Hello! This jumps in full throttle from where we left off in Chapter 40 and finds some of our characters in a wee bit of crisis mode, so if you need to backtrack a bit to reorient yourself, I'd recommend it. :)
Disclaimer: All canon excerpts belong to JKR. And thank you MDominatusP for applying your editorial eye!
Shadows of the Past
Hermione didn't try to hide the tears burning her eyes as her feet carried her blindly from Tribute CV. She was immensely grateful she didn't run into Pansy, Blaise, or, heaven forbid, Draco's father on her way out of the building; she didn't want to talk, didn't want to try to explain what was wrong. All she wanted to do was go somewhere she would never be found and let the pain inside her pour out in either screams or sobs until the ache at her chest no longer threatened to swallow her whole.
The last thing Draco said to her echoed through her mind:
If I could take it back, believe me, I would!
The only person she had fully trusted in this harsh, unfeeling universe had hidden so much from her — knowingly. There was an entire life within Draco Malfoy that she didn't know at all, yet despite his obviously intimate knowledge of the most minute details of her life and personality, he hadn't trusted her with knowing him… with knowing the baffling connection between them both.
For the first time in two months, Hermione again felt entirely alone. The sensation crushed at her lungs with the force of a smothering boulder.
She sucked in rapid, shallow gasps as she all but ran toward the great spiral staircase that led from the Chamber. For once, the beauty of the artificially-created paradise did the very opposite of soothe her; it was simply a vibrant reminder that she didn't belong here. Even amongst her supposed allies, she was still an outsider. From those at the very centre of the inner circle, her intentions were still met with suspicion. Truths that had everything to do with her life were still withheld—
"Oh! Hermione, wait a moment— I was hoping to run into you."
Hermione's stomach lurched. Simultaneous desires to both fight and flee caused her mind to briefly wage a curiously strong battle with her feet before she clenched her jaw, roughly swiped her fingers beneath her eyes, and turned.
Tom Riddle was crossing the bridge from Tribute Memento Mori, wearing as casual and pleasant an expression as ever that caused anger to mix with the hurt pulsing through her veins. "There's something I've been meaning to—"
"Why did you stop him from telling me the truth?" Hermione demanded fiercely.
Swiftly, Riddle stopped walking. For a split second, she saw something shift in his closely guarded gaze.
With it vanished the fragile trust she'd begun to afford him since the rocky conclusion of her 'tests.' She doubted he had planned to have this conversation with her at all if she hadn't stumbled across the information herself, likely waiting to reveal it whenever it was useful to him.
Even though she'd thrown up every Occlumency wall he'd taught her in anticipation of his intrusive gaze, the torrent of emotions flooding through her must have been visible and obvious, because Riddle lifted his right hand slightly, as if trying to mollify a wild beast.
"Hermione, come now. This is bigger than you and Draco," he said in a pacifying voice that raised her hackles immediately. "There are complexities involved you need to understand."
A strangled laugh escaped her lips. "Are there," she said flatly. "I seem to recall us getting quite technical about prophecies and Source magic five days ago. Why not discuss it with me then, instead of omitting the vitally important fact that you already knew the mechanism that brought me here?"
And that that mechanism = Draco! her mind shouted silently, water swimming and stinging at her eyes.
Riddle took a slow, small step toward her. "I realize you're upset," he said. "But Draco only had a theory, and a shaky one at that. It wasn't confirmed. Until it was, this sort of situation is exactly the one I was trying to avoid by using caution—"
"Oh, don't use that patronizing bollocks on me!" she burst out. "I'm upset because I was lied to! Because I was kept from the truth! It wasn't just a theory he had, you know that. It was bloody visions of my entire life!"
The slightest narrowing of his dark brows was Riddle's only physical response to her accusations. Hermione hated his ability to remain unflappable even in the face of a serious offense, and she rapidly blinked back tears, clenching her jaw.
"Think what you may of me, but you should know that Draco is not to blame," he said evenly. "He wanted to tell you. I specifically asked him not to, and manipulated him into believing he was doing you a favor by waiting."
But Riddle had only gotten to him two weeks ago. Hermione's heart ached at the countless opportunities Draco had had before then to be honest with her, all after he realized that she wasn't simply a figment of his imagination.
"Oh, bloody brilliant, you manipulated him. We're all sorted, then," she responded sarcastically. "Why in Godric's name would you do that?" Flashes of Dumbledore's tragic miscommunications with Harry in fifth year ran through her mind. "Do you know how many people I've seen injured or killed because they were only partially informed about a dangerous situation?"
"Do you know how many people I've seen injured or killed because someone knew too much?" he countered forcefully, shifting from placid to authoritative in the blink of an eye. "Only last week you told me you wouldn't know which choice you'd make if you were faced with a clear path back to your universe. Now, quite possibly, you are. So until I could be unequivocally assured of your motivations for staying, or what I could use to compel you to remain, I was not willing to risk you learning the truth."
"Compel me to remain?" Hermione echoed, astonished he felt such lengths were necessary.
"You're looking for honesty; there's mine."
Her eyebrows flew up. "If you have that little faith in me, why is it so bloody important to all of you that I stay? I may be one of the most brilliant witches of my age, but I'm not— not—" she flung a hand toward him in frustration, "—you! One of the most brilliant men of the century! I don't know what it is you all think I'm going to be able to accomplish that you and the very capable witches and wizards you've been fighting with haven't!"
As quickly as Riddle's ire raised, it ebbed. He sighed slightly, suddenly looking tired, and shook his head. "I don't know, Hermione. I wish I did. But the prophecies are unclear."
Hermione shoved her fingers through her hair and turned away from him, letting out a frustrated breath. She didn't know how she had expected him to reply, but it certainly wasn't with such a blatant lack of reassurance; she didn't need to add a round of self-doubt to the afternoon's proceedings.
"What is clear is that, whether you are simply a catalyst or something more, you are here for a reason," the resistance leader continued behind her, his voice elevated over the unceasing sound of rushing water. "And if you choose to leave…"
When Riddle trailed off, she looked back at him sharply, waiting for him to continue.
He momentarily regarded her with unbreachable eyes. "Fate may be forced to change course. A prophecy always leaves room for multiple pathways to unfold; fluidity, not predestination, is the nature of the Divination Arts." His words were chosen carefully. "And we have already spoken of another very clear candidate to whom this burden might fall."
At once, the reasons for Riddle's bewildering suppression of Draco's secret — even at the great risk of alienating Hermione, an important ally — snapped into place.
This wasn't Tom Riddle being a disingenuous, manipulative enigma for the sake of being an disingenuous, manipulative enigma. This was a father protecting his daughter by unnecessary lying and secrecy at whatever the cost to others… making him all the more untrustworthy.
"Difficult as it may be for you to believe, I care about Peia too," Hermione said in a low voice, struggling to maintain an ounce of civility in her tone. "And if you think for one second that I would ever leave an innocent child to face Albus Dumbledore, then you've made a severe miscalculation of my character."
