the same place where it all started, but oh so much has changed.
He's not the one sitting on the hard ground in a Muggle park looking like his life is unsalvageable. He's not the one being plotted against. He's not the one being watched.
He's doing the watching.
He wonders if Potter knows, knows that they are back to the beginning, knows that their positions have switched.
Nothing, he decided. He had known nothing of what was to come all those days ago, so neither must Potter.
He thinks of ending it here, now. Ending the circle the way Potter had tried to do to him. He could do it so easily. The one they call "chosen" sits there with his stupid bird, unknowing, writing letter after letter to someone who won't matter in the end. He could end it so easily.
But no, he won't. It's his turn now.
His turn to pursue.
His turn to ruin the boy's life, as the boy had ruined his so long ago. He has a gift for ruining things; it comes with being a Death Eater, with being a Malfoy, with being Lucius.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
She wasn't sorry. She wasn't.
She had done what needed to be done. For once in her goddamned life, she had thought of herself. Surely she was allowed that. Surely she could make one purely self-seeking decision just one time, only one.
It was really the only reasonable thing to do. How could she possibly allow herself to help that man? He was evil and cruel and… and…
She was seeking for another word, but the only thing that flashed through her mind was "human." He was human. He made mistakes, like everyone else.
He hadn't exactly been rude to her in their time together. She paled and refused to apply any adjective to his recent behavior except "confusing." Yes, he was confusing.
She wanted to believe that he hated her, because that made it easier. And a part of her did. The part of her that was the same girl from Hogwarts could see in him that same boy from their youth. A piece of him hadn't changed. But had she any right to judge him? After all, she hadn't changed either, not completely anyway.
His face, as she had left him there, haunted her. He was screaming, but there was so much more than anger in his expression. It pained her to identify fear and hurt and sadness in the face that seemed to be burned into her retinas. Surprisingly enough, she couldn't find hate in his eyes. She wished she could have, but as far as she could tell, there was none.
She had left St. Mungo's and walked the streets without any inclination towards a destination. He didn't hate her. That thought cut her, sliced at her until she felt raw and needy and guilty with the pain of it all. He had found it in himself to rise above his hatred in order to trust her, and she had run away.
Some Gryffindor she turned out to be. But she couldn't go back. She couldn't.
He deserved to be left there. Now she just had to convince herself of that.
She stopped suddenly and took in the area surrounding her. She didn't recognize the neighborhood in the slightest. Glancing at the nearest street sign, she realized that she had passed her flat quite a while ago.
Her frustration mounting, she turned and walked back in the direction from which she had just come. She could, of course, just Apparate, but she needed the walk.
Even with the crisp breeze whipping at her face, she felt like she was suffocating. She just couldn't seem to get enough air into her lungs. She wasn't sorry. She refused to be sorry.
He deserved it. He did. He's just an egotistical bastard.
But then why was she crying? Why did it feel as if a hand of steel were squeezing her lungs, preventing her from getting air? Why was her blood rushing so loudly in her ears that she couldn't even hear herself think?
Her hands were clasped and squeezing so tightly that her fingernails had begun to draw blood. But she didn't stop, she didn't even notice.
She didn't want to be sorry, but she was. She felt as if she were barely moving, the guilt weighing heavily upon her like an anchor keeping her motionless amidst the tossing waves of the ocean.
She felt incredibly alone. No one, not even Harry and Ron, knew what was going on with Draco. She had no one to talk to about it. She winced as she realized that Malfoy was just as alone as she. He had told her that she was all he had. At the time, she wasn't sure she believed him, but now she found that she felt much the same way as he.
She supposed she could tell Harry and Ron, but she shuddered at what their reactions might be.
A vision of Harry surrounded by flames that crackled with furious power passed through her mind. No, she wouldn't tell Harry. Regardless of her own confused feelings, she certainly didn't want Draco to suffer Harry's wrath, not when Draco hadn't done anything wrong.
She stopped and had to use her arm to brace herself against a nearby building as the dizziness swept over her.
Hadn't done anything wrong?
Did she really consider him free of blame? He had let Death Eaters into the school, had almost killed Dumbledore.
But he hadn't.
No, he hadn't. And the only reason he had done any of that in the first place had been for his mother. She recalled the entry in his journal where he had mentioned his mother and the piano. They had sung a song about leaving all the darkness behind and flying far away.
Another sharp intake of breath, and the tears started fresh. He was just a boy, a boy who had had to choose between the death of his mother and the death of his Headmaster. She realized with a pang that though he had tried, he hadn't managed to save either one.
So maybe she couldn't hold him responsible for Dumbledore's death. And she wanted to blame him just for being a Death Eater, but she knew very well that his forearm was not marked with a skull, but with scars.
