A/N: Reasons you should hate me: taking so long to update.
Reasons you should love me: A chapter filled with Draco/Hermione interaction AND… the translation of the spell!!!
"We know the truth, not only by the reason, but also by the heart." – Blaise Pascal
By Heart
Draco was going insane.
Or at least it felt that way.
She was supposed to return today, right? She had said that she would be back "tomorrow" which was now today. So why wasn't she here?
From the moment she'd left his room the day before, he'd been waiting for her return. Every part of him was waiting.
He needed the intellectual stimulation. But more than that, he needed to talk about the spell. He'd attempted to sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, but he was plagued by hundreds of mad portraits of himself decorating a hallway that stretched on for forever. He'd given up on sleep quite quickly after that.
Her news of the spell the day before had shaken him. So much so that he now wanted to live. He'd spent so much of the last years just waiting—waiting for insanity or death. Or both. And now he felt alive, so very alive.
Grudgingly, he suspected that it was she who made him feel that way. Someone like that—someone so full of light—couldn't help but scare away a bit of the darkness.
Surely it was time for her to arrive. It felt as though the day were almost over. Gods, what he wouldn't give for a watch!
And some decent food.
Chocolate, definitely chocolate.
And a comfortable bed.
And a girl.
In his comfortable bed.
Okay, so there were a lot of things that he would give anything for at this point, except he just didn't have anything to give.
Which made him question Granger's motives again. Just what was she getting out of this? Perhaps medical fame when she cured him—if she cured him. Or, dare he joke, the pleasure of his company? But she did seem to care more than just his doctor would.
At that moment, the door to his room opened, and a pile of books with legs walked through the door. And he found himself noticing just how nice a pair of legs they were, but then his eyes were abruptly drawn to the books she was carrying. The first title he saw read Bewitching the Mind.
She laid the books on the floor a few feet away from him, and then proceeded to sit on the floor opposite him.
"I brought you some books. I figured you could use a bit of light reading to take your mind off some things."
"Well, thanks," he replied, picking up the book nearest to him, "But I think Dark Curses for Controlling the Mind might be just a little too light and cheerful for me."
She laughed.
And the remnants of it echoed joyously in his chest for moments afterward.
"I meant these."
She pushed a smaller stack of books toward him, all of which had titles pertaining to Quidditch.
He retrieved the book on the top of the stack, slowly running his hand down the spine with a delicacy that she hadn't known was in him.
He opened the book to find crisp, white pages and the unique scent of a new book—a scent that they both recognized and he had gone far too long without.
He wanted to laugh and maybe even cry. He wanted to ask her if she knew how long it had been since he'd read anything. He wanted to say that it had been years since he'd read anything besides obituaries, short, scribbled notes, his own frantic journal entries, and newspaper clippings he'd found in alleys. He wanted to tell her how much this meant.
But instead he just mumbled "thanks" under his breath.
She smiled her smile and replied, "You're welcome."
She grabbed one of the books about curses and set about reading. It was then that he noticed her unruly curls—even more unruly than usual. There were black ink stains on her fingertips and purple bags beneath her eyes. She was biting her lip, and it was a deep red—almost as if she'd spent hours nibbling on it. He knew that she could feel his eyes on her, but for some reason she appeared afraid to face him.
The book that had moved him so lay forgotten in his lap. Instead of studying long-forgotten words, he studied the lines of her face. Instead of immersing himself in an old hobby, he immersed himself in the scent of her hair. He reveled in the disheveled state of her appearance, knowing that something had kept her up all night, just like him. He wondered if the same physical signs of worry and fatigue were visible in his appearance.
"You don't like the book?"
His eyes snapped back to hers.
"No, no. It's great. Really. Wonderful."
She studied him momentarily, then nodded. "Okay."
"Listen, Granger, I'm thankful for the books and all, but care to enlighten me on what you're reading?"
She let out a small breath, but her eyes told him that she didn't want to talk about it. She paused for what seemed an infinitely long moment, then spoke.
"I…uh…it doesn't look good."
"You mean I'm fucked?"
"I didn't say that."
"You meant it. Or maybe you meant it with a bit less vulgar language."
She started to laugh, but it ended in a sigh.
"But remember that these spells, they…very little is known, so there is a possibility that you're not…"
"Not…?"
"Fucked," she whispered.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward in an almost-smile. Her cheeks reddened, and she shut her eyes, trying to regain some sort of composure. He was struck by a sudden urge to touch her cheek to see if the color could deepen anymore. Her lips gave a hint of a tense smile, but she was holding it back for some reason. He thought of running his thumb across those lips, releasing the tension and…
He blinked.
