Chapter ten: Cracks

Draco was baffled.

Honestly, how was one supposed to sense the core of a wand? Not that there were that many commonly in circulation in Britain, but still, he'd seen Ollivander identify Veela hair, Centaur tail (he wasn't sure what idiot had managed to procure Centaur hair, and he didn't want to know), Hippogriff feather (now that was impressive)… and he couldn't even tell Dragon heartstring from Unicorn hair.

He could feel Ollivander's patient gaze on him, not burning guilty holes in his back like he'd expected but merely weighing him carefully. Fingers steepled, his omnipresent gaze was urging Draco to do better, and Draco wanted to comply. But he didn't want to fake it. Now that there existed a peace between them, he didn't want to do anything but his best.

But his best, apparently, was shite.

Draco's gaze was drawn from the wand in his fingers (Rowan, 8 inches, swishy – he'd figured that much out) to his pale forearm, Dark Mark faded but still present, heavy on his skin even though it weighed nothing. The snake and skull drew his attention from his work, and he thought he heard Ollivander let out a small sigh.

"It's hard to learn to listen to your wand," Ollivander said, not unkindly. "Some people can read them instantly, and others take some time… just like learning another language. I'd like you to go home and try and listen to your own wand. We'll continue when you can hear it."

Draco nodded, feeling disappointed with himself, but saying nothing. He stood to go, muttering a goodbye, and paused to see if there was anything else, but Ollivander merely smiled.

"I'm sure I'll see you soon," was all he said, before turning to look out the window at his quiet garden. Draco turned and left the room, hand at his marked wrist.

…

Once, he'd tried to wash the Mark off of his skin. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed at it until his bleached forearm was red and sore, skin worn and screaming, but to no avail. It had faded over time, with the fall of the Dark Lord, but the colour still remained imprinted on his skin.

Of all the Slytherins, he was the only one with the Mark. Some hadn't been involved, and were merely taking flak for being Slytherin and having a sense of survival. The others had neither parents who had been so high in the Dark Lord's ranks... nor so disappointing to him. So it had fallen to Draco, 16 years old, to be branded for life.

Morose and seriously considering how to remove the Mark, he found his feet carrying him to the nondescript building once more. It wasn't time to meet Hermione, yet- he didn't see her for another few days – but the building was comfortable and safe, and nobody would mind him being there.

However, it wasn't empty. When Draco headed to a small room in the back to think, he spotted Hermione, head bent over a letter, ink smeared across one cheek like war paint. She'd fallen asleep on one folded arm, and Draco's brow furrowed in confusion at her posture. He'd forgotten, almost, her appearance in her apartment – equally mussed and inky – and it suddenly occurred to him that she'd been so busy helping others that she'd forgotten to help herself.

Drawn from his desire to mope by the presence of his… of Hermione, Draco crossed the floor and shook her shoulder, lightly.

…

It was one of those days, again. Hermione seemed to be having an awful lot of them, with things piling on all at once, with no space to breathe. She seemed to be the last crusader in Britain, willing to fight for everything even though she wanted nothing more than to stop fighting. She'd had enough for a lifetime.

But then Pansy had wanted to talk – actually talk – and had come to Hermione white-faced and pinch-lipped about someone who'd threatened her in Diagon Alley. They'd filed paperwork with the Auror office, beating their way through with Harry's help, and Hermione had had to take a moment to console Pansy and promise her that no matter what it seemed like, the Ministry wasn't out to get her. (Though honestly, Hermione wasn't so sure sometimes).

Then it was one thing after another. Fighting her Potions Master. Fighting the press. Fighting, fighting, fighting. She'd been drafting a letter to the department that dealt with House-Elves, fighting both them and her tired eyelids, when she lost one battle and fell asleep over her page.

Instantly, it seemed, she was being shaken awake, and she rubbed her eyes (adding more ink to her face) to reveal Draco, looking worn, standing in front of her.

Curiously, she felt nothing but relief and welcome. At some point, long before she'd wondered why she used 'we' to include him in her train of thought, they'd become allies – maybe even friends – and if she wasn't happy to see him, at least she wasn't distressed.

"You alright?" Draco asked, brows drawn together, and Hermione patted at his hand, still on her shoulder.

"Long day," she told him, which was the truth, and "I'm okay," which wasn't. Then, as her brain caught up with her, Hermione frowned. "What are you doing here? Is it – is it Thursday?" It was entirely possible that she'd lost track of time, but she didn't think she had.

Draco shook his head. "No," he muttered. "I just wanted space to think."

Hermione pursed her lips, eyes tracing over his dark eyes, down his shirt to where one shirtsleeve was rolled up. The skin there was red, imprinted with fingers, as if Malfoy had been trying to rub the tattoo there away.

Before she could stop herself, Hermione reached out, fingers wrapping around the irritated skin gently, covering the dark mark with their coolness. She smeared ink on him too, accidentally, but she didn't think that was why Draco made a strangled noise, somewhere between pain and a plea.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, and Draco's mouth opened and closed.

"Yes," he said, and, "No."

She covered the tattoo from sight, hand twisting around his forearm until it (just barely) covered the Mark.

"What about now?" she asked, and he looked at her helplessly, then down to his arm, the Mark now covered by a small, inky hand with blue, chipped nails.

"No," he confirmed, eyes pinned to her hand.

Hermione said nothing more.

They stood like that for a long time.

…

Her hand was on his arm, even as he left the building with her inside and headed back to the Manor. It covered the Mark, soothing the raw tissue of his forearm and, a little bit, of his heart.

It wasn't about the Mark, not really. It was still there, even if Hermione had covered it up, hiding the weight for a little while. It was about the weight of memory, unfortunately pinned to something very real and very permanent. But it didn't have to be so, Draco was realizing. The memory, like the tattoo, would always be there. But that didn't mean it had to weigh him down forever.

He headed through the still-empty house to his room, crawling onto his messy bed and sitting, cross-legged, on the grey covers. Drawing his wand, Draco held it in front of him like he had the rowan wand, arms extended and braced on his knees.

His eyes followed the wand to his arm and stayed, eyeing the ink that Hermione had unknowingly ground into his skin overtop of the Mark in places. The snake was now misshapen; the skull had its nose and eye blacked out. It was still there, but…

Draco closed his eyes, ink spots dancing in his vision as he opened his mind and listened.

…

Hermione finished her letter, finally, and siphoned off the extra ink that smudged her words. Neatly folding and sending it, she managed to get to the Floo, limbs heavy with exhaustion. It was as if she'd taken all of Draco's weariness and was carrying it by herself… if that was the case, Hermione wondered abstractly how he managed.

Appearing in her own fireplace, Hermione made it to the couch, pulling an ink stained blanket (from many repetitions of this exact routine) over herself and kicking off her shoes. She was so tired.

Hermione could feel Draco's Mark under her fingertips as she drifted off to sleep, thankfully not noticing the pile of reply letters that was accumulating on her coffee table, not even the one from Narcissa Malfoy.

She dreamed of inky snakes and blonde hair.

…

A/N:

So… I lied. Apparently, as one wonderful individual notified me (thank you, by the way!) it's been months since I updated! Whoops. That's pretty impressive, even for me. I'm sorry for the wait. This semester kicked my butt. Thankfully, it is now over, and hopefully I can update more!

Isefyr