Challenges: Screaming Faeries' Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge on HPFC.
DobbyRocksSocks Harry Potter Chapter Competition on HPFC.
MelodyPond77's Long Haul Competition IV on HPFC.
Prompt: 33. Selene: write about something happening during the night.
Order of the Phoenix, chapter 34 - The Department of Mysteries: write about hiding.
Word count: 2,408
A/N: Ekrizdis is the wizard who JK Rowling credits with the creation of Dementors. Emeric 'the Evil' massacred muggles in the early Middle Ages with the Elder Wand; he's mentioned in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone as a wizard who is mixed up with Uric the Oddball. Herpo 'the Foul' is an Ancient Greek Dark Wizard credited with the first ever hatching of a Basilisk, also being the first ever creator of a Horcrux and one of the earliest Parselmouths; he has been mentioned in Fantastic beasts and Where to Find Them and in the first three video games on a Chocolate Frog card.
When Draco was little, he'd been afraid of the dark.
By the time the fear faded to a less intense point, one that didn't have the power to control his life, he knew it wasn't the lack of light that scared him, per se. No, what he'd really been afraid of were the things that the dark could hide. Muggle horror stories described monstrous things that would suck all the blood out of a person, draining them of life, and things powerful enough to slaughter ones' entire family and then face the hero with a smile that was sweeter than honey.
Magical horror stories were more grotesque, having not been filtered as time passed. There was no Disney to twist the eerie story of Ekrizdis and his abusive insanity into a ridiculous fairy story of fluffy happiness, no fairy godmother to sweep the caped horrors as far under the rug as they were able to go. Nothing in the way or miraculous ways to twist the legend of Grindlewald into some sappy romance, or to make Emerics' massacres look tame, or to make the Ancient Greek Herpos' creation of freakish beasts like the basilisk be something that could be considered 'good'. Wizards didnot have Disney to twist the darkness into the afterthought of some romantic happily-ever-after. They had word of mouth, though, and time made things worse.
Time might have made him understand his fear, made it bearable. But time always gave emphasis to horror stories. That was the way the human psyche worked.
So of course the idea of guardsinvading the peaceful façade of the apartment building horrified him. It appealed to a part of him that had been repressed for years, drew out memories of nightmares haunting every corner. And the guards were just the vampires, there to draw out the life of their prey. To draw the life out of witches and wizards, of him.
Of Hermione.
He didn't need to listen closely to hear the guards; no wonder Hermione – and even Zabini – had seemed so panicked when they had managed to shake him awake. They had left the engines running on their oversized four wheel drives in the street, ominous patches of darkness in the gloomy circles cast by lonely streetlights; he could see them through the thin gray curtains. The cars were vehicles worthy of Death itself. They might as well have been, because there was no way was he going back to that cell.
Some disgruntled neighbour, a woman, judging by the voice, opened the door with a disgruntled mumble. Draco paid no mind to Hermione as she opened the door a crack, peering down the hall with her eyes wide. Male voices followed the womans' down, less distinct, "Two in the freaking morning. Honestly, those freaks have no respect."
"Shut up, moron, they don't need to know how the Warden fucked up."
She closed the door gently, wincing slightly. "We can't go that way. They're blocking the entire hallway, and this building doesn't have a fire escape. That's the only reason I could afford the rent, it's technically an illegal construction with modern building code standards and all."
"You babble when you're nervous. It's annoying."
"Shut up."
"No, you do. It's bizarre. You weren't like this when you pretty much abducted me."
"Oh, you mean when you shrieked like a child facing a spider?"
"No need to be snide. It's just an observation; besides, I didn't ask you to rescue me."
"No, Blaise, you asked Draco to do that. I just happened to be how he was going to get out."
"Fat lot of good that's done anyone so far."
"If I had my wand, Blaise Zabini, I'd - how did you know where that was?"
Draco snorted, shaking his head. "You already packed to leave. We're just going slightly earlier than expected; there's really no point in panicking."
"I'm not -"
"You are absolutely panicking. Both of you."
