Chapter Thirteen

A Terrible Understanding

Narcissa paced on quiet footsteps, an arm folded beneath her breasts as she pressed a hand to her mouth. It was decidedly unladylike, but she couldn't stop herself from chewing furiously on the nail of one finger as her gaze bounced about the room, before landing upon Lucius, over and over.

She knew the wee hours of the morning were upon them, yet she'd not been able to rest. Her husband, by sharp contrast, fell asleep nearly as soon as his head had hit the pillow. Apparently, plotting to overtake the Wizarding world via forgotten ancient prophecy is quite the draining endeavor, she thought with an arched brow, the tone of her inner voice facetious.

Still she puzzled over what Draco had told her—about Miss Granger's condition worsening whenever he was apart from her. Certainly, he could have been lying . . . it sounded like it could be a lie . . . . The Slytherin witch shook her head. But no. There was a strange feeling twisting in her gut that told her the young man was being wholly honest with her.

That sensation, however, did nothing to ease the tension holding her spine pin-straight, just now. She couldn't help but wonder what such a thing meant for Draco.

Her gaze landed on her husband's sleeping form, once more. Narcissa hated to admit it—even to herself—but she feared what would happen if he realized she was keeping something about the girl's unique condition from him.

This prophecy nonsense was driving him to lunacy.

She swallowed hard, shaking her head as her lids swept downward. She would never admitted it, but she knew . . . .

She was starting to fear him.

By the time Harry returned to the castle grounds, the fires around which the dark witches and wizards were reveling had been extinguished, and the courtyard was vacant. Everything was still . . . painfully silent. Even the sounds he used to hear from the Forbidden Forest while attending school were gone.

Approaching the castle like this felt . . . . He shook his head, lifting his hands to ensure the hood of his Cloak was firmly in place.

This felt like walking through a cemetery.

He pressed on, ignoring the uncomfortable twisting in the pit of his stomach and the sensation of icy fingertips trailing up his spine—as though he was trespassing. Him, trespassing at Hogwarts? What an absurd notion! And yet, there it was.

As he moved through the splintered main doors, he tried to break down the feeling. Something, anything, to distract himself from this awful chill winding around him. Thayer had told him the last time he'd seen Lucius Malfoy, the new Dark Lord had mentioned escorting Hermione to Gryffindor tower, and so he made a beeline for the main staircase.

This castle is no longer my home, he realized dully as he started up the steps. There was no other way to state that which would lessen the impact of those words. It was the simple truth, no matter how much it stung.

This place might as well be entirely abandoned for all the warmth and heart it held, now.

He forced any further cognitive thoughts from his head as he climbed toward the tower. Instead, he focused on his footfalls, counting them as he went; focusing on keeping them steady and soft as he could manage as he moved. Every centimeter of the place felt the same—cold and utterly lifeless—but that only made him more acutely aware of the faint sound his steps made against the stone staircase.

By the time he reached the portrait-entrance, he had forgotten about counting, altogether.

Glancing about, he pulled down the hood of the Cloak. The Fat Lady had fled her portrait, making him wonder if perhaps the castle falling to Lucius' ownership, by default, was what granted him access to the tower.

Frowning, he crept closer to the painting. He could see the faint glimmer hovering in the air. Damn. Sighing, he once more put the hood up and sat, settling back against a corner wall facing the tower's currently blocked entrance.

He hated it, but there was nothing he could do now except wait for Lucius to come dispel his ward in the morning. He only hoped Hermione would be alright until then.

Though he never thought he'd see the day, there he was, hoping that somehow—at the very least—Draco might be in there, with her.

Draco blinked his eyes open, and immediately shut them, again. What he'd just seen couldn't be real. He recalled clearly pillowing his head on Granger's lap in the Gryffindor common room as he'd drifted to sleep, yet . . . .

He risked opening his eyes again, and looked around the clearing in which he was standing. Granger stood beside him, her silver gaze on something in front of them.

"There's been a voice in my head," she whispered, that achingly pretty crystalline tone tumbling from her lips. "Since that night. I didn't remember until now. But . . . every time I was left alone, it crept in."

He felt a chill, uncertain if it was their new, unexpected environment, or the sound of her voice, and he turned his head to follow her gaze. Before them, a group of dirty people in tattered clothes gathered around a fire.

Squinting, he leaned in a little, inspecting their clothing more closely. No, those weren't tattered clothes at all, but rough-cut leathers.

She went on before he could make sense of this misplaced sight of primitive people huddled in the dark of night around the flames.

"Never again shall we forget. I kept scrambling to hear it again, to understand what it meant . . . ." Tears gathered in her beautiful metallic eyes as she forced a gulp down her throat. "And now, I know."

Draco's brow furrowed, and he looked from her, to the fire, and back. "I remember you saying that."

She smiled sadly, though she continued to watch the people at the fire. "I did?"

He nodded. "This morning," he said, strangely aware in that instant that his voice didn't sound the same as what he was used to hearing it. Well, it did, but there was something on the edge that made it sharper, and clearer. Like hers.

Had it worked? Had taking her blood made him like her? Or was this some bizarre dream, and all he'd managed for his efforts was to make himself ill and he was hallucinating all this as a result?

Shaking his head, he pushed those questions aside. This felt too strangely real to think it was a dream, yet at the same time, there was no other way to explain how they'd gotten to this place.

"After we Apparated from the Forest manor into that cave. You collapsed on me, you remember?"

Her eyebrows shot up and she offered a quick, soft giggle. "Not very fondly, but yes."

Draco nodded. "Just before you woke, you started whispering. I leaned in to hear what you were saying and . . . . Those were the words. Never again shall we forget."

