Chapter 11 – I Want You to Know
March 30, 2001
I wake up, immediately on alert. I am in my bed, in my own room, it's the middle of the night, and everything is silent. Something's wrong. I don't know how, or why, but I am certain there is danger.
Snatching my wand from the night table beside me, I leap out of bed.
"Lumos." My wand responds, lighting up the room as I search for any sign of this mysterious threat.
Everything looks normal, nothing out of place. But my heart continues to pound rapidly in my chest like a chain of never ending fireworks; loud and explosive. Everything looks normal, but I still sense the danger.
What's happening? Why do I feel as though the world is coming to an end? I'm confused, and terrified. My hand forms a death grip around my wand.
Whatever this danger may be is not here, in my room.
Hermione.
If something happened to her in my home, I don't think I could live with myself. I told her I would keep her safe, but now I know, whatever this feeling is, it is after her. I don't know how I do, but there is no doubt in my mind that Hermione is in grave danger.
I run out of my room, bursting through the door and into the hall, wand drawn out in front of me. It is still silent except for the sound of my own lungs, frantically drawing in air as though it may be their last.
I move slowly down the hall, tense with anticipation for anything out of the ordinary. My wand is poised, a spell on the tip of my tongue. Should anyone dare cross my path right now, they would not like what they find.
The dark seems unusually dense and chilling, as though some powerful form of evil is at work. I freeze as I recognize this sensation of dark magic. I felt this way in the presence of Lord Voldemort and that thought in itself is horrifying.
But I remind myself that Voldemort is dead. He's gone. Potter may be a famous, selfish, spotlight stealing prat, but he did slay that beast, banished him to wherever the dead go, never to return. So I keep moving.
A tingle travels up my spine as I come closer to where Hermione sleeps. It's in there. Whatever it is, or whoever, is in that room with Hermione. I take a deep breath. I'm scared, I am afraid for my own life. But I will not be a coward. Not this time. I will not stand aside while Hermione gets hurt.
I open the door, ready to face who knows what; my father maybe, perhaps Voldemort himself, or some other evil form. But there is nothing.
Nothing but Hermione, asleep, in the bed.
This doesn't make any sense. There is danger! I still feel it! It is here, in this very room! But there is nothing.
Unless . . .
I rush over to Hermione's sleeping form, my wand spreading light over her. What if I'm too late and whatever evil is already finished its task and the residue of dark magic is all I'm feeling?
But she turns and I let out a breath of relief. Relief, until I realize that the danger may not be in the room per say, but in her mind. She lets out an agonized moan in her sleep and the light from my wand catches tears on her cheeks.
Hermione is having a nightmare.
But why would I feel that? Why would I possibly feel the need to save her from some unspeakable danger if it is all in her head? I don't understand. What is this that I can feel her fear as though it is my own?
What do I do? She is obviously suffering in her sleep.
I try to wake her up, but nothing is working. Why won't she wake? Why is her sleep so deep that I cannot wake her?
I look at her, helpless but to watch her toss and turn, her hair, sprawled across her pillow and clinging to the moisture on her face.
Knowing I have to do something, I search for anything that could help her; around the room, in my own mind.
And it clicks. Again, it simply comes to me, and I know what I must do.
Setting my wand down on the nightstand, I come beside her on the bed, pulling her against me, holding her as tightly as possible. And I feel her relax in my arms. I feel her speedy heart and the quickness of her breath, but they too begin to slow.
She is no longer struggling against herself, no longer moaning or crying. Her muscles relax in my arms and she falls back into a peaceful seeming sleep.
What in Merlin's name just happened?
I stare wide-eyed at the girl in my arms. I am still thoroughly confused, but don't want to release my grip in fear that whatever was happening in her mind will come back. So I stay, clinging to her, until the adrenaline drains from my system and my own exhaustion once again pulls me into sleep.
I feel Hermione shift in my arms and blink open my eyes. Sunlight is streaming in through the window and a chilling thought hits me. It's morning. Hermione will be waking soon. I need to get out of here.
With my reputation, this could ruin everything. She will be frightened, confused, and think the absolute worst. I know how the world sees me and while I haven't given her any indication that it is remotely true about me anymore, if there is even a small part of her that doubts, this will be all the proof she needs.
As carefully and slowly as possible, I retract my arms from around her and inch towards the edge of the bed.
"Draco?"
I freeze. This isn't how it was supposed to be. I can't even explain the strange phenomenon that occurred. How could she possibly understand?
"It's not what it what it looks like," I say miserably.
"I know," she whispers.
I turn and look at her. She knows?
"Don't really understand it though," she explains, shaking her head. "I heard you, in my dream. That nightmare has been with me for years, always the same. Except this time, you spoke, eased the pain."
A sickening feeling rises within me, disgust for what I have a think this dream may entail.
"It's that night isn't it. Bellatrix," I state.
Hermione drops her eyes to the bed and pulls the covers over her arms. I realize with an aching heart what she's doing. Covering the scar that marks her left forearm. Anger flares within me as I see shame in her beautiful eyes.
"Don't. Don't do that," I tell her. "You don't have to hide it."
She looks up at me and I see the pain evident in her expression. That scar is something that haunts her, reminds her of the war, of what life was like, of how she was treated, of how I treated her. In a way, it is a branding identifying her with that vulgar name I used to throw around so easily.
Mudblood
That scar is a horrible, evil thing tying her to the past.
So does mine. My scar is the Dark Mark, the stain that ties me to a life I never wanted, a life that will follow me forever.
But I realize, that even though it ties me to those past mistakes, it reminds me of them, of who I want to be, and the progress I've made towards becoming that man.
I go against my better judgement, against everything my instincts tell me to do; hide it, forget it.
I show her.
I bunch the sleeve of my nightshirt up around my elbow and reveal the ugly mark of a Death Eater.
"We both have scars. These things were done to us. They're not something we should feel ashamed of. They tell a story of where we came from, of how far we've come," I say.
Her eyes are wide as she compares our arms. "Tell me about it?" she asks softly.
"I will. But not right now," I send her a smile. "I want to take you somewhere else. Get dressed and I'll meet you outside your door in, say, ten minutes?"
"Alright," she agrees, smiling curiously.
I lead Hermione outside, to the most beautiful place on the manor grounds; the rose garden. Her hand in mine, we walk down the path. Bushes spotted with pink roses rise from the ground on either side, leading to the golden gazebo at the end, with a crown of white roses above it.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet aroma of the warm air. The garden is enchanted with a spell that deflects any foul weather, letting in only the sun and a light breeze. During the war this place became neglected and it was as if the dark magic that was used inside the manor was seeping out and infecting the flowers. My mother spent many hours over the past couple years bringing back the light.
I watch Hermione as she takes a breath of her own, closing her eyes to admire the scent of the flowers, a smile pulling on the corners of her mouth. She seems content, almost happy, but the ever-present worries of life keep that smile from lighting up her entire face as it had that first day in the library.
"It's beautiful," she says softly.
"My mother's work," I reply.
"She did a good job," she compliments.
Yes, my mother's deeds in anything beauty-wise have always been impeccable and she enjoyed the work. It was good that she had something to do, something to improve upon, to make beautiful again after the war. It helped to take her mind off the horrors that had occurred and take a step towards moving on.
As beautiful as the garden is, the girl who walks through it beside me holds my attention. She brings something new to this garden, something it has sorely been lacking; life. Sure, the bushes are technically alive and so too the flowers budding from them, but they are simply something nice to look at, to smell, to experience. Hermione is what makes this walk so special.
Reaching the gazebo, we sit down on the stone bench that lies within it. Hermione is looking around in awe, her head tilted back to look at the roses above us, dangling through the top of the shelter.
"Hermione," I start. She looks at me with those eyes of melted chocolate, burring their way to my soul. "You asked me if I would tell you about what happened."
"You don't have to if you don't want to," she admits, her eyes drifting back down to the bench.
"No, I want to. I think . . . I think it's important that you know," I explain.
She nods, looking back at me.
"I'm sure our stories are very different. We were on two different sides. And they were indeed very opposite." I clear my throat. "I believed a lot of shite back then. From what my parents told me, I held Voldemort up as a hero, someone who was going to bring us the status we deserved."
I pause. I wasn't sure what kind of response I would get when I told her that, but she looks at me with a genuine interest, an open mind, not jumping to conclusions as her friends would have done.
"Voldemort's return was a lot different than I thought it would be. Don't think I really realized what that would look like. In reality, what I thought was going to make my life great was the worst thing to ever happen to me, and my family."
I swallow. I've never actually told this to anyone before and it isn't exactly easy. The flashbacks to those days of terror shake through me at every word.
"It's alright, take your time," Hermione tells me quietly, placing her hand over mine and giving it a light squeeze.
I take another deep breath.
"A lot happened around the same time. In a single year things went from dark to terrifying. My father lost the prophecy and the last bit of favour he carried with Voldemort, he was sent to Azkaban, and Voldemort took over the manor as Death Eater headquarters."
I run my fingers through my hair, shame contorting my face.
"Manipulation was a largely used tactic, and I fell victim. I was confused and angry, my world was turning upside down. Then came an 'opportunity' as they called it. I would receive the Dark Mark and fulfill a task to bring favour back to my family. It was supposed to make things better, make things easier for my mother." I shake my head. "They glorified it. Said it was only a small task and would protect my mother."
"So you took the mark," she said quietly.
"Yes. Worst decision I ever made. What I didn't know, what the others neglected to tell me, was that my task was not some quick and easy fix, but the murder of one of the most powerful wizards alive."
"Dumbledore," she whispers.
"I didn't want to do it, murder wasn't what I thought I signed up for, but he threatened my mother and I didn't have a choice after that. After that first task, more came. I was afraid. For my own life, my mother's, I had to do many horrible things. Each murder I was forced to commit etched away at my soul and that's when I realized the horrifying truth that it all meant nothing. Everyone dies the same, no matter what their blood status."
"Draco," she says, concern in her voice.
"I've been working to get away from my past for so long. I never realized how good it would feel to tell someone."
"You've never told anyone?" she asks. I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I wish I could have helped you somehow."
"You have. More than you know," I tell her.
"Thank you, for telling me." She looks as though she wants to say more, but stays silent, looking out at the garden.
I wonder what she's thinking. She seems so accepting, much more so than I thought she would be. But I shouldn't be surprised. She knew what occurred on my side of the war and still gave me a second chance.
"I know, you have to get to work, but I have a feeling that there's a lot you haven't told anyone either. If you ever want to, I'm here, I'll listen, I'll understand. It's freeing to get it out there," I say.
She smiles. "Maybe I will, someday. Still trying to figure things out." She looks at the ground. "My story of the war isn't over yet."
"Alright. Just know, your story doesn't have to end with a solo battle."
We sit in silence for a while, listening to each other's breathing, admiring the garden. It's amazing that we can just sit here and be completely comfortable with the silence. It is a light, airy, informative silence that astounds me. It is a breath of fresh air, a silence that I can feel working within me to bring healing.
When it is time for Hermione to head to work, I stand from the stone bench and lead her back to the Manor and to my study where she can floo to the ministry.
"Will I see you at lunch today?" she asks.
I smile. "Of course."
"I'll see you later then," she says, stepping into the fireplace with a handful of floo powder.
I turn and am about to leave my study when an elf pops into my path.
"Master wishes to speak with Draco," the small creature announces timidly.
I sigh. "Can't it wait?"
"N-n-no. Master doesn't like to wait," it squeaks, practically shaking.
So my father has been beating the elves again. As if they don't already obey the best they can. I get the feeling my father simply enjoys tormenting the servants.
"Fine. I'll come," I agree, if only for the sake of the elf.
The poor thing, still trembling, leads me across to my parent's wing of the Manor and to my father's study.
"Leave us," he says without glancing at the elf.
"Father," I greet coldly. "I see you've been intimidating the help again."
"I do what I must to get things done." He pauses. "But it's not me we are going to discuss here. Oh, no. We need to discuss the vermin you let in here." He stops again, searching for a reaction, the one that I am fighting extremely hard not to give him. He must have seen us outside, discovered that Hermione was staying here.
"How dare you bring a mudblood into the house! Just because the Dark Lord is gone does not mean we get to abandon all morals," he scolds.
"Morals? Morals?" I see red. He has gone too far this time. He wants a reaction? I'll give him one.
"You call torturing and killing innocent people moral? You call helping a mad man to create a world of darkness moral? You call helping said man to hunt down and kill a teenage boy moral? You call tormenting the innocent creatures that do everything in their power to keep you happy moral?" I am fuming, marching closer and closer to the man until my finger is jabbing his chest.
"Look in the mirror. You are no pureblood. I've learned a very important lesson and it's about time you learn it too. She's not the mudblood. You are." His eyes go wide but I won't let him respond. "Hermione is not inferior, never has been. She is better. She is more pure than you'll ever be. So look in the mirror the next time you say that word."
I realize I may have gotten too close and given him an opportunity. In the time it takes me to respond, I am staggering backwards, cursing in pain, blood gushing from my nose.
"Don't forget that this is my house. I am the head of the Malfoy family and you will obey," he warns.
I cry out in pain as his cane collides with the side of my chest, knocking me to the floor, struggling to breathe.
"That girl comes nowhere near the Manor," he commands.
"And . . . if she does?" I taunt, mustering the strength to pull myself off the floor, ignoring the shooting pain in my ribs.
"I swear; you will not enjoy the result." He's quoting me, using my own words and twisting them back onto myself.
"You will not harm her. I don't care if I send you to St. Mungoes in the process. You have gone too far this time. It doesn't matter that you are my father, I will protect Hermione and you would be wise not to cross me." I don't wait for a response and I don't need him following me out, so I disapparate, savouring his last expression of utter shock.
Author's Note:
I sure packed a lot into this chapter! It is the final one in Draco's POV, so the next one will start Hermione's story. Don't worry, I'm not finished with Draco's story yet, I'm not going to leave it here! I just want to switch the focus to Hermione.
I actually really loved writing this one. I hope his story wasn't too boring. I tried to mix it up a bit, but it was pretty Canon compliant. Let me know what you thought! What happened with the dream? What about the end with Lucius? He really is quite nasty in my story.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed for the last chapter, I really appreciate you guys taking the time to thoughtfully comment. As always, any critique you have, whether good or things I can improve are very welcome. I want to be growing in my writing throughout this story, so if you see anything I can work on, please let me know.
Thanks for reading and have an amazing week!