"Why are you so calm?"
"Do everyone a favour and shut up, Zabini. You both need to get your acts together; neither of you are any use to me like this."
"Who died and made you boss," but Blaise jumped down from the counter he was sitting on, gripping his wand experimentally. He moved to the window, just as he'd been told, to attempt to pry it open. He didn't care, after all, as long as he lived. It wasn't the first time Draco had met someone whose only ambition in life was self-preservation. It wouldn't be the last, either, though the adrenaline in his veins drove all thoughts of any future he might ostensibly be able to predict far from his mind.
Hermione was staring at Draco, who didn't dare meet her eyes. He didn't want the distraction, the toxicity of his nightmare corrupting his mind. Wildebeest, he'd thought in the dream, but that wasn't right. It was something else, something mythical that tore apart his subconscious, but now that he tried to name it, he couldn't come up with it. A distracting force, it took considerable effort for him to dismiss his preoccupation - even though it was just temporarily. He knew if he looked at her chocolate gaze, he'd only see fear within.
God, I've had enough of fear.
"Alright. We're going to have to go out the window; there's a ledge out there that should be able to bear our weight. Even combined. It's not like any of us are that heavy."
He didn't notice Hermione turn completely white as she nodded her assent. He didn't know she was terrified of heights. That was alright, though. She didn't know before then that she was more afraid of dying.
No one ever understands their fears until after they're forced to face them.
Later, the trio would claim that they didn't really remember how they'd escaped. The guards were famously fervent in their pursuit of the so-called magical 'freaks; it was a miracle that any of them were still in one piece.
They weren't, though, were they? The sound of a gunshot continued to echo in Hermione's head as she pressed her aching skull back against a cold brick wall, wishing she could fade into the blackness and never be seen again. She allowed this thinking to continue for one minute, then for two, before she took a deep breath and turned to face Draco, pointing silently across the street. A pet shop corner store, the place looked old, unassuming, and frayed around the edges. It wasn't lit up by the moon far above, cast into shadow by the much taller buildings around it. In other words, the pet store Hermione had found to hire her looked like it was a hiding place.
Of course it was a frontier for the underground railroad that transported guiltless individuals around and out of England. Hatred of magic was stronger than anywhere else in the world, according to a study completed by some American or other who'd been arrested the first and only time he made the claim in the Piccadilly Circus. The scholar 'R. Lupin' had probably been killed; he certainly hadn't been heard from again. Hermione had read his research in one sitting when she'd managed to enter one of the libraries at King's College for the first time.
British non-magical people seem to be the most adamantly against magical abilities, the article read, led in their fanaticism by the vehemence of the House of Windsor. They parade their 'success stories', whom the magical folk have long dubbed 'squibs', before the masses; simultaneously, potentially powerful men and women waste away in 'containment facilities' that fail to fool any observers. The entire population of the United Kingdom can recite horror stories of the 'plague of wizards' and their 'reasonable' incarceration far beneath their cities, in buildings so obviously worse than the prisoners non-magical people, 'muggles', are usually sentenced to. It is with considerable anger that I am forced to recant a statement I made in Peru, where I was introduced to the leader of the campaign for magical right: the modern world is not superior to the horrors of the past. I had thought it separate, but I am proven wrong. The barbaric oppression of magical people throughout Britain attests to this.
Lupin would have admired Mrs. Figg, Hermione thought, her and all her value of life. They would have gotten along well. But Lupin had never learned of the railway as it would endanger the entire regime - the man famously spouted his beliefs endlessly, regardless of the potential consequences of his arrogant openness. What Hermione had just done, however, was far worse than any of that.
Her wand was still warm in her hand, which had stopped shaking for the first time since they had been forced to flee. In the basement of the shop, as far from the books as she could get, she had taken a rather primitive flame spell to the remains of the orange obscenities the two boys, aged by their experience, had finally been able to ditch. They had to burn, she reasoned. She couldn't risk Mrs. Figg being connected to the escape.