He'd even had a chance to save his life when he'd been captured, by pledging and proving his allegiance. Voldemort had offered him a fucking second chance, and he had said no. It seemed completely out of character for Voldemort to even make such an offer, but apparently he had wanted Draco on his side very badly. But again, Draco had gone against what had been expected of him. A voice niggling in her head asked how many times he would have to prove himself before she would admit that she saw some good in him.
Really, all she could hold against him were the years he'd spent tormenting her at Hogwarts, but did that really even matter to her anymore? Searching her mind she recalled her first sight of him in the Permanent Ward and how all malice had fled her then. She tried, but couldn't manage to muster up any bitterness.
It was in that moment, as she ascended the stairs to the front door of her apartment building, that two words came to be associated in her mind, two words that she never would have dreamed of fitting together.
Draco.
Innocence.
Even though she hadn't really admitted it, and didn't plan to do so, she knew she would be going back. She couldn't allow that face, his face, to be painted across the darkness every time she closed her eyes.
Entering her flat, she immediately noticed three letters strewn across the floor just a few feet away from the door. She grabbed the nearest one and opened it.
Hermione,
I haven't heard from you in a few days. Just want to see how you are doing and if we could get together sometime.
Love,
Harry
She didn't allow herself to smile. As much as she loved Harry, she couldn't get that image of him out of her head. She remembered being scared of hell when she was a child, utterly terrified of fire and pointy little red devils. She had felt that same fear that night, only it had been so much more real. She shook her head violently, realizing that she'd just compared Harry to Satan. Harry might be many things—angry, yes, out of control, probably—but he was certainly not the Devil. That was utterly ridiculous and she laughed, if only slightly. She grabbed another letter.
Hermione,
You promised that you would make it up to me. Why are you ignoring me? Whatever I've done, I'm sorry, and I'll fix it. I promise.
Harry
Hermione's hand shook with frustration as she read the letter. Just who did he think he was? It had been less than a day since she had set foot in her flat and he had the nerve to question her because she hadn't responded. She had just got home for fuck's sake. With dread she grabbed the third letter and noticed that he hadn't even signed it with his or her name.
I can't believe you, Hermione. Are you just going to throw away our friendship? Is that all I mean to you? I thought, Jesus Christ, I don't know what I thought. I thought I knew you. Why aren't you answering my letters? I don't mean to be angry, I don't. Just come see me as soon as you get it, and everything will be okay. Don't make me come find you.
Hermione involuntarily squeezed her hand and the paper crumpled in her fist. What in the bloody hell was going on with that boy? She understood perfectly well that he was frustrated and angry and all the matters with Lucius didn't help. She wanted to write back and give him a good firm lashing. She wasn't his to order around. She wasn't his to do anything with.
She decided that he was just going to have to learn to be patient. And for him to question their friendship? It made her sick to her stomach. She grabbed the last letter and smoothed out the wrinkles. Grabbing the nearest quill, she scrawled her reply across the bottom.
Don't order me around, Harry James Potter. I'll come see you when I want to or when you stop being such a git, whichever comes first.
She summoned her small, gray owl and attached the letter to her leg.
"Take this to Harry, Cordelia," she whispered, stroking the owl softly, "and don't wait for a reply."
Not waiting to watch the small bird depart, she turned and began scanning the apartment. Her tote bag was sitting untouched on the sofa. She reached in and grasped one of the books she had taken from the Malfoy family library.
"Malfoy Family Punishment Curses," she said aloud. "Are you in here? The answers I need? "
She certainly didn't expect an answer, but it would have made things much easier if the ominous-looking book had jumped open and said, "Right here on this page!"
She laughed aloud and counted quickly how many hours it had been since she had slept.
Twenty-two. Twenty-two long, frustrating, and certainly enlightening hours. She thought that life up until now had been like one face of a coin, and she felt as though her coin had been flipped and she was now on the reverse side where everything seemed to be exactly the opposite of before. She had seen something different in two people and it certainly hadn't turned out as she had expected.
Sighing she opened the book and scanned the table of contents. She whispered aloud to herself as her eyes swept down the page.
"Death, torture, mutilation, fuck, I'd hate to be a part of this family." Her hands gripped the book tightly. She was struck with a horrifying vision of an 8 year old Draco being tortured for, for sneaking a biscuit before dinner or whatever kids did. Whatever happened to being grounded?
"Torture of the Mind, pg. 89." She gasped. Could it really be that simple? Her fingers couldn't turn the pages fast enough. She read the introduction to the chapter and felt her heart grow heavy in her chest.
