Man, this chapter gave me trouble. I kept trying to write it from Hermione's perspective, and that did not fly. At all. It was also intended to be much longer, but I decided to split it in two, as the second part's fighting me on all fronts as well. I'll post it soon, on the weekend, I think.
Anyway, some of you have been missing Draco. Here he is! I hope you like!
When Draco was 6 years old, Lucius took him to his first quidditch match: England vs. France. The boy had been ecstatic, sporting the quintessential symbol of a carefree childhood - a wide, toothy grin. He had been so excited, in fact, that on the way to the parlour, where his father was waiting to apparate him to the stadium, Draco hadn't noticed one of his toy brooms lying on the ground. He tripped and scraped his knee. His mother and half the elvish help ran circles around him, bandaging the scratch and casting every single healing spell known to the wizarding world. Narcissa, rather protective of her only child, refused to let him go until it was certain that the bleeding had stopped and her precious offspring wouldn't collapse in the middle of the match. In the end, they were 15 minutes late to the game.
That didn't matter, because the game was delayed. 17,000 spectators waited until Draco Malfoy's mother confirmed that her son was okay. That was the power of their pureblood name.
Now, 14 years later, Lucius was dead, and a tired and grumpy Draco Malfoy was returning to his disgraced home after working a full 8-hour shift at minimum wage alongside dirty, filthy muggles. The job was part of his probation and was subject to intense scrutiny from Dorothy Peps - the petty, bureaucratic caseworker assigned to keep tabs on him. Miss one day on the job, and Madame Peps, like the good little office drone she was, would report the infraction to her supervisor. Three of those, as she was so eager to remind her ward at their weekly meetings, and his agreement with the ministry would be revoked.
"And zen iz Azkaban for you!" she would buzz, repeatedly poking him with her finger.
By the Founders, how he hated that woman. But what could he do?
On top of that, even the most basic sources of transportation (like floo and apparition) were denied to him. That meant he was forced to suffer several additional hours of proximity to disgusting muggle hordes during his daily commute. The only good thing to come out of that was meeting Granger. Stumbling into her provided at least some variety to his brutally monotonous days.
Otherwise, he rose with the sun, went to his job, and then came home late in the day, exhausted.
Just like today, he thought, feeling the oncoming pounding stomp of a headache. Even the flight to the Manor, usually somewhat refreshing, had been tedious. Groaning, he tried not to think about tomorrow, because it would be same routine all over again.
He touched down on his family's - pretty much solely his now - grounds, instantly aware of a guest's presence. Linny appeared by his side that very second. Her wide eyes were filled with tears, and a lump was growing on her forehead - the result of administered self-punishment.
"Master!" she wailed, frantically waving her arms around. "Master! Oh, Linny sorry! Linny bad, bad, terrible elf! Shame on Linny!
She fell to her knees with a sob, and started thumping her head against the ground. While this was the exact sort of behavior expected from a house-elf in a pureblood household, Draco found it rather frustrating at times.
"Linny," he barked. "Just say what happened!"
"The miss! She comes, and Linny let's her in! Then pretty miss ask to see room! That room! Linny shows her the way, but then she locks door with magic and now doesn't come out! I is sorry, Master! I-"
"Stop babbling… and hitting your head! THIS IS AN ORDER, LINNY! SILENCE!"
Linny gulped, drying tears with the trembling palm of her hand. Obediently, she stifled her last whimpers and fell silent.
"Now," the blond wizard snapped. "Explain this nonsense. What miss and what bloody room. SPEAK!"
"The miss," Linny whispered. "Miss Hermione. In room. She hasn't come out."
"What room?!"
"Where she… where Master's aunt Bellatrix cast the dark curses, where she…"
Throwing away his broom, Draco took off at a run, cursing the crazy witch that had popped up again in his life. Walking into her own torture chamber - what in Hades was she thinking?! Draco could only imagine the state of mind she was in. The fear, the pain. Echoes of Bella's crucios swarming in. He could remember every second of that day, and he hadn't even been the one writhing in pain on the floor. This would come back to bite him in the arse. Potter and Weasley would blame him this time for anything that happened to their precious brainy girl. Damn Granger. She would-
No magic could lock him out of his own home, and the doors, sensing his anxiety, rocketed open at his approach. He sprinted through them, expecting to see a quivering, crying mess heaped on the floor. A girl destroyed by her past. He was prepared to scold and pity and yell. Then he would have to call her guardians, and, boy, would that conversation-
"Rushing to my rescue, Malfoy?"
A cool and collected voice stopped him in his tracks. She stood in the center of the room, turning to face him with an almost amused expression.
"What the hell, Granger," he panted, annoyed and frustrated that he ran here for nothing. Damn this crazy Gryffindor.
"Harry and Ron would have done the same," she mused. "Everyone wants to protect me from my own past. You're more like them than you know."
He didn't enjoy being the object of barmy insinuations.
"I didn't do anything for you. Do your friends even know you're here?"
"Ah. Covering your own ass. Even then, the end result's the same. Everyone thinks I'm a fragile flower about to wither and die. Come here."
She made a beckoning gesture with her hand. Draco, angry and curious at the same time, obliged.
"You've redecorated," Granger observed, twirling an oddly familiar wand between her fingers. "The furniture's new, the walls are a different color. It doesn't matter though. It's still the same room."
He didn't really know what to answer to that. He had no idea where Granger was going with this or what she wanted. Did she come here for an apology? She'd had years for that.
"You know, this is the exact spot where she was standing."
She. There could be only one person Granger was talking about - Bellatrix. His breath hitched. It wasn't because of what she said, but the way she said it. Almost bored, as if she was talking about the weather. Most people don't adopt that sort of tone when discussing the subject of their own torture. He examined her closely then. Granger raised an impassive facade, but beneath that… she looked pleased. Giddy, even. But it was her eyes that really shocked him.
The change in the girl he'd found on the train two weeks ago was astounding. She had been lost then, tired and lonely, but with no heaviness in her heart or darkness in her gaze. Now her eyes expressed a haunted depth that comes from seeing too much. He'd witnessed the same look in the eyes of both victims and villains during the war. It was the abyss gazing back.
"She was standing right in this very spot," the girl continued, pointing down at her feet, unaware of his thoughts. "Spewing taunts and curses, ripping into my arm. She enjoyed it too - you could hear it in her voice. She liked causing pain."
"Look, Hermione…" he began cautiously, but was cut off.
"Well, who's standing here now, bitch?!"
Fury, sudden as thunder in a clear summer sky, flashed over Granger's face. Her lips twisted into a feral snarl and her hair crackled with streams of uncontrolled magic. There was rigidness to her posture now, an unyielding defiance that reminded him an antique sculpture of some wrathful goddess.
The wand, he realized - it was Bellatrix's! Did it obey a new master?!
"Now I'm here, and you have worms digging through your skull in whatever shallow grave they threw you in. I have a life, I have your wand, and I stand here now! ME! NOT YOU!"
Her cry, followed by quick, ragged breaths, reverberated through the room. Chest heaving, the young woman stared into her past, at an adversary only she could see. Slowly, a terrible and euphoric smile spread over her face.
"You'll be forgotten," she spat. "A footnote in the textbooks of history that no one will bother with. I'll destroy everything you stood for. Your blood purity, your prejudice, your hatred. And when people in the future read about this time period, they will read about me, and not some insane witch that served an equally mad lord."
Granger closed her eyes, tension seeping out of her body. Her breaths evened out to a steady rhythm.
"You're dead, Bellatrix," she whispered. "Dead and gone. And Iwill make the rules on who's welcome to this world, and who's not."
Draco looked at his guest, horror mixing with admiration. A fragile flower, she was not. This girl reveled in her victory and the death of her enemy. Is this what she came here for then? To confront the ghost of her torturer? To stare the demons of her past in the eye and spit in their faces?
Granger opened her eyes and placed the wand in her hand back into her robes. Her magic drained away with her fury, leaving behind only a frizzy mess of hair on her head, which she tried to wrestle back into shape with an almost defeated exasperation.
"Damn it," she sighed, annoyed. Then her facade - poised and calm - snapped back into place, and not a single hint of her outburst remained. She seemed in total control again, and Draco wondered how many people had the opportunity to see the real girl underneath.
"Are you… ok?" he asked hesitantly.
Her smile was dazzling. He might as well have asked her to the beach on a bright, sunny day, so cheerful it was.
"Better than ever!" she chirped. "I feel good now, and the world's a little lighter."
His skepticism must have shown, because she raised her hand and explained.
"This was… like a stone I was carrying. The anger, the hurt. It was all inside me, but now it's gone. Well, not completely, but enough to matter. There is one less burden on my shoulders now, and it's thanks to you. I would have never contemplated coming here before you flew me in on your broom."
"It was nothing."
"It was decent, and that's more than what most people do. Now, this is silly, but I baked you a cake as a thank you. You have to try it, because as self-serving as this sounds, it is delicious! Come on now, come!"
Having said that, she whirled away in a hurricane of energy, smelling of aster and foxberries. Swept up by these tempestuous winds of change, he had no choice but to follow.