When his eyelids raised, her eyes were no longer closed and he could see in her eyes the reason a smile had not graced her lips. She must know. She must have translated the spell.
"All right, Bookworm, out with it."
She felt as though she were carrying her heart in her feet. But something about the way he called her "bookworm" made it jump up to her knees—it was almost affectionate. But then the words she was about to speak filled her mind and her heart went crashing to the floor again.
She wasn't sure who had the harder part here—he, for having to hear this, or she, having to tell it. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket. There were ink smudges all over it and it looked as though someone had crumpled it up to throw it away, before thinking better of it.
Draco resisted the urge to snatch the paper from her hands.
She wasn't sure if she should give some sort of preface, but in the end decided better of it. They both knew what secrets this paper held.
The image of her now was wondrously and terribly poignant. Her eyes were red—fearful and hopeful at the same time. Her hair was a mess, her teeth worrying her reddened lower lip. Her cheeks were still flushed as she opened her mouth to speak.
She cleared her throat and began, "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."
As she read the text of the spell, a chill travelled down Draco's spine. There couldn't be more contrast between the last time he probably heard these words and the situation in which he was hearing them now.
"Roughly translated means, 'I take you-- memory, thought, mind-- no longer for you to command. Change you, break you, possess you. Magic consumes you and conquers you. You become the prey until death or insanity.'"
When she finished, he took a deep breath. Surprisingly, he wasn't as affected by it as he would have thought. There had been an anchor weighing heavily in his chest, and the fact that it sunk a little deeper didn't change the feeling much. If it came down to it, surely death didn't seem like that poor an escape option. A small part of him did hope that another option might open itself. He looked up to ask, "what next?" But the words never found their way to the surface.
She was crying. She was doing her best to hide it, but she was definitely crying.
"Granger…" he whispered.
Some of her resolve crumbled away and she released a quiet sob.
"Granger… what happened to the not-being-fucked side of this situation?"
"I'm sorry. I don't know what's… I'm sorry. I, I—"
"Shut up, Granger."
"I-I'm fine."
"No, you're not, you're a Gryffindor. You'll never be fine."
"I hate you," she sniffed.
"No, but you wish you did."
She stared at him, and her bleary, red eyes opened wide.
Then she cried. Again.
"Christ, Granger."
Without taking the time to think about it, he hooked an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. She stiffened for a moment and then relaxed. The second their bodies collided, a fever broke out across his skin, and with every breath she took against him, his temperature spiked.
If he wasn't so focused on the feel of her chest wedged against his own, he would have been beating himself over the head as punishment for his stupidity.
As the seconds passed, he found himself fearing the moment when he would push her away, or worse, the moment when she would choose to pull away first. There was something distinctly natural about having her in his arms.
He wondered if she could feel the way his heart was dancing in his chest.
He wondered if they were considered friends now.
He wondered if this was what friendship was.
She shifted slightly and he knew the moment was coming—the moment of separation that would steal away the warmth in his chest and leave doubt and questioning in its place.
He looked down at her. Her eyes were shut tightly, her head still lying lightly against him.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She lingered for a moment longer and then pulled away. She retreated immediately back to her work, and for a moment, he could have convinced himself that it never happened. He touched his chest, feeling the warmth she left behind, and inhaled her slightly fruity scent. He grasped the lingering effects of her presence, relishing the reality of that moment.
She was a mess. Because of him. And not because of his prejudice or his harsh words. She was a mess for him.
Something welled up so generously in him that it threatened to boil over. And he smiled.
But then he noticed that his heartbeat, which had skyrocketed at her touch, hadn't calmed as he had expected. He shuddered as a bead of sweat trailed down his neck.
He looked at her and their eyes met. She smiled curiously. He clenched his fists. She opened her mouth to laugh, and his muscles tightened.
She was speaking to him, her face lit up with concern, but he couldn't hear her. There was a rushing sound in his ears, like the winds of a hurricane blowing past the mouth of a cave. His eyes began to burn, so he shut them tight.
"Draco?" Hermione asked, but received no response. "Draco?"
The burning began to spread throughout him, raising to a full boil in his chest.
"Go!" he gasped.
"Draco," Hermione kneeled beside him, "Are you all right?"
He tried to tell her again. "Granger—"
She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and something exploded within him.
In the blink of an eye, he had taken her by her arms and thrust her against the nearest wall. She cried out, her feet dangling a foot above the floor.
She tried to move, and his grip became more furious.
Involuntary tears were beginning to form in the corner of her eyes, "Draco…" she whispered again and again, to no avail.
She waited a moment, and then threw all her weight to one side, hoping to throw him off balance. She barely moved him.