The curses and enchantments in this chapter are considered to be the most severe and devastating of all punishments used by the Malfoy family. In the 400 years spanning the period from the migration of the Malfoys to England until 1970, in only three instances was this kind of punishment deemed necessary. Because these spells work within the mind of the sufferer, it is hard to pinpoint the exact effects of the spell. The curse is designed to target and attack those elements that are weakest in its host, so the curse adapts and changes itself according to the situation.
The first spell is the only one that has been used according to family records, and is probably the most potent. Again, not much is known about its effects other than the spell's aim to mimic insanity until insanity becomes the reality. There is some debate about the incantation, because it has changed over the years, but the most recent occurrence used the following spell:
Ego capio tu, memoriam, sententiam, mensa mentisa, nuilus diutus ham tu ut imperium. Mutatio tu, quasso tu, potior tu. Magicae vorom tu, vinco vici vitetum tu. Tu fio praedam, esca dum morsa mortista o insaniaro.
Hermione scanned further, hoping for a translation but found none. Disappointed, she tried to dissect the phrases herself. She was fairly adept in her knowledge of Latin, and this spell, as with most, was based in it.
"Ego capio" she mused aloud, "means 'I take.' And tu means you. So, 'I take you.' "
With a nod she prepared to move on, but was interrupted by the scraping of an owl at her window. Growling with frustration, she assumed that Harry had replied to her letter. Determined to ignore it, she moved on to the next word.
" 'Memoriam' comes from the Latin memoria for memory."
The scratching continued and she felt slightly guilty for leaving Hedwig out in the cold. There was no pacifying Harry when he was like this. She might as well just go to see him for a few minutes and be done with it. She grabbed a spare bit of parchment, copied down the words to the spell, and tucked it inside her robes.
She quickly crossed to the window and with a heave, pulled it open. She was surprised to find that it wasn't Hedwig waiting outside her window, nor was it her owl Cordelia, but a plain brown owl that she didn't recognize. Reaching for the owl's leg, she realized that the letter was sealed with St. Mungo's emblem.
She rushed furiously to remove the letter, and she nearly ripped it in half with her haste to open it.
Healer Granger,
We are aware that your next shift does not start for twelve hours, but have information regarding your patient.
Now, there is nothing to be concerned about, but earlier in the evening your patient was found unconscious in his room suffering from a head injury. In one of his fits, it appears that he struck his head against the toilet located in his room.
He is stable, but remains unconscious. I ask you not to worry, Miss Granger, because this type of behavior is typical in your patient's case.
This letter should also serve as a reminder that your paperwork assessing your patient's condition is due in one week.
Thank you for your hard work, and I'm looking forward to meeting with you in a few weeks for your monthly review.
Sincerely,
Anna Holden
Supervisor
St. Mungo's Permanent Ward
Hermione felt dizzy and she quickly scanned the letter again. Draco hit his head? And was unconscious? Earlier this evening? It had to have been not long after she'd left, as she'd only left about an hour ago.
This was all her fault. If she had been there, if she hadn't run away, it wouldn't have happened.
He had been so angry when she'd left, and part of her wondered if it hadn't been one of his fits. What if he'd done it because of her, because she refused to help? She felt sick.
She was sorry. She really, really was. She had to go there, she had to see him. She couldn't see through the tears that filled her eyes.
It hurt. And she needed to see him. It all hurt so very much. She left the letter lying on the table, grabbed her purse, and dashed towards the door.
Her hand was on the knob when she noticed the bottomless black bag that she'd found at Malfoy Manor lying invitingly on her small coffee table.
Without a second thought, she tucked the bag into one of the inner pockets of her robe and rushed from her apartment.
It was raining when she stepped outside, but she didn't notice; not even as the water clung to her curls or coated her cheeks.
CRACK!
And she was gone, reappearing only moments later in the foyer of St. Mungo's. She reached Draco's ward in record time. When she stopped outside the door, her breathing was uncontrolled, her hair even more so.
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione turned around quickly, flattening her back against the door to Draco's room.
"Ms. Holden?"
"Call me Anna."
"Only if you'll call me Hermione."
Anna smiled, "Fair enough. What are you doing here? You don't start your shift for quite a while."
Hermione laughed and struggled to calm her breathing.
"I know. I got your letter. I know you said not to worry, but I just wanted to stop in and make sure he was okay. "
"I see." Anna nodded, but didn't continue.
Hermione waited for a moment, then nodded, and turned to open the door.
"You've done a wonderful job with him."
"Excuse me?" Hermione replied.
"Draco. Since you began working here, he's had far fewer accidents. Other Healers have said he is far less violent than he used to be."
"Other Healers?" Hermione asked, "I wasn't aware that there were any other Healers on his case."
"There are a few Healers assigned to the ward during the day, and they monitor all the patients between them. They don't get much interaction with him, but enough to notice a difference."
"He does seem to understand more now than when I first arrived. I haven't had much trouble with him at all."
Hermione felt uncomfortable talking about Draco's improvement, because she knew all too well the reason for his improvement.
"Your letter said he was unconscious." Hermione continued.
"Yes. He's really fine now. He had a concussion and a small skull fracture, but the healers took care of everything. When he wakes, he should be fine except for a rather intense headache. We could have woken him, but as he doesn't get much sleep, we decided to let him rest."
"Oh. Well, that's good. It was nice speaking with you, Anna. I'm just going to check on him for a bit."
"Of course, Hermione."
Hermione turned around again and turned the knob. She was halfway inside before Anna spoke again.
"He could use a bath, since he's unconscious. He hasn't had a real bath in quite a while."
Hermione's hand tightened on the door knob, "A bath?"
"A sponge bath, yes. You don't have to do it now or anything, just sometime tonight on your shift."
Hermione paled and nodded. "Yes, of course."
If Hermione hadn't been concentrating so hard, she might have stopped breathing. The door closed behind her with a click and she let out a shaky breath.
Draco was lying on the small bed in the corner, looking entirely too large for the bed, too large for all of it, everything. This whole situation was too big, too immense for her to grasp, and she felt as though she was grappling at the periphery, never quite seizing the whole.
She didn't remember moving towards him, but suddenly she found herself kneeling on the hard floor beside his bed.
"I'm sorry." She whispered.
Her hand found her way to his chest and she felt the steady beat of his heart against her palm.
The gentle but constant thudding urged her on.
"I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I ran away. I'm sorry for everything."
He was so pale and so still that she might have thought him dead, if she hadn't been able to feel the heat from his chest on her hand. He was warm, not cold as she had always imagined him.
"I don't hate you. I actually think you're innocent." She laughed, "Did you ever think you'd hear that from me? I, Hermione Granger, think that you, Draco Malfoy, are innocent. And I'll help you. I'll do anything I can to help you."
She laid her head next to him on the bed, but didn't move her hand. It was reassuring, feeling his blood course beneath her fingers. His pure blood.
His head felt as though someone was actively trying to rip it in two. He vaguely heard someone speaking over the ringing that dominated his ears.
He felt something smooth and delicate brushing against his side, and he moved his hand towards it, touching it ever so lightly.
The tips of his fingers ran across her hair and he found it to be wiry, yet smooth all at the same time.
"Granger?"
Her head popped up, but his hand remained threaded through her locks.
He opened his eyes to see her peering up at him, but closed them quickly. It was so bright and it hurt his eyes, his head, all of him. He moved slightly and sucked in a sharp breath as pain echoed through his head.
"I thought you left."
He released the hair that was wrapped around his hand, and pushed his elbows into his mattress, forcing himself to sit up, and groaning at the pain.
Hermione panicked. In a moment, she was off the floor and sitting on his bed directly behind him.
"No, Draco, lie down. You need to sleep."
He faltered slightly under the pain, but didn't lie back.
"I'm fine."
Resting her hands gently on his shoulders, she pleaded, "Please Draco, I don't care if you run around this room claiming that you're Merlin himself, as long as you do it later."
He laughed and immediately regretted it. He held his head as his body sank back against her, his head nestling into her stomach.
"Funny, Granger."
"I try."
His hand dropped from his head to lie softly across her knee. She ignored the heat that radiated there, and moved flaxen hair out of his eyes.
"You know, I can trace my lineage all the way back to Merlin," he said quietly.
"Sure you can."
He opened his eyes, squinting against the light, "I can, Granger."
She ran a hand across his forehead and shushed him softly.
"You can trace your lineage back to Merlin. I believe you, Draco. And you know, I'm related to Queen Elizabeth I. " She smiled.
Draco yawned and muttered quietly, "Congratulations."
Hermione leaned her head back against the wall. Sighing, she could see his head rising and falling gently against her middle.
This wasn't the first time she'd been in this room cradling Draco Malfoy like a beloved child. She'd done it during his first days here, and this situation was strikingly similar, yet so different.
Things were right back where they started, and she was still just as lost as before. Her body was seared everywhere they touched.
She brushed her hand across his forehead gently, and realized that she didn't hate him. And she wasn't just doing this out of pity anymore, or a sense of duty. She wasn't quite ready to question her motives yet, so instead she closed her eyes and settled back against the wall.
"You're innocent, Draco Malfoy."
And she meant it.
Voting has started at the He Had It Coming Awards! This story and my one-shot Living are nominated there. if you find them worthy, please go vote! The link can be found on my profile.
Next chapter: Draco + Hermione + Sponge bath happiness!
Oh! And an update for We Happy Few should be coming soon!