With that, she turned to leave. It was the epitome of rudeness, but she didn't care. Despite what the others considered Riddle, he wasn't her commander, and she had nothing more to say to him. Before she'd taken more than a few steps, however, the towering wizard was standing right in front of her, as if he'd silently Apparated there.
She jerked backward, clenching her wand in one hand and her fist in the other, but if Riddle knew he'd rattled her, he didn't show it.
"It means a great deal to hear you say that, Hermione," he said, sounding sincere, or as sincere as Tom Riddle could sound; goddess, she was doubting every word out of his mouth now. "As a show of good faith, I'd like to ask you to make your word on that Unbreakable before the Defiance meets again Sunday."
For a moment, Hermione thought — hoped — she hadn't heard him correctly.
Unfortunately, Riddle's unruffled expression told her that the supposedly socially intelligent man in front of her didn't seem to have the slightest idea that what he'd just asked of her was absurd. For Merlin's sake, she was no Severus Snape - a treacherous snake just biding his time if ever there was one! How could he possibly ask her to prove herself again, when he only betrayed her in return?
Her brows furrowed in sheer disbelief. "You can't possibly be serious."
His voice was as calm as a pleasant chat over afternoon tea. "Hermione, if you were in my position, if you'd seen what I've seen, lived through what I have and know what is still to come—"
"I've lived through plenty," she ground out. "I will not risk my own life again just so I can scale the insuperable ramparts of your paranoid suspicions!" She shook her head incredulously. "I doubt even this Unbreakable Vow would be enough for that!"
A rare crack of regret shone through his features, or was this simply another attempt at manipulation, deliberately done? "I'm not asking you for me. I'm asking you for Cassiopeia. While I freely admit I've made some missteps when it comes to you—"
A dry laugh burst from her lips.
"—I need to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that when I'm standing in the middle of the Phoenix and I turn around, you will be there," Riddle said firmly. "You aren't the only person of whom I've asked this. It's in no way a reflection of your character. I don't doubt you're genuine in your intentions, so you have nothing to lose. It's simply a fail-safe. Too many lives depend on your presence here for me to be lax."
Hermione's lips parted and closed. Her head pounded, her sinuses ached. Her throat was raw from yelling, from crying, from trying to sort through the complete bollocks she was experiencing with this man and the sheer impossibility of what she'd learned from Draco.
No matter what she did, the primary phrases screaming through her head consisted of either four letters or the words bugger, go and yourself.
She was finished.
Without a word, she brushed past the ageless wizard, gripping her wand in anticipation of another of his obstructions.
"Hermione," Riddle said. When she ignored him and trudged the last few feet to the stairs, pressing a hand to one of her aching temples, the severity of a Headmaster deepened the resonance of his voice. "Hermione, make no mistake. This is not a request—"
She tensed and spun back toward him. "No. It isn't. Because I have given you my word." Her voice shook as outrage and exhaustion mingled like a drug through her veins. "You know very well what you've given me in return."
His dark gaze bore silently into hers. Hermione couldn't tell if he was angry or had capitulated, but thanks to his tutelage, at least he couldn't tell what she was thinking, either.
She turned to leave, then added tightly, "Don't stop me again."
Despite her warning, Hermione was truly surprised that Tom Riddle allowed her to go in peace without sliding in any last words of his own.
She should have known her luck wouldn't last long.
Only the faint illumination of distant moonlight and lanterns outside pure glass windows lit the expanse of the greenhouse behind Momento Mori — a small, squat glass-windowed shack with insides that, thanks to an Undetectable Extension Charm, had been enlarged to the size of a conservatory.
Over the past few weeks, the greenhouse had become one of Draco's refuges: Many of its plants and herbs had medicinal properties, and the space was as peaceful and relaxing as it was useful for working on the Healing spells, salves and potions he'd been teaching himself in his spare time.
It was also one of the few places he could trust no one to find him.
Right now, all Draco wanted was to be alone.
He'd run into Tom some time after the utter disaster with Hermione — or, more accurately, Tom had walked into the library to find Draco there, clutching his journal with white-knuckled hands.
'Did you find out anything else?' Draco had asked him, desperately hoping that even the most minuscule good had come from their decision to wait to share with Hermione his dreams of her. 'Anything that could explain why I've had this connection with…?'
His voice broke before he could say her name.
Riddle had hesitated before he'd responded. 'No. Everything I've found indicates nothing like this has ever happened before, Draco.'
Draco couldn't afford to let himself think about what that might mean for Hermione and himself — and what might befall them in the future because of it. He instead threw himself into the single-minded task of tending to every single plant in the greenhouse — weeding and watering them, trimming them, hauling sacks of rich black soil across the floor and repotting them, and mentally repeating their medicinal uses and ideal growing conditions until it was memorized.
His distraught mind was so set to 'auto-pilot' a part of him doubted he'd remember any of it by tomorrow, but he numbly kept on until darkness began to fall and the skin of his dirt-covered fingers became raw and hot with budding blisters.
When his injured leg gave out completely, the distraction ended.
Amongst the thick rows of plants, he'd collapsed beside a young, flowering sweet briar rose, across from the collection of Paperwhite Narcissus plants. Most days, this was Draco's favourite work area — the pale pink roses beside him smelled like Hermione, and every time he looked at the Paperwhites' cheerful white and yellow petals, he saw Narcissa's smile as she arranged a fresh cut of the same flowers on the windowsill of their small flat, heard her laugh as she told him the story of his grandmother's adamant insistence in shifting from constellations to blossoms in the naming of her youngest daughter.
Now he was simply reminded of two women he'd utterly failed.
It'd been a half hour at least since the faint evening lanterns inside the conservatory had sensed no additional movement and had automatically flickered out. Like viscous shadows, the pressing silence and sinister silhouettes of native and exotic vegetation oozed into the scars of Draco's mind.
Draco had been made to feel worthless so many times in his life it had become another state of mind rather than a numbered occurrence, but he'd never felt so disappointed and angry at himself as he was now. He'd known better — known himself and Hermione well enough to realize that, as much as he respected Tom Riddle, the longer he waited to tell Hermione everything, the worse it would get — no matter what Tom might discover.
But he'd allowed himself to be swayed by Tom's ultra-rational perspective.
His hand clenched tightly.
How often had he lectured Blaise on selfishness, on friendship, when he was the epitome of selfishness, of weakness? He'd hadn't been strong enough to overcome his fears of Hermione's inevitable anger and rejection; knowingly, he'd put aside her own well-being because he hadn't wanted to lose her.
Though the idea of it hurt the very depths of his soul, he wouldn't blame Hermione if she decided to never trust him again.
The temperature of the conservatory had dropped just slightly with the approaching night, and Draco gingerly pulled his knees to his chest for warmth. In the silence, he apathetically traced his aching fingers across the smooth planks of wood spread beneath him.
Innumerable memories too fast, too frequent to name swirled through his head.
The floor was one of the things Draco remembered most from those two years — being flung down upon and dragged across abrasive gravel; being inescapably chained to bone-shattering stone; being forced to bow low to and keep his eyes fixed on polished cedar; clutching at buttery-soft carpet as curses and blows cut into his back and legs… being sprawled flat out upon the vestibule-wide black and red tile mosaic of the Weasley family crest, limply watching his own blood spreading across the icy marble.
Abruptly, he felt ill, but he was unable to tear his unseeing gaze away from the endless parade of nightmares inside him.
It's all you deserve, a small voice whispered.
He hadn't been able to save his mother, or stop the army of the Phoenix from finding the conservatives on that final day. He hadn't been able to stop any one of the unutterable things that had been done to him… or tell the woman he loved the truth behind the one mystery she had most wanted to understand.
Give her some time for her anger to settle, Tom had said. Then you can apologize. Misunderstanding or not, you're a good person, Draco, and she knows that. You can make it better.
Indefatigably Optimistic Draco would have believed that. But here, in the darkness of his own being, that version of himself couldn't be farther from his grasp.
How could he ever make anything better, how could he put something back together again, when he himself was falling apart?
Something deep within his chest began to tremble with a cold terror only those on the verge of really and truly losing themselves forever to the abyss within can comprehend. Fear of abuse from others was one thing; fear of being swallowed by one's own mind was another completely, and Draco desperately squeezed his eyes shut against the memories, forcing himself to breathe, to forget, to remember he wasn't there anymore, that he was safe here…
Though there was always the possibility that with a single mistake, his freedom could be snatched from him and he could be thrown back into hell, or executed, at any moment.
A cold sweat burst across his body as a swell of panic swept through him. He roughly wrenched his hands through his hair, curling down over his knees. For a short while at least, he thought he'd been healing, thought he'd been moving past those years of indescribable suffering. But ever since Percy Weasley and Blaise had reminded him of every heinous thing he'd been trying to forget, the memories that haunted him had only resurged, constantly scrabbling to hijack his every waking moment and drag him down to a bottomless darkness.
And if he ever let them…
Oh god, if he ever let them—
You can't keep on like this, Draco… You can't, or you'll drive yourself mad…
But try as he might, he couldn't tear his mind away from the blackness, the terror, the complete paralysis that accompanied knowing he was utterly powerless to help himself and those he loved, no matter how desperately he repeated his mother's words of encouragement. Before he could help it, a low, feral noise of utter desperation wrenched from his lips—
Abruptly, the few greenhouse torches flickered to life.
"Draco?"
Swiftly, Draco clamped his jaw shut and froze, his racing heart beating so loudly in the silence that followed, he feared he'd be located by that alone. He considered remaining as still as possible, but then his father's voice called for him again.
"Draco? Are you here?"
Softly, Draco gasped in a small breath and then another, quickly scrubbing at his face with the halfway-clean back of his palm. As he heard his father moving again, presumably to leave, he grabbed the now earth-stained journal, closed his eyes, steeling himself, and stood.
"Father. Yes. Sorry, I'm—"
He sounded feeble, hoarse, and he flinched at the sound of his own voice. Hastily, he cleared his throat. "—Right here."
Halfway out the greenhouse door, Lucius turned in surprise, as if he hadn't truly expected to find his son there. "Whatever are you doing hiding away in here? Pansy and I have been looking for you since supper. Your aunt is—" The older man stopped as Draco came into view. "Goodness. Are you alright?"
Draco looked down at himself. He was covered in soil from his elbows down, dark flecks of dirt and water stains splattered across his pants and shirt. He could but imagine he smelled equally delightful.
"Sorry, I, erm… must have lost track of time," he said lightly; probably one of the most pathetic lies he'd ever come up with. He started toward Lucius, gritting his teeth to hide the shriek of protest in his right leg and the rest of his aching muscles.
His father watched him with an expression so concerned one would think Draco was near death. "Truly, Draco, is something the matter?" He smiled self-effacingly. "I'm afraid I may be a bit out of touch with popular culture, but if you need assistance in any other form I'd be glad to provide it."
Draco returned the smile limply to cover the apprehension twisting in his mind and stomach. He wanted so badly to ask if Lucius and his mother had ever fought (and how he'd made it up to her if they had); wanted so badly to plead for help to save himself from the slowly cracking dam in his mind holding back an indescribable terror and insanity he had worked so desperately to repress.
But then his gaze landed on the small tremor in Lucius's right hand that he hadn't seemed to lose since he'd been freed from his decades-old prison. Remembered how he was hardly able to control his own magic anymore — many of the spells Lucius had attempted since his rescue had only misfired, and badly.
No. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't bear to place another burden on Lucius's shoulders when his father was only just finding himself again for the first time in fourteen years.
He swallowed hard and forced a smile to his face. "No…. No, everything's fine, Father." He shoved a shaky hand through his hair. "To be honest, I think I've gone a bit overboard trying to pick up the Healing Arts as fast as I have," he confessed. "But it's been so long since I've had anything to learn, I…" His gaze dropped to the ground. "I suppose I'm trying to make up for lost time."
Lucius sighed, lightly placing his hand on Draco's arm. "We both are, son."
A glance into Lucius's eyes revealed the heaviness Draco felt reflected there, and he felt some comfort knowing that his father understood. He hovered nervously in the silence, hoping Lucius wouldn't continue to press him about what was wrong, and simultaneously praying that he would.
Instead, the elder Malfoy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and lifted it to Draco's face, gently scrubbing at some grit on his cheek as if he was a toddler come in from a muddy park. "I never expected to find anyone who enjoyed horticulture more than your mother, but you may just prove me wrong."
Draco winced, wondering if he was thinking of the purple self-peeling sprouts incident. "I'm not certain 'enjoy' would be the word I'd use to describe today," he muttered wearily.
Lucius stepped back; apparently, Draco's presentability had increased to his satisfaction. "For someone who wasn't enjoying himself, you certainly seem to have thrown yourself into your work," he observed mildly.
Draco's lips twitched upward weakly. "Surely you remember the therapeutic power of male single-mindedness."
His father chuckled slightly at that. "Yes, I suppose I do. Though at times your mother called it pigheadedness."
"Mother, be so uncouth? She'd never dream of it," Draco said lightly, his faint smile growing slightly as he remembered all the times she had.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
"After they took Malfoy Manor from us, I wrote 200 pages in a month flat on the deleterious effects of prolific Dark Arts usage in historical and modern cultures worldwide, and the deeply unsettling parallels progressing through Sovereign society," Lucius said unexpectedly. His gaze had become distant, his sigh heavy. "In truth I should have spent that time with your mother. Lifetimes… lost now, it seems. I never did find anyone who would publish it."
Draco couldn't believe that an entire nation would choose to remain ignorant to the fact the Dark Arts could and were draining their humanity from them — and how many witches and wizards had suffered and died as a result. "But you weren't wrong," he said, unable to mask the pain of having experienced the violent consequences of that ignorance directly. "Did no one listen to you?"
"Yes, yes of course some did: Those who already believed it. But the people who truly needed to read it — moderate Mixed-Bloods, Muggleborns new to our world who hadn't been raised with this history in their ears…" He shook his head. "They simply dismissed it, I'm afraid. Why shouldn't they? With the Dark Arts, the Sovereignty was rising to international acclaim. My name and reputation, The Daily Prophet had already blackened with a well-placed smear campaign. Xenophilius Lovegood was the only publisher brave enough to give me 500 words."
That gave Draco a start of surprise.
"You were in The Quibbler?" he asked. Growing up, he and Aunt Bella in particular had been avid readers of the political and scientific discourse journal — the only magazine that sometimes had articles in it written by adults Draco knew. Lovegood had cleverly marketed the publication as 100% neutral, allowing him to give conservatives a voice when virtually no other papers would. This meant, of course, that between intelligent work from followers of both the Light and Dark Arts, The Quibbler also published articles from legitimate quacks, crackpots and zealots alike, which sometimes made for extremely entertaining material.
Lucius nodded wryly. "Right after a five-page article extolling a number of more recently-discovered virtues of the Dark Arts."
A half-smile tugged at Draco's lips. "But of course. 'An objective balance,' Lovegood would call it every time anyone questioned his supposed political nonalignment. Knew the very buzzwords the Phoenix wanted to hear." He shook his head in incredulity. "As much as the Sovereign likes 'objective balances,' it's still amazing how long they let him get away with that — that sort of freedom."
Lucius's eyebrows lifted in interest. "Did they really?"
"Clear through my fourth year. He did close up shop completely when Tom came back, though. Mum thought he didn't want to take even the slightest chance he'd fall under suspicion as a sympathizer." He shook his head. "I saw him a few times, at the Hogwarts Express. I still don't know what I think about him. He seemed so… unfriendly. I'm amazed he gave us any assistance at all."
Lucius nodded in understanding. "Xenophilius was so very cerebral it lent him a certain coldness. None of us ever had the slightest idea if he entertained more of an opinion than he let on. What you call assistance, Bellatrix was convinced was a publicity ploy to increase his readership." His expression became thoughtful. "He maintained his neutrality clear through the end, did he?"
Draco's shoulder lifted and fell in a slight shrug. "Hermione says his daughter's still a student, so I suppose he did. She's as objective as he is… I don't recall her ever showing us any more support than not going out of her way to hurt us."
His father seemed slightly disappointed. "Well, in the case he ever did consider partiality, I… I certainly can't say I don't understand his choice to stay out of it." His voice softened, his distrait gaze traveling past Draco once again. "Sometimes I wonder what might have been, if only we hadn't…"
He trailed off, his voice heavy with unspoken words, moments, decisions.
As Draco watched his heavy-shouldered form, something began to twist deep inside his chest. He understood regret all too well, but he couldn't begin to imagine waking up one day to discover he was fifteen years older, his wife had been killed, his friends were missing or long passed and his son was fully grown and imprisoned by the State. What did his father think he could have done differently? To Draco, whose entire span of memories had only known a terrible, worsening persecution, it seemed like their fate had been all but sealed from the start.
He hesitated, then touched Lucius's arm briefly, gently. "Wondering only makes it hurt more," he said quietly. "We're Malfoys… we would have been targeted no matter what we had or hadn't said and done."
The elder Malfoy nodded tightly in response, his jaw tight. "Yes… Yes, you're right, of course."
After a moment, his father looked toward him again, though not quite at him. "Draco, I'm going to say something, and I don't want you to misconstrue it."
Draco tensed. The darkness again clawed at his chest; he choked on a small wave of panic, desperately trying to shove it back. "What do you mean?"
"You must know I love you deeply, and I'm so very happy you're here, but I…" For a moment, Lucius simply wrung his hands, avoiding Draco's gaze, then took a small breath and said thickly, "I'm so terribly sorry you were born into this world, son."
Tears abruptly stung Draco's eyes as Lucius finally looked up at him, eyes as gray as his own equally filled with emotion. "If I could have done anything — anything — to spare you from this nightmare you've experienced… taken you far from this place; left you with a better name… family… Bloodline…"
Draco was reminded of exactly what he'd so ineptly meant to convey to Hermione that afternoon, except his father was doing it far more effectively and elegantly than Draco ever could have.
He shook his head fervently. "Father, no — no, you mustn't say that." To his horror, his jaw trembled, and he clenched it tightly. "Like everyone else we know, it hasn't been—" his throat closed momentarily, and he struggled to speak, "—easy — but — I have felt so much love from Mum — my family — my friends — you… I can't — I'm not— "
He couldn't believe Lucius would think that just because he had suffered immensely, he would have been better off with a different family. They had all suffered. But he had also been happy. As a child, how many times had he fallen asleep with a contented smile on his face after his mother had finished reading to him and kissed him goodnight, or fallen to the floor laughing hysterically with Aunt Bella? Known what true friendship felt like, even if a third of that friendship was fractured now, and, having witnessed the cruelty his soulless classmates in Hufflepuff and Gryffindor had so frequently dealt, had been so relieved — so relieved — he wasn't one of them?
"I have always been so proud to be your and mum's son," he finally choked out. "I've never regretted being born a Malfoy."
Lucius gazed at him in astonishment, hope mingling with the grief etched across his face. Then his stately features collapsed, and Draco struggled to maintain his composure when the older man quickly pulled him into a tight hug. "Thank you, Draco," he whispered against the side of his head, his voice trembling.
He pressed his lips together, nodding wordlessly.
After a moment, Lucius stepped back, placing his hands on Draco's shoulders. "I hope you will always know how very proud I am of you as well."
Draco's eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, nodded again. His father couldn't have possibly known how desperately Draco had needed his support today— support that, even a few months ago, he would have given anything to have from a father he could hardly remember meeting.
He suddenly felt an overwhelming gratefulness that Lucius had come to look for him at all.
"Thanks for being here, Father," he whispered.
"As long as I have a say in the matter, I will always be here for you, Draco." Lucius's expression darkened, and he looked away. "I only… wish with everything I am that I'd been able to be a part of your life these past many years."
Draco thought of the innumerable stories Narcissa had told him about his father throughout his childhood — how, every time Draco would read the children's book of European wizarding history Lucius had left him, or studied History of Magic, he always felt he knew him, somehow.
"You were," he realized in amazement.
Lucius looked back at him quickly. He clasped Draco's arm in reply, a watery smile on his face.
In his entire life, Draco had never felt so close to his father as he did then.
It served as expected that in this moment of peace, the small, dark voice in the corner of his mind crept back into consciousness like an insidious breeze.
Would his father still be looking at him with such love if he knew everything about him — everything he kept hidden about his visions, about Hermione, about his captivity? Would Lucius be proud if he knew how close Draco had been to breaking down completely only ten minutes earlier, or the terrible extent of what had been done to him… everything he'd done wrong?
'I trusted you!' Hermione's angry voice rang in his head. 'You were the only person here I believed in, Draco — the only one. And you deliberately…'
As her voice trailed off, so too did Draco's brief happiness dissolve to nausea.
Swiftly, he averted his gaze from his father's. "I'm—" his voice broke, and he forced a laugh, clenching shaking hands. "I'm sorry, we've gotten so utterly off topic… Why did you say you were looking for me?"
"Oh. Oh yes." Lucius cleared his throat and nodded. "I'm terribly sorry, it slipped my mind completely." For some reason, his lips twisted into an expression that was new to Draco — a mix between a valiant attempt to smile and a grimace. "Your… Aunt Bellatrix. She's rather eager to see you."
Draco froze. "She's here?"
Lucius nodded. "Cassiopeia's with her in Absit Invidia now. Seeing the two of them together is a bit like— Draco? Draco, wait a moment!"
Draco had grasped his cane and strode toward the conservatory's entrance. If Aunt Bella had been here earlier, he didn't dare think about the number of chances Hermione would have had to run into her. "When did she come back?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Sometime last night, from what I understand," Lucius said, following him outside into the chill of a Mediterranean winter.
A powerful dread had begun to pulse through his temples. Hermione was the strongest person he knew, but he had seen how badly she'd responded the few times he'd accidentally said Bella's name aloud. And he knew what seeing Percy Weasley had done to him. "Has she seen Hermione?"
"I'm afraid I haven't the slightest… Draco!"
As Draco rapidly approached the merrily illuminated central tribute, Blaise's tall form emerged from it, the lantern-lit darkness revealing an incensed scowl on his face. Draco's throat went dry and his steps momentarily faltered. Blaise was one person he wasn't prepared to talk to right now, but if Hermione had seen Aunt Bella—
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to continue forward. For a split second, their eyes met, and Draco stiffened, averting his gaze. He quickened his steps to wordlessly pass by him, but only moments after he did —
"Oh. She brought it after all."
Blaise's voice was surprisingly civil.
Draco froze. A quick glance over his shoulder told him his old friend had stopped walking and was looking back at him, but he hadn't the slightest idea of what he could've meant. His brow knit in confusion, and he followed Blaise's line of sight down to his side… to the book weighing down his hand and his conscience.
The realization hit Draco all at once.
Since that afternoon, he hadn't stopped to much think about how Hermione had found his journal, only that she had. No one had known where he'd hastily hidden it (he hadn't been able to bring himself to destroy it) on that final day he'd been a Hogwarts student before the second war had broken out, when a warning from his mother and Aunt Bella had triggered the last of the conservative students to flee the school through the One-Eyed Witch Passage to Hogsmeade.
No one… except the one other person who'd been with him in the library's Forbidden Section when he had.
"Blaise," he whispered in horror, turning to stare at him, "What did you do?"
Blaise's brow furrowed. "What? What are you talking about?"
Draco lifted the book slightly, gripping it so tightly even the hard cover had begun to crease and dent inward. "You told her?"
"About that? Yeah. Basically. Didn't say exactly what it was." Blaise shrugged. "Saw you writing in your journal the other day. Thought she could pick up this one for you."
Draco struggled to suppress the anger and frustration that began to bubble inside him, painfully aware his father had come to a stop a few feet behind him. "I hid this for a reason, Blaise! No one was ever supposed to find it — least of all her!"
Blaise stared at him. "Bloody hell. You're joking, right?" Very clearly Draco wasn't, and the dark-haired man flung his arm toward him in an exasperated gesture. "I thought you'd want your precious, clandestine diary back! I was trying to apologize!"
"Apologize!" He let out a strangled laugh. "Of course that'd be what you were…" He shook his head, shoving a hand through his hair. "Blaise, you've no idea what…"
His feeble voice trailed off painfully.
"No, I didn't, Draco," Blaise said defensively. "How was I to know it would — apparently! — bugger up your sodding love life?"
Draco tensed in spite of himself. Of course, Blaise couldn't have known the secrets the journal held, but after everything that had already gone down between them, he couldn't help but feel like the more hotheaded Slytherin had done this vindictively to drive a wedge between Hermione and himself.
"That's just it, isn't it?" he exclaimed before he could think better of it. "You don't know, but you do it anyway!"
Blaise jerked forward, looking so vexed Draco thought he might actually punch him. "Fuck me, but hasn't spending so much quality time with Lord Viceroy and sons turned you into a sanctimonious bastard!"
All the air rushed from Draco's lungs. He took a staggering step backward; for a moment, Blaise, his father, the very light around him flickered nearly entirely out of sight as Blaise continued, "If the Muggleborn Goddess somehow breached all your security charms and didn't like what she saw in that thing, don't you dare blame me for whatever the bloody hell you put in it!"
"Boys — Boys!" Lucius exclaimed, leaping forward between them. "Goodness me, flinging about ghastly insults is no way to resolve a conflict! Is this the great friendship that only a few weeks ago Draco was telling me so much about?"
Blaise muttered something under his breath. Draco couldn't look at either of them, desperately struggling keep his mind above the panic, the chaos, or, most vividly now, the guilt of knowing that Blaise was right — it might have been easy to divert blame to him, but everything that had transpired today was entirely Draco's fault.
"Now, may I suggest you either resolve this now," Lucius went on, his voice mild yet sterner than Draco had ever heard him, "or agree to say nothing more of it."
"No. No, I think we're finished." Blaise's icy tone was overtly final.
Draco swallowed back a dizzying wave of regret, trying to hide the shame in his expression as he looked toward him. "Blaise—"
"No," Blaise snapped darkly, spinning back to face him. "I'm done trying to make it up to you, Draco. The next time you need a friend, go find somebody who meets your high standards." He turned, pausing in front of Lucius. "Apologies for the language. Sir."
As the sound of his footsteps vanished, silence, broken only by the constant of rushing water, descended on the bridge.
Slowly, Draco's shoulders slumped. He wanted to fling the journal into the cascading channel system, but instead only set it heavily on top of the bridge's railing, cradling his pounding forehead in his hands. What was wrong with him?! Lashing out at people who didn't deserve it, twisting the knife deeper to get in the last word with someone who'd once been one of his best friends? Even if Blaise had made a mistake, Draco's response had only augmented it, perpetuating the fissure in their friendship.
This — None of this — This wasn't who he was.
But he hadn't the slightest idea of how to find his way back to that person again.
"Draco?" his father said quietly from behind him. "Did something happen with Hermione?"
Draco miserably dragged his palms down his face, lifting his head and letting out a heavy breath. "I don't want to talk about it. Please."
After a moment, Lucius said gently, "Perhaps later, then." He stepped closer. "I hope you don't mind my stepping in, but it all seemed to be spiraling downward quite precipitously toward the sort of confrontation I suspected you would both regret…"
It already had, Draco thought dully.
He shook his head limply. His entire body felt so heavy — like the thick mud blackening his mind had spread like quicksand to his limbs. "No… No, I'm glad you did."
Despite the audible concern in his father's voice, it was to his great credit that he didn't press. "I believe you… had another matter to attend to, son?"
Draco swallowed hard, nodding.
Now that he felt even worse, stepping into the cheery light of Tribute A was the last thing he wanted to do, but he forced himself forward, entering the central space. He was immediately encompassed by life and a homey sensation that, after spending the past half day in darkness and isolation, was a bit alien and startling.
Pansy was giggling as she and Harry made some kind of drinks in the far refreshment corner — probably what Blaise had been angry about to begin with. Tom Riddle was sitting casually in an armchair beside the fireplace with a book open in his lap, though at that moment his curiously unreadable gaze was fixed beyond the edge of the pages, watching the tribute's final two occupants interact.
Aunt Bella's appearance had changed little in two years. Draco couldn't remember if he'd ever seen her without military boots, and the leather jacket was the same one she claimed she'd found abandoned on the streets in Camden (Draco rather suspected the truth involved a bit more guile) while she'd been scouting out potential conservative safe houses in the weeks leading up to the Final Suppression.
She and a delighted-looking Peia were crouched over some kind of small lizard, but against the carpet it was hard to make out what it was exactly.
As he took a shaky breath, Peia looked up and saw him. Her happy smile widened to a beam. "Draco! Come see what mum brought me!"
Aunt Bella turned toward the door and grinned. "There's my favorite nephew!" Her brow knit as she got a better look at him. "What in the name of Slytherin happened to you?" Her voice took on a mockingly stern tone. "I believe your mother and I made it quite clear ten years ago the sandbox is no place to start a tunnel to Bulgaria, young man."
Draco was slightly astonished when a weak chuckle burst from his lips. "I rather hope it was more than ten years ago, as it were… I'm so glad to see you, Aunt Bella," he said earnestly, torn between real thankfulness for her presence and worry he desperately hoped was for nothing.
"I'd wager I'm rather more glad to see you, but I'm a bit broke at the moment." She stood, holding out her arms. "Come here, come here, give Auntie Bella a hug!"
Draco glanced at Peia, still sprawled on the ground eagerly examining the lizard. "Perhaps we might, erm… have a catch-up over here, if you don't mind."
He noticed Tom look over at him sharply, his dark eyes piercing.
Bella peered at Draco questioningly before her eyes landed on the cane clutched in his hand; understanding dawned across her features. "Right, I'm an idiot. You stay; I'll come to you."
He steeled himself as she approached and was able to repress a flinch when she seized him, pulling him into a brief but crushing hug. She stepped back, her swift gaze rapidly dropping to his legs and dark brow furrowing appraisingly. "Is it your right leg? It looks like your right leg. Now stand still, let me have a look at it…"
"Aunt Bella—"
Before he could stop her, she crouched beside him, pulled out her wand and started muttering diagnostic Healing charms, along with a particularly virulent, "Weasel-headed rat-faced bast—"
He skirted away from her touch. "Aunt Bella, wait."
She gave a slightly exasperated flourish of her wand, tilting her head up at him with the raised eyebrow of an adult scolding a child. "Draco, dear, I know having me back must be awfully thrilling, but can't you see I'm trying to work?"
"Yes, I appreciate that, but—" Draco felt the urge to remind her he was nearly two years over age, now, not five, "I need to— There's something I— " He abruptly abandoned all attempts at eloquence, lowing his voice. "Did you happen to meet another witch here today? Hermione?"
Bella stopped moving, and Draco held his breath.
Then she pushed herself back to her feet, her back stiff. From this proximity, Draco could see the exhaustion lining her features.
When her dark eyes met his, a sudden, deep shadow in them that hadn't been present moments before…
He knew it was too late.
Six Hours Earlier
A hollow granite sheath served as both bannister and wall up the great column of stairs that led to the Chamber of Secrets' massive stone doors and exit. Hermione all but collapsed into the safety it provided, simultaneously drained emotionally and physically braced for another attack, interruption or bomb to drop.
Her shoulders slowly drooped in relief and exhaustion the farther up the stairs she trudged.
Thank the goddess, it appeared that, for once, Riddle was going to let her be.
After caring so much, now she only felt completely empty. Utterly drained.
She wasn't ready to face anyone as My.
She wasn't ready to face anyone as Hermione.
Through a splitting headache, her mind numbly flicked to Draco, but the thought of him and all that had transpired between them hurt enough that she choked back an emotional breath and forced her head elsewhere. The fraction of her brain she'd apportioned to all things My informed her that she'd surely missed all of Divination, which would certainly cause a buzz, but if she brushed it off as irritation about her Potions detention, she should be able to slide it beneath the—
Suddenly, her foot landed on something that didn't feel quite like hard stone.
Mrrreoww!
Hermione leapt backward at the earsplitting screech of displeasure, nearly tumbling down the stairs behind her.
In a flash, she leveled her wand threateningly at… a midnight black Kneazle?
The cat-like creature was perched a few stairs above her, back arched and hair standing on end, its signature lion's tail flicking irately.
Hermione slumped in relief, clutching at her heart. "Oh — Thank Merlin," she gasped, bending double as her body tried to recover from the shock of adrenaline.
The Kneazle didn't seem as relieved, letting out a throaty mrroww that still sounded miffed.
"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry!" Hermione exclaimed quietly. She crouched down, carefully holding out her hand. "It's alright… I didn't mean to step on you…"
After a moment, the Kneazle took a cautious step forward, shooting her another suspicious glare.
"That's right, come on," she said reassuringly. She knew the highly perceptive Kneazle would be able to tell she was genuine in her apology and affections. It was larger than most other Kneazles she'd seen— certainly a bit larger than Crookshanks, fluffier than a traditional black cat and far scruffier too; it looked like something even an alleycat wouldn't have wanted to encounter on a dark night.
At long last, it rubbed its face against Hermione's fingers, arching its back in a distinctly more gratified manner.
"Good Kneazle," she cooed; it started to purr. She smiled weakly in spite of herself, missing Crookshanks more and more the longer she continued to pet it. "You're quite friendly, aren't you?"
She didn't expect it to respond, but it certainly seemed to appreciate her petting. She felt some of the tension in her shoulders drain after a few minutes of running a hand over its velvety back. Honestly, after everything that had happened… this was just the therapy she needed. She hadn't seen a Kneazle here before, but then again she hadn't spent much time exploring. After all, Riddle — Merlin, she felt herself becoming angry again just thinking about him! — had goats and chickens; she'd hardly be surprised if he'd included a Kneazle to take care of any unwanted four-legged intruders as well.
"I'm going to lift you for just a moment," she said. "Would that be alright?"
The ebony feline gave another low purr that sounded an awful lot like an agreement and lithely rose up on hind legs, placing its front paws on her knees as if in invitation.
"Why, thank you," Hermione said, gathering the large creature in her arms. She stood, cradling it in one arm while searching for some sort of identification tags with the other, but she found none. "Do you have a name? I imagine Peia must have given you one by now."
In reply, the Kneazle purred again, turning to stare up at her with startlingly amber eyes.
"I had a cat just like you once," she told it. "Half-Kneazle. Absolutely brilliant." She hoped against hope that somewhere in the universe, Crookshanks was still alive and happily catching spiders and gnomes. She'd asked Ginny to take care of him in her absence, but after the Weasleys had been driven into hiding, she had no idea what had become of her beloved cat, and certainly hadn't thought to ask in the hours leading up to the final battle. "The two of you could have enforced some order throughout the land together, I'm certain."
It purred again, continuing to gaze at her with pupils large and dark enough to drown in.
Such dark eyes staring…
So deeply into hers.
Something perhaps imagined prickled in the back of her mind. At once, Hermione slammed up her Occlumency walls and instinctively shoved the Kneazle away from her. With another disgruntled mewl, it landed on its feet, disappearing with a bound around the curve in the stairs.
Hermione stared after it, heart racing.
To her utter chagrin, at the back of her mind she heard Riddle's chiding voice,
I haven't once seen you maintain your Occlumens protection in a seemingly non-threatening situation, and a clandestine Master Legilimens can exploit you for it most readily…
She caught her breath and squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing her aching forehead.
You're being paranoid, Hermione. It's a bloody Kneazle, for Merlin's sake! The voice in her head sounded an awful lot like Ron's. Crookshanks could practically read minds and he was only half Kneazle; of course a full-blooded version would be able to look at you like it could see into your—
Unexpectedly, the sound of a Muggle lighter striking up a flame jolted her from her thoughts.
Hermione opened her eyes, looking up in surprise.
Nothing could have prepared her for what — who — was leaning against the banister a few steps above her.
Adrenaline surged through her every nerve; her right shoulder slammed against the stone wall as she simultaneously stumbled backward and jerked up her wand, but the pain hardly registered.
Meanwhile, Bellatrix Lestrange threw back her head and laughed.
"Oo. Quick reflexes. I'm impressed."
The cackle was the very same that an insane witch had uttered over and over while she was carving the flesh from Hermione's arm.
As a hysteric spasm ripped through her body with the potency of an electrocution, Bellatrix continued, "And very nimble fingers. I'm no Trelawney, but I predict you'd have a highly successful career in Swedish massage if this entire revolutionary witch business goes south."
A violent memory from what seemed like only yesterday screamed in Hermione's ear. 'You! A witch! Ha — Filthy Mudblood! How dare you try to defy us! I promise your kind shall pay for it, beginning with you!'
Hermione's hands and then her entire arms started to shake, vehemently struck by the conflicting urges to vomit, run, or hurl the swiftest incapacitation spell she knew.
Was this woman just a hallucination from a memory… or was she real?
Casually balancing a cigarette between two fingers, Bellatrix slowly blew out a cloud of smoke, surveying Hermione with eyes as dark as the Kneazle's focused gaze. "Hm. For a small, friendly thing, you've caused quite the kerfuffle for our execrable adversaries upstairs," she noted, tilting her head toward the ceiling with a small pop of her tongue. "And you've got the backbone to give the two-fingered salute to my high-handed comrade downstairs, which believe you me is something you don't see every day. Cheers to you, dear."
Her mass of waist-length dark curls weren't piled wildly on her head as first appeared, but rather cropped in a longish pixie that, like in her Kneazle form, still added a fluffed ring of wildness around her alabaster face. Instead of gothic-style robes, she was dressed in a worn leather jacket and combat boots.
Not Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione realized, Bella Black.
The comfort was a very small one, and as the sadistic witch's doppelganger took a leisurely step down the stairs with the confident saunter of Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione nearly tripped in her attempt to stumble backward a few steps, gripping her wand tightly. "Stay away from me," she warned fiercely.
The woman's eyebrows shot up. Thankfully, she stopped approaching, and held up her hands. "At ease, Hermione — I'm on your team. From the sounds of it, anyway. It is alright if I call you Hermione, isn't it?"
No! Hermione's mind screamed. No, it isn't!
She forced herself to breathe, breathe, breathe, determinedly trying to hold back a black wave of panic and the shriek and screams of memories that sent her heart pounding so frantically she abruptly felt lightheaded.
The grin slowly fell from Bella's face. "Right. Well. I can't imagine the motley crew hasn't mentioned me — frankly, I'd be dead insulted if they haven't — but I'm—"
"I know who you are."
Bella frowned, and Hermione thought she heard her mutter, "Touchy little Elite, aren't you?" She stubbed out her cigarette on the silvery stone of the banister. "Right, I see Riddle's handled you shoddily, and I have no intention of throwing myself in the midst of a hornet's nest I didn't stir up. But it'd hardly benefit any of us were you to walk back into Hogwarts like this, would it? Let's have a little chin-wag; smooth this out. No insensitive, meddling wizards, just the two of us. Girl to girl."
'I'm going to have a little chat with this one… girl to girl!'
The corners of Hermione's vision began to yellow and narrow. She sensed that she was breathing, but her brain simultaneously wasn't getting enough air. Was this conversation really still happening? Why was she still here? She wanted to run but felt pinned in place, wanted to Apparate away but knew only Riddle could in the Chamber—
"Now unfortunately, I know Riddle. When he wants something he'll push every which way around the bush to get it," Bella continued, unfortunately taking her pause as indication to go on. "Surely we can come to some kind of agreement that doesn't—"
"Why did you try to use Legilimency on me if you're on my team?" Hermione interrupted tightly, desperately grasping onto the foremost suspicion crawling at the back of a mind scrabbling to stay afloat.
For a moment, Bella looked startled, as if she'd actually thought Hermione hadn't noticed the Kneazle's attempt to breach her mind. "Listen, dear, I'm a mother. Now at your age, that may not mean much—" she snorted to herself briefly, "—certainly didn't to me then. But one day, when you have a beautiful, clever little girl all your own, you'll understand some means are more than necessary. Now, I was trying to be — oh, what would Lucius call it?" She snapped her fingers. "Ah, yes— A sensitive emissary. Thank me later; it took effort. But if you insist we cut to the chase, here it is."
She stepped closer; Hermione tried to move backward, but her back only found the wall.
"I understand your home planet is a rather delightful place filled with unicorns and joke shops compared to the monstrous buggeration in which we currently find ourselves." Bella's dark gaze probed hers as deeply, as piercingly as the evil being Hermione had always known her to be. "So I want you to look into my eyes and convince me why exactly you'd rather stay here to spare my daughter from a potentially tragic fate — especially if there's a very decent chance you might meet yours along the way."
'Dirty Mudblood! You'd look in my eyes and lie? You have, haven't you! I know it, I know it!' Bellatrix Lestrange's infuriated howl ripped through Hermione's mind as if she'd been lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor only yesterday. 'I'll kill you now, you lying wench! Convince me why I should let your miserable life steal my magic and my space any longer!'
The veins at her temple throbbed, her eyes wide with agonized emotion as she continued to point her wand directly at Bellatrix Black's face. "You have no idea what you're doing right now," she whispered, tears blurring her vision.
"Oh, I do, dear." Bella smiled, but at long last, it seemed considerably more wary than nonchalant. "You just have to put down those very impressive shields you've raised and let me, like you did that regal feline five minutes ago. Now, calm down. Lower that wand."
'I know you're lying! A few more hours of torture and those shields won't know how to stand! Crucio! CRUCIO!'
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her shaking hand.
She didn't lower her wand. It was by some minor miracle she hadn't sent a Stunning spell already.
"Alright. Seriously now. Something's going on with you; what is it?"
The matter-of-fact question sounded impatient, possibly even concerned… but for some reason, it caused anger to flare through the fog of panic choking Hermione's thoughts.
Bella Black had already known Hermione was upset — for Merlin's sake, she'd tried to use her Animagus form to trick her into lowering her guard in a vulnerable moment! How could this woman, this — this stranger presume to make such demands of her — that she open her mind to penetration, repeatedly swear her best intentions when Hermione already had, over and over? Was it truly only now she wondered if something wasn't right?
For the first time since Bella had appeared, Hermione's ship was righted; she felt clear-headed in the fire of outrage. Lowering her wand, she released a slow, deliberate breath and took a step up the stairs, holding the wild-haired woman's sharp, searching gaze.
"You'd like the truth? Some reassurance I won't take off and run the moment the going gets rough?" she asked, forcing steadiness to her voice. "Fine. I'll show you."
Sudden eagerness jumped to Bella's expression, like Bellatrix Lestrange's when she spotted a new victim with whom to play. "There's a dear. That wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked, stepping closer.
Hermione swallowed hard, steeling herself, and nodded, reminding herself that like Lucius Malfoy this woman and Bellatrix Lestrange were not— not quite the same.
But they were more similar than she had ever thought they would be.
Bella placed her wand — walnut with dragon heartstring; Hermione remembered it all too well — on Hermione's temple. "For the love of Slytherin, relax. Haven't you ever been read by a Legilmens? I may not be the Master of Omniscience himself, but I'm good enough to be painless, at least. Should only take but a moment."
The second Hermione felt the faint, familiar prickle of non-Masterful Legilimency entering her mind, she blinked back the sudden fire that burned at her eyes and grasped the length of Bella's wand to hold it in place.
"No," she bit out. "I'd rather you had a good, long look."
Then she dropped the last of her Occlumency defences and summoned every horrific memory she had tried to subdue since the day she'd been tortured. They disjointedly swept through her head like a raging torrent of insanity, every psychotic smile, every wicked screech and furious curse.
"You're lying, you filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth! What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife! What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO! How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"
"We only met him tonight! We've never been inside your vault. . . . It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"
"Lies! You stole it, just like your disgusting kind is stealing our magic! CRUCIO!"…
"Oh! Let's have a bit of fun, shall we? Show everyone here just how dirty your blood is. Ah, yes, this tender little arm will work beautifully! Cursive or print, Mudblood, cursive or print?"…
Tears had begun to stream down Hermione's face; she felt every Cruciatus Curse, every searing sensation of knives flaying her alive from the inside out and the outside in… but as she stared down Bellatrix Black in an inescapable hold, she knew she wasn't alone.
Every seemingly impossible battle of the Second Wizarding War, every last moment of torture… She was determined to get through them all so that someone, anyone would see that she was trustworthy, that she was strong, that she knew what was truly at stake to her person when she voluntarily fought in a warzone, that her own world wasn't a perfect Utopia and that she could, and had, continued to battle on anyway until the fight was done.
"HERMIONE!"
"Another move and I'll slit her pretty throat! Watch me! I will!"…
"Did you actually believe, or are you truly naive enough to think, that children stood a chance against us? I'll make this simple for you, Potter. Give me the prophecy now... or watch your friends die."…
"I… never told her, Harry. She has no evidence ours isn't a double. And I — I know how we can get into her vault at Gringotts."
"You are — brilliant, Hermione…" …
"Do you know how many of your disgusting Muggle friends I've killed already? Hundreds! Just one swipe of this knife, just one, and you'll be joining them! The truth shall truly set you free, lovely! But lies — your wretched lies — will make you dead!"
"No — Stop — I don't know anymore, I don't know anymore! Please — Please!"
The Hermione of Memory's last scream of agony simultaneously ripped a real one from Hermione's lips. She slumped, gripping the rough stone of the bannister, and gasped in relieved breaths.
Tears stung her face, but for some absurd reason…
She felt like laughing.
You did it, Hermione, love… You did it…
She heard a scuffle on the steps above her and lifted her aching neck, breathing hard. Only feet away, Bella Black staggered into to the bannister, grasping it just as tightly.
"What…" The dark-haired witch sat down hard on stairs, her wide-eyed gaze distant, lips parted slightly. "What the… bloody…?"
She sounded stunned.
Hermione had no desire to have a post-trauma bonding session.
With the last bit of energy she had, she gathered herself and straightened, starting past the collapsed mirror image of the witch who'd haunted her dreams.
Suddenly, Bella's arm shot out. Only centimeters away from Hermione's leg, though, she abruptly stopped herself. Clenching her fist, she let her arm fall back to the ground.
"That…" she breathed, her voice faint against the ocean roaring in Hermione's ears. "Was… that…?"
Hermione paused, swallowing back the last remnants of nausea in her throat. "Real?" she said. "Yes. That was you, in my world. And that was my cause, once. We won, in the end." She swiped fiercely at the wetness dampening her face. "Now Peia is my cause. This — saving those House-Wizards — is my cause. And when I believe in something, I will fight for it — I'll never abandon it, and I'll never break." Softly, she murmured, "Not even for you."
Never in her life had Hermione been so glad to see the great double doors that gated the Chamber of Secrets. With a mimicked hiss of Parseltongue, they opened and shut again, leaving her standing alone in the shadowed, dripping passageway.
For several minutes, she didn't move at all.
She had just faced one of the scenes that, for the past eight months, had haunted her most.
Now it was over.
She felt ill and cleansed at the same time. Only the dull ache of what had transpired between her and Draco lingered around the corners of her beleaguered heart.
Though Hermione knew, rationally, that this hadn't been the woman who had tortured her…
She couldn't help but feel a grim liberation and an unexpected sense of peace from knowing that, in at least one universe, Bellatrix had seen and felt everything she had done to her — and had been left on her knees.
-c-
A/N: Welcome to many new readers, and thanks to ALL of you who have stuck with me through this hiatus. I promised I'd get you an update before my next surgery! Your love and dedication has really been what's kept me going with Reverse through all of this, so I hope to show you mine by posting more chapters this summer as I am able - you can find more information about that on my bio if interested.
Thoughts on some of this chapter's explosive confrontations? Did the Bellatrix/Hermione encounter go as you imagined? It's been so long - How ARE you all?! These past two chapters have been a bit angsty and emotional, but there is a light coming at the end of the tunnel!