He growled, and her back went slamming against the wall again. There was a piercing feeling in her lungs as she tried to catch her breath. And she was waiting for a fierce blow to come at any moment. Her eyes were shut tight, waiting, preparing.
But nothing came.
His jaw was clenched tightly, so tightly it looked as though his teeth might be ground into dust. She looked into his eyes, seeing the dull, lifelessness characteristic of the spell, but there was something different—something that almost brought her hope. He stared at the wall, his breath coming in short, painful puffs.
He was fighting it.
And losing.
One moment his grip would loosen and his jaw relax, but then seconds later the spell would come rebounding back—stronger and more vicious than before.
She placed a hand on his cheek, whispering his name, willing him to fight harder. He leaned into her touch for half a second, but then his hand came flying towards her neck, clutching it harshly.
Panicking, she kicked at him, clawing, trying desperately to make him slip or lose his grip. His fingers only tightened. She felt as though her entire life was about to be crushed in the palm of his hand.
As her need for air increased, her attempts at freedom became more erratic and even less successful. Each time her eyes fluttered shut, it became more difficult to open them once more.
Finally relief came.
She thought she'd finally slipped into the bliss of unconsciousness, but then her body collided hard with the floor, and she groaned.
She heard the muffled call of her name, but she suddenly felt extremely tired. And despite the person above her, persistently attempting to awaken her, she just couldn't open her eyes. Everything felt heavy.
Draco was experiencing a similar heaviness in his heart. It was trying furiously to pump, but failing. He'd had to watch the entire time, as she struggled and cried, unable to do or say anything. He cradled her head, trying desperately to wake her, but she had gone limp and lifeless.
Terrified, he did the first thing that came to his mind. He shoved the books far underneath his bed, until they couldn't be seen. And then he rushed to the door. Knowing that it would mean only bad things for him, he pressed the large red button marked, "help."
A siren sounded, and he rushed back to Hermione. He held her, unsure of what to do. If only he could, he was willing to breathe for her, live for her, die for her. He reached for her hand, trying to steady his own which was shaking terribly. The ink-stained note, which contained the bleak words dictating his future, was balled up in her fist. As he took the paper, a key could be heard turning in the lock.
When a herd of people trampled through the door, they saw a young healer unconscious in the arms of a boorish, young madman. It took mere seconds for two of the males to dive at Draco, tearing him forcefully away from Hermione. He stayed silent as they pinned him harshly to the floor. He only listened as a witch began surveying Hermione's body.
There were two witches talking. One asked, "What's her name?"
There was only silence. The other healer shook her head.
'Granger!' Draco wanted to scream, 'Hermione Granger!' but he didn't.
As they levitated Hermione's body, he fought to watch, even as they pushed his head to the floor repeatedly. They checked for a pulse—present, but faint. They proceeded to guess her age and weight. Draco yearned to tell them that she was twenty three, between 120 and 130 pounds, probably closer to 120. She was a fiery, dark-haired Gryffindor who had remarkable will-power and compassion. And if they didn't save her… if they didn't save her… everything else would cease to matter.
When the last of her monstrous hair disappeared out of the doorway, he gave in, allowing them to subdue and bind him. He closed his eyes, conjuring up a vision of Hermione laughing and smiling and very much alive. He recalled everything to the very last detail—that stubborn piece of hair that always stuck out regardless of what she did, the way her left eye crinkled more when she laughed than her right, and that tiny little freckle on her jaw line just below her ear.
He didn't need a picture or even her presence to recall that way she wrinkled her nose right before she laughed. He knew that by heart.
And he knew she would live. She had to.
He wasn't sure how, but he just knew. Not because of any shred of truth or piece of reason; he only knew it in his heart.
Because something told him that in a world without Hermione Granger, his heart would not beat softly in his chest, and his lungs would not expand with slow and steady ease. In a world without Hermione Granger, everything would cease to matter.
He would cease to matter.
And in that moment, the paper clutched tightly in his fist and the spell of which it told, did cease to matter.
A/N: Hello all… I'm terribly sorry it has been so long. I've missed you all! I've been working non-stop and preparing, because next semester I'm studying abroad in the NETHERLANDS! Yay! But I hope this chapter made up for the wait! Thanks to all those who have stuck with this story despite the wait and SO MANY thanks to Eilonwy, my marvelous beta!
Also, I must say that the spell and its translation are definitely not accurate Latin grammar. I did the best I could, but I'm not worried about having it exactly correct, we've all stretched our imaginations this far, a bit further won't hurt.
Love Love Love you all!
Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays! (Whichever suits you)!