She could feel his silver eyes burning into the back of her head, his and Blaise's black orbs. She didn't want to face their reality, though, not directly. They could hold fear, as hers would, had she witnessed the act. They could hold dread. Hatred. Scorn. Or, worse, he could accept her crime. That would be the worst thing, she decided with a sigh, extinguishing her blue flame. "You got shot."
"That's over-simplifying matters, don't you think?"
One shoulder raised in a shrug that didn't commit to anything, she shook her head. "We can't afford to be slowed down, Draco, and that's where it all begins. We're dependent on you. You think I don't know that?"
"I don't," Blaise interrupted, but he went ignored. It wasn't the first time since he'd noticed the blood that this had happened; apparently, all he was good for was the healing spells he happened to have a rather simplistic understanding of. He could remove the bullets. That was the beginning and end of Blaise Zabini's current worth to the other two.
"Your hand stopped shaking, Hermione, you think I didn't notice? Just as soon as you turned to that muggle. Maybe I was in pain, but I know I didn't imagine it: you didn't calm down properly until you cast that spell. I don't even know what you did, except that it saved me, and now you're refusing to talk."
She resented his matter-of-fact tone, thought it rather crass, really. He'd probably grown up with stories of horrible, evil people, people who did the sort of thing she'd done. Though she knew she'd gotten it exactly right and no one would ever be able to tear apart her work, and part of her was proud of herself for that, she was equally disgusted with the concept. "He didn't deserve what I did."
"He didn't die, woman. Honestly. He just turned around and left; I just want to know how you did that. What kind of magic is that?"
She scoffed weakly, lowering her wand carefully as she examined her steady hand. "Obliviate."
"Is that Latin?"
"No. Yes. I don't know."
"That's a specific answer."
"It erases memories, alright? It's old magic. From back before everything. There's no way to undo it, either, the Ministry of Magic was disbanded by King George the Second before it was fifty years old. There were probably departments meant to work out counter-curses, ways to dismiss these dark spells, but obviously they ran out of time. That's not long enough to research."
"Dark magic? Hermione, you saved our lives. That's not dark, that's admirable."
"I could have erased his entire life. I don't know what I took, Draco!"
"Doesn't matter. He attacked us, and you did what you had to. You might be more useful than I thought."
"Draco Malfoy, you apologise for that insinuation right this second, or I swear I'll find a way to give Miss Puckle your share of the chocolate."
The three glanced over at the squib, where she stood with a rucksack for each of them beside a door that they could swear hadn't been there before. The lady was aged, her experiences having etched the passage of time into her face, making it seem as though each year had carved another wrinkle into her face. Her smile was the kindest thing any of their tired eyes had seen for hours, though, and she could have probably staked one of them before any of them believed her to be capable of cruelty. Her sharp eyes told of her intelligence, but age slowed her movement. Maybe Arabella Figg could have been active in the revolution once, but now it was all she could do to mind the tunnel.
"Time to go, dears." Ever the kindly ally, she stepped away from the entrance, passing the first bag to Hermione with a smile and an approving nod. If the three of them could keep themselves alive long enough to make it to the end of the passage, they'd be home free - as free as any of them could be in the world they'd ended up in. Arabella had high hopes for Hermione; she ought to be a very capable young witch, once she came to grips with her identity.
Blaise Zabini went second, taking his own bag without a word, gifting the old woman with only a tight smile. This was someone they had to keep an eye on, most likely. He could be a powerful force on their side - but only if they managed to find his agenda and work it into their plan. And that wasn't a guaranteed event, either, not with their would-be leaders' stubborn nature.
Draco went last, meeting Arabella's gaze steadily. He shouldered his load without complaint, as he always had, but his pale fingers covered his bullet wound the second it was possible. "You be good to Hermione, Draco. That girl needs all the friends she can get. God knows you do, too."
Draco offered no apologies to Hermione when he followed her into the passage, but then again, she didn't ask for one. She was too preoccupied by the idea that doing evil in the name of good might be excusable.
She didn't want to justify the muggles' fears.