Finally, she turned to look at him. "If I said that," she said, drifting forward to slip her arms around his neck, "then you were meant to hear it."

She stood on her toes to press her mouth to his. He couldn't help a smile, even amid this strangeness, as he lowered his head to meet her kiss.

After only a moment of her lips brushing along his, she pulled back, looking up at him. "I'm glad for that. I know now, I can't do this alone."

His face pinched in a thoughtful expression as he weighed her words. "You weren't alone. You've got Potter and me."

She graced him with that sad smile, again. "True, you two were with me. But I was still alone, because I was the only one like me."

The blood, he thought, scrambling to make sense of what she was saying. Everything oddly . . . fit, now. Though, he honestly wasn't certain if it was simply that any of it actually made sense, or if the situation he'd put himself in allowed him to understand from her side better.

"You need someone like you, don't you? For . . . whatever this is. That's why you were able to sense Fenrir, isn't it?"

"Yes." She shook her head, her wild hair flying about. "But he was not right for this. He couldn't become what must be."

"Okay," Draco said, laughing, relieved that he felt he was starting to comprehend this mess. "So, what is this, exactly? What is happening to us?"

A commotion broke out from the group around the fire, and Draco started. Turning to face them, he swept a protective arm out in front of Granger.

He could see another group drawing close in the distance.

She tilted her head to lean her chin against the side of his shoulder, peering around him. Slipping her arms around his waist from behind, she linked her hands.

"Just watch. You're going to see and then . . . ."

He didn't like the way her words trailed off. He echoed her as he watched what he now realized had been a hunting party approach the fire. "And then?"

"Then understanding will wash over you, and . . . ." Hermione bit her lip, shaking her head with a trembling breath. "I'm so sorry, Draco, but it's going to hurt. Just like it did for me."

His eyes flashed wider as he glanced from her to the group. "What?"

He could tell from her voice that she was frowning as she said, "When I was alone in that cell. Mere moments had passed, but it was an eternity for me. And what's to come after probably won't be pleasant for you, either."

The hunting party finally reached the fire, two men tossing down their prize. Draco swallowed a horrified gasp as he saw the slain unicorn.

"They're going to eat a— Oh, my God, no!" He shot forward. "We can't let them—!"

Hermione quickly stepped around him, blocking his path. She pressed herself to him, once more wrapping her arms around him.

"Granger! Wha?" He didn't get why she, of all people, would let this happen.

"Nothing you do will affect this moment in time," she said in a rushed tumble of words. "I know, I tried, too. I ran right through them. Like a ghost."

"I don't understand." He watched, flinching in revulsion as those people gathered around the fallen creature. Blades flashed as they began slicing into the sleek, white body.

"We're not really here," she whispered, and he glanced down to see she had shut her eyes. "The blood is showing you something that occurred a very long time ago. . . . Before even the time of wizards."

Nodding, he steeled his nerves and waited, though he knew now what was coming. Draco wished he had the luxury of turning his attention away, but from what Granger said, this was for him. She's already gone through this . . . . He imagined the only reason she was here with him now was because she's already experienced this.

He watched, sickened, as they skinned the animal. As they cut into it and roasted its meat over the fire, as he imagined they would with any other kill. Dear Merlin, they had no idea what they were doing!

Draco felt his eyes fill as he continued mutely observing their feast. Forcing a gulp, he tried to ignore the nausea churning in the pit of his stomach.

Then it happened. The warm, unbidden tears spilled, seeming to burn his cheeks as the people before them tore the meat clean from the bones with their teeth.

More burning . . . . Fire twisted in his gut and seeped, spiraling outward. The searing sensation trickled down his legs and crept into his arms.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he sagged in her arms. Draco stumbled forward, falling to his knees, and she moved with him, clinging to his side through every moment.

"Why are you here?" he asked in a shivering whisper, it seemed irrational, but he couldn't help thinking that somehow his pain was affecting her, too.

"Because there was no one here to hold me when I went through this," she answered, leaning to nuzzle her face against the side of his burning neck.

And then it happened.

Flashes of images through his mind. Quick, but indelible . . . . Ages upon ages, the passing of knowledge, the taming of power . . . . And, somewhere through the passage of time—so far no one remembered—understanding and respect gave way to misinformation and willing forgetfulness.

He screamed out, the burning felt like lava coursing through is veins as—just as she said—understanding washed over him. He knew the truth . . . he had seen how all things as they were now had come to be.

The sound of Draco's scream ripped Harry from slumber and he jumped to his feet,wand at the ready.

Narcissa started at her son's pained shriek tearing through the silent castle walls. Lucius bolted up at the sound, scrambling for his wand as he climbed out of bed. His wife had already darted from the room and was hurrying down the corridor toward Gryffindor tower by the time he caught up to her.

If they'd miscalculated and that girl had done something to his son—prophecy or no—he would end her.

Then, all at once, the pain stopped.

Hermione's frame slumped against him, relaxing instantly.

Catching his breath, he slipped his hands up to cup her damp cheeks. She opened those silver eyes of hers to look at him.

She smiled, blinking a few times. "I'm not the only one, anymore," she said, holding his gaze.

She knew what he knew . . . how could she be so light-hearted right now, he wondered.

"Granger," he whispered, "I'm so . . . I'm so sorry. We were wrong. We—we were always wrong. You—" She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him.

"Shhh. It's okay, Draco. We have seen what happened, and we have the power to make it known."

He nodded, forcing a gulp down his throat as he pulled her close, hugging her. He knew why she'd apologized, now; understood it perfectly well, in fact.

They would make the forgotten truth of their world known. And those who refused to accept the knowledge—those like his father—would fall